#truly the world is vast and full of needles

[bourbanned]

To Do:

Ask Johnathan Sims (writer, not character) if he based Needles on that one guy in my city (also known as Needles to most people in casual conversation) who also threatens to stab people with, you guessed it, needles.

#the magnus protocol #tmagp #tmagp needles #tmagp 6 #needles #tmagp spoilers #what a coincidence am i right #truly the world is vast and full of needles #johnathan sims

[olivereactsaboutgarbage]

Higurashi When They Cry - Watanagashi Chapter 3

Wait... it’s been so long... how did I start posts again? Oh, right. I started them by mumbling awkwardly about how a post was about to start...

Well, I still don’t know a single thing about what’s going on, and I’ve especially almost certainly forgotten information rather than retaining it after a multiple month absence, but if there’s one thing I know, it’s that none of the residents of Hinamizawa are truly evil. They’re just like the residents of The Outer Turn in that way!

This chapter starts on that teacher with blue hair and, honestly? Probably a vast array of nouns. She wants food. She wants the children to make food for her amusement.

Wait, the teacher’s entire personality is wanting food?! And wanting the children to make food for her amusement?! Seriously?! So her character sprite... her name... it was all for this moment? This moment? THIS moment? That’s stupid!!!

Oh... this is happening, huh...? Kaiji Joke Part 16... I see... well, if this Kaiji Joke Part doesn’t stand head and shoulders about the others, then this teacher’s blue hair and other crap was all for naught, and I will be forced to revoke her personhood... understand that neither I nor the beings from The Outer Turn revoke personhood without just cause. This is simply how it must be, in both cases.

i hope she’s bad at cooking, that would be a good punchline

Well, Mion isn’t bad at cooking. Mion has absorbed and accumulated all her grandma’s powers, and also her grandma is that one lady who lives in Novac. Mion is great and not evil, so therefore Mion is living proof that having all your powers absorbed isn’t a bad thing to have happen to you. The beings from The Outer Turn are not bad. They’re great, just like Mion. Meanwhile, Toddler 02 doesn’t even know what noises animals make.

Wow!!! Unique opening moments for this Kaiji Joke Part! Unique! Unique! Unique!

Keiichi is predictably engaging in acts of piracy, or stock market manipulation, or whatever the kids call it these days. Toddler 03 and Toddler 04 are facilitating this. But... wait... Keiichi... this is more than just a Kaiji Joke Part... various nonparticipants’ futures are riding on this... Keiichi... you oaf... you ogre... do not pull innocents into your wretched games...

Oh, Mion is actually engaging in piracy too, it’s just non-malicious piracy because she’s not an asshat. Wait, Mion, you’re going to ruin the diets of any vegetarians who happen to be in the area! This is... too much... this Kaiji Joke Part... is too much...

“It look like”? What do you mean “it look like”? Mion, why are you talking like that?

In any case, there’s a twist... the strongest opponent... is not one of the club members... it’s Toddler 02′s extremely cool and powerful OC.

Anyway, Keiichi sees a Rube Goldberg machine and achieves enlightenment or something.

But I know Keiichi has not yet achieved true enlightenment, because there was no scene where he let the beings from The Outer Turn into his heart.

Also, Rena and Mion both used way too much salt or something. But Mion’s salt is in her rice. Here’s how Mion can still win: She can substitute Rena for the rice, since she’s rice. Oh... or [better/less murderous] yet, she could just substitute Rena’s rice for the rice, since it’s rice.

Wait? Mion’s was? When on Earth was THAT stated?

Ah, this is voice acted.

Ah, this is not voice acted.

Moral of the Story: Don’t talk with your mouth full!

Anyway, Mion still won. Keiichi was just being stupid in the narration or something. Also, Mion did something even cleverer than using Rena’s rice. She used Keiichi’s rice. A rich person’s rice. Rice that had been subjugated. Because, as you may recall, Higurashi is One Piece’s opposite world, where rich people beat rice. Subjugated rice is the best rice, just like subjugated humans are the best humans. The beings from The Outer Turn will make you your best self. They will make us all our best selves. You should take a moment now, to praise them.

A needle!!!

Anyway, Keiichi decides to retcon Mion’s grandma powers and win by not participating instead of losing by not participating.

Hey, hang on a minute...

Then, much later...

I see what you’re doing here, Mion... you’re committing a heinous act of self-sabotage... cruelty towards your grandma...

You (unsurprising) dipshit. The same could be said of all food. Such is the nature of rice. That’s why rice is one of the three fundamental elements of all realities.

Oh, also Rena switched over onto Keiichi’s team for unclear reasons.

Ah... Mion is hereby never allowed to feel insecure about her intelligence again. It’s not her fault the vast majority of school subjects are more boring than social sciences. :ego:

Hm? Why did I enclose the word “ego” in colons just now? Let’s just say... I have been Emboldened. If you would like to be Emboldened too, visitors from The Outer Turn are here for you.

Oh, by that logic, scores are meaningless. “You’re ugly. Your face is not fit for TV. Minus fifty-seven points. But I like your attitude, kid. Plus fifty-seven points.” That’s you. That’s how you sound right now, pronoun teacher. It’s meaningless. It’s gibberish.

Wow. Rena really screwed up bad by joining Keiichi’s team. Lol

Ah, the school’s principal has employed a clever tactic to sap Keiichi of his strength, and is now laughing like an anime villain... and...

I see... Keiichi’s whole school is staffed by anime villains...

Halloween. Wait, wrong When They Cry Episode 2.

Hmph... foolish localizers... through context clues, I have divined the truth! You accidentally replaced the word “should” with the word “shouldn’t”! Fools... fools...!

Oh, anyway, about the side contest where I was going to revoke the teacher’s humanity if Kaiji Joke Part 16 wasn’t the best one: Her grasp upon her humanity is tenuous... but it holds. Mion’s behavior intrigues me, and Mion is the best one, so the appeal factor is just enough to survive.

Huh? But... in Side Story Land...

Wait, maybe that was just the Toddlers. I wouldn’t know because it was months ago.

You two are saying completely different things...

*narrows eyes, but points them at Rena, not Mion, and I’m not even playing golf while I’m doing this*

Anyway, Keiichi decides to take a fully-clothed nap right in front of his front door. It’s a good thing he’s not in danger of being murdered, because that’s not normal. Also, suddenly Shion is there. Shion’s goal is for Keiichi to have food... food for Keiichi’s amusement... ah, I see parallels are already being drawn between Keiichi and his teacher...

Okay, stop that, VN. Don’t poke fun at yourself, you’re taking my job, immigrant that you are on account of being from Japan. The only place people are allowed to immigrate from and also have jobs is The Outer Turn, and that’s FINAL.

Wait, is Keiichi falling in love with Mion now on account of the existence of Shion? In Episodes 3 and 4 is he gonna fall in love with Toddlers. I’ll kill him regardless of the answer to that question.

Meanwhile, in Side Story Land...

Hmm... HMM... yeah that’s literally just bogus. I’m not as convinced as Keiichi is that Mion and Shion are the same person, because Keiichi is usually wrong about stuff, but Mion is definitely the person who made that food.

Or... perhaps, if I wanted to keep my options open... “Keiichi is definitely talking to the person who made the food.” That’s way more stupid of a thing for me to say though.

NOOOOOOOOOO MY BABYYYYYYYYY YOU MADE HER SAD I’LL KILLLLLLLL YOU

What a terrifying line out of context.

#IT TURNS OUT #higurashi #when they cry #is what i'm consuming

[deactivated-almonds]

Witness to the Dawn

July 7th - Birthday Beers The moon is waning, the hunt is over. For now. The Sheriff of North Kill County tries his hardest to unwind. A stranger rides into town on a cool breeze. 

My first ever published fanfiction exploring the interpersonal relationships of the Hackett family, with special attention paid to our dear Sheriff, Travis. I delve into brotherly love, toxic families, trauma, and grief, as well as the consequences of being an unwilling party in a horror narrative.  

 Angst \ Slow-burn Romance \ Pre-canon \ Blood and Gore    

Chapter 1: Night Cap  

There’s something special about summer nights. Magical even. The way the heat of the day sinks into the soil, into the pavement, as the cool veil of night drags itself across the sky. The air takes on a sweetness you can almost taste, the heady smell of fresh cut hay mixing with the astringent tang of pine needles. The sun sets and the love songs of crickets and peepers rise to an indistinguishable harmony. Almost on cue, their game of call and response creates a white noise that permeates into all the empty spaces of the inky black night. A light breeze, the sound of distant windchimes, fireflies twinkling like stars. July is pure magic. 

She takes her time driving to her destination. She drinks in the night, driving slowly, no cars behind her and no one to catch up to. No one for miles it seems. This particular night is thick with nostalgia, like all the summer nights of her youth pressed into one glass of water. North Kill reminds her so much of home, albeit more rural. More conifers, less light pollution. She could see herself living here. Although she felt the same way about a lot of places she’s lived. At least at first.

Nothing seems to stick for her. She’d been content with a transient life for a while. A year here, six months there, and then onto the next town, state, job, life. Meeting new people, getting along well, leaving, and never hearing from them again. It doesn’t hurt though, that type of loss. She’s learned to believe in the temporary nature of things. All things. People, especially, seem come and go through her life like through a revolving door. They move on to greener pastures. Hell, sometimes they die. Everybody has to do it eventually, right? Just because something is temporary doesn’t mean it’s not important. Or special. This night will not last forever, but it is special. Magical even.  

North Kill is technically a village. Which, she believes, is just about as small as a community can be. Her curiosity compelled her to look up why every other town in upstate New York has “Kill” in the name. Apparently, it’s Dutch for “creek” or “river”. Who knew? The Dutch most likely, and the locals. With a simple query the ominous became ordinary, and just like that, the edge of implied danger was whisked away, and an image of tulips and windmills took its place.

Physically being out here though, it’s easy to imagine that this was once the great frontier. The wild west before anyone knew just how big this country truly was. This place is already vast and wild even in the modern age, even in a state housing one of the first and most industrialized cities in the world. How could anyone have conceived of what else was out there? They still have no idea. Most people don’t know what’s in their own backyards. In their crawlspaces, attics, or between the walls of their homes. Or in that space just outside of your peripheral vision.

But, for now, her full attention is on the road, keeping dutiful watch for the familiar glint of critters’ eyes in headlights. She doesn’t have to squint too hard though. The road is bathed in the light of a big, waning gibbous. The trees reflect its light in shades of blue, dark and cool, the vibrancy of verdant summer foliage asleep to the world.

In stark contrast, the lights of a town emerge over the crest of a hill, like a pale yellow dawn. Her night cruise comes to an end as she makes the slow crawl into civilization, speed limit: 25mph. “Strictly Enforced”. North Kill proper isn’t much to write home about. She’s been in plenty of towns like this; a long main street filled with the all the major small-town attractions. Grocery store, gas station, convenience store, police station, garage. Although there are a surprising amount of community centers and mom-and-pop style boutiques. The obligate “First Name’s” Diner. This time, it says Hank’s.  

The whole place has probably fewer than a dozen side streets. One leads to a collection of public schools it seems, another into a network of suburbs a little way off. It looks clean. Neat. Safe. Not rundown like most of the former coal towns just a few hours south. She shouldn’t be surprised though, it was voted “Village of the Year 2020”, after all. But right now, she’s looking for a bar.

There are a few people out and about. It’s a Tuesday, approaching midnight. Two women walk down the street, linked arm in arm and laughing as they walk toward their car. It’s a good sign when women feel comfortable on the streets at night. As she approaches the edge of town, she spots her destination.

Rumrunner’s is a stout, single story box, its slanted roof held up by a row of log house-style columns, great raw trunks with the knobby remnants of thick branches. A row of Edison bulb string lights reflects their soft yellow glow on the tinted glass of the front windows. The building is a curious aesthetic mashup of old west saloon, hunting lodge, and 20s speakeasy. By no means a dive, but not too hip to alienate anyone. Its reasonably busy for a Tuesday, some patrons have elected to sit on the wide front patio, obviously enjoying the night air just as much as she. She pulls into the surprisingly generous parking lot and can’t help but notice how the patio patrons stare at her unfamiliar vehicle, a jet black ’67 Chevy Impala. She reckoned this was more of a lifted truck kind of town. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Her sturdy old Cherokee would have garnered less attention, but she was on vacation after all. This is the type of car people drive on vacations, perfect for summer cruisin’ and not much else.

She exits her car and checks and double checks her doors are locked. Music spills out past the establishment’s closed double doors, some folksy song she can’t quite make out. The porch patrons watch her as she passes, a group of forty-something year old men and women, probably work friends. As she approaches the doors, she can make out through the glass a man coming toward her, both hands occupied by foaming pints of beer. She opens the door as wide as she can for him and he gives her a surprised look, like she snuck up on him, a grateful smile, and a sheepish “thanks!”, all in that order.

“Hey, no problem brother,” she throws back quickly. The rush of air from the bar blows her hair back and the smell of beer and cigarettes is familiar and welcome. While nothing compared to the sweet smell of the summer night, another wave of nostalgia crashes over her yet again. The smell of her mother’s favorite coat, saturated with a pack a day of Marlboro reds, memories of hours spent in a bowling alley arcade with her little brother, when she was young enough to think beer absolutely must taste just wonderful if adults guzzle it down like they do. Learning the hard way that even though it looks like cream soda it is not, in fact, anything at all like cream soda.  

The bar layout is simple and surprisingly spacious. Center isle leading to the long bar spanning the back wall, tables down either side, plush booths lining the walls. Small backroom with pool tables, couple of restrooms down a short hallway. Classic. It’s the kind of place where every surface is made of wood, giving anyone paying attention a silent history of a thriving local logging industry. The din of the crowd inside is low and tolerable as she makes her way to sit at the bar. Men’s laughter rises above the drone of voices every now and then, jovial and hearty. Glasses clink and lighters flick to life as old spent cigarettes are ground to death in their ashtrays. The ambiance is stereotypical enough it almost doesn’t seem real. Like every detail was meticulously plucked from a distant happy memory, or a bar scene from someone’s favorite sitcom. Feels homey.

She hops up onto a tall burgundy leather bar stool, the act always being a bit less graceful than she would like. The counter is thickly lacquered and only slightly sticky, as all good bars ought to be. She elected to sit on the rightmost side of the bar, bordered on either side by two empty seats. Close enough to her fellow patrons to appear friendly, but far enough away to give herself some space. Sitting to her left are a few groups of people, some aging good ol’ boys, a group of mixed college age friends, two older ladies. Salt of the earth types. Some of them give her a cursory glance, mostly the men, but for the most part she is largely ignored. Or so she thinks.

People in this town are accustomed to tourists, especially in the summer. Hikers come for a day or two to do the local trails, the Hackett trail being the longest. Takes about six hours to do a full circuit. She looked it up before she came here. There’s also Hackett’s Quarry Summer Camp, a little way north of the town proper. Or village, rather. The camp is apparently a pretty big deal; families come from all over the east coast and beyond to be rid of their kids for two months. Probably have plenty of parents in town after drop-off day, enjoying the natural splendor, and more likely, their newfound privacy. It’s good to know a stranger is not entirely unwelcome here.    

The bartender is a tall, well-built man in his mid-thirties, sporting a salt and pepper version of a ginger beard. He has his work cut out for him tonight, pouring beers, shaking hands, making jokes, mixing fancier drinks for the two older ladies. He is earning his tips tonight. He gently pats on the bar top in front of her, “I’ll be with you in just one moment miss,” as he rushes to the other end to return a patron’s credit card.  

“You be careful walking home Sammy,” he calls to the patron dismounting from his seat. “Watch out for them bears now!”

Sammy, red-faced and stout, adjusts his trucker hat and swats the air more so than waves as he turns from the bar, “Ain’t no damn bears out there boy,” and just like that, makes his unceremonious exit.  

The bartender throws his head back with a small chuckle and shakes his head. Finally, he makes his way to his newest thirsty patron. “I’m sorry for the wait darlin’, what can I get you?” His accent is that special, north of the Mason-Dixon kind of country twang. Trans-Atlantic but for the dropped syllables and soft vowels.

She gives him a nice wide smile. She knows this language all too well. “No problem. Busy for a Tuesday, huh?” He agrees with an exasperated sigh. “Got any good lagers?”

“You bet. We got Bud, Pabst, Yuengling-”, he begins to list but is cut off by her piqued expression of excitement.

“I could kill for a Yuengling right about now,” she says, almost longingly.

“Well it won’t cost all that. Bottle all right? You wanna open a tab tonight darlin’?”  

“Bottle is just fine and no sir, not tonight. I got some driving to do yet.” She fishes out her wallet from her back pocket and retrieves a ten for the bartender, “keep the change.”

He tucks it into a front pocket of his apron, “Responsible, I like it!” He is definitely earning his tips tonight. He ducks under the bar and opens one of several small beer fridges, “Ah hell, I’ll be right back with that miss.” Not finding what he was looking for up front, he breaks into a little shuffling jog and disappears behind a swinging aluminum door, likely leading to the back storage or kitchen area.

She rests her head in one hand, letting her tiredness show. A placid smile plastered on her face, daydreaming about the crisp, cold lager coming her way. The perfect night cap. She zones out, staring at one of the two TV’s mounted high behind the bar, displaying the most recent MLB highlights. Being lulled further to sleep reading their poorly generated subtitles, she yawns into one hand and allows herself a cramped little stretch, giving her back a slight twist from side to side, taking the opportunity to get a better look at her surroundings. A twist to the left and she sees the rest of the bar, patrons chatting and laughing, girls at the jukebox. A twist to her right and…

Two men are sat in a booth directly across from her. Burgundy leather, just like her barstool, thick glass table protector, wet with condensation from sweating beer bottles. One of the men is telling the other a very animated story, or maybe a joke. His hands gesticulating in front of him, attempting and failing it seems to conjure something from memory. He wears a tan short-sleeved button-down shirt, littered with patches. A park ranger maybe?  

There is no doubt about the occupation of the second man. His all-black uniform is clean, albeit a bit wrinkled, his tie hangs slightly loosened around his neck. A gold star gleams on his chest. His hands are preoccupied, idly rotating a near-empty bottle of beer, leaning heavily onto his elbows. He’s not paying much attention to his friend. He is starting straight at her.      

She locks onto his dark eyes immediately. If she were of a more squirrelly disposition she may have jumped out of her skin, turning to find a cop staring her down like that. Instead, she finds herself almost stuck in time, the weight of his stare pulling her attention to him like a moon in orbit. She has a fleeting thought that there is something animalistic happening here. If you are ever unlucky enough to meet a predator face to face, you should never, ever look away. Eye contact is a challenge, but it is also a declaration of power. If you break it, even for an instant, you relinquish that power. You become prey. This man exudes a certain aura of power, through his uniform alone, but his face tells a different story. His expression is neutral rather than outright aggressive, and almost…curious. Or maybe suspicious.

This impromptu battle of wills comes to an end just as abruptly as it started when the man in the tan shirt snaps his fingers in the cop’s face. “T!”, followed by another rapid succession of snaps, “What the hell man? I’m talkin’ to you.” The officer jumps ever so slightly, his once hooded eyes now wide in a mixed expression of surprise and annoyance as he breaks eye contact to turn toward his friend. She allows herself the smallest grin, a little bit more confident about her place in the natural order. She watches their interaction out of the corner of her eye. The officer bats the other man’s hand out of his face, and after a moment, the two lean in close to one another and proceed to bicker in hushed tones. Fingers are pointed and subsequentially swatted away, the cop is annoyed, and the other man is chuckling. Teasing.

The woman returns her full attention behind the bar, as her chipper bartender finally returns with her drink, cracking it open with practiced ease. “I am so sorry about the wait, I had to go diggin’ in the cooler. I try to never disappoint a pretty lady.” He delivers this last line with an excruciating lack of suave. She elects to ignore it.

She takes the bottle from him and makes a tipping gesture, “Thanks much,” she says with a wink. “Sláinte!” The first sip is like a healing tonic, revitalizing and soothing all at once.  

The bartender stands in front of her still, twiddling a dish rag between his fingers, suddenly much less concerned for his other numerous customers. She gives him a quizzical look and leans in close, motioning for him to come closer. He complies to the unspoken command with a little too much eagerness. “Who are those two fellas over there, three o’ clock? The cop and the other guy.” She jerks her head gently in the direction of the two men.  

The bartender glances over discreetly, a sly grin cracking across his face as he repositions himself at the bar, shifting his back toward the two men. “Those are the Hackett brothers. Two of ‘em anyway,” he says in a hushed tone, like he was letting her in on some juicy gossip.

His mischievous energy is infectious, and she can’t help but smile and whisper back, “Are we talkin’ like…Hackett’s Quarry Hacketts?”

“Yes ma’am, the very same. Travis is the Sheriff. Chris is his younger brother. Runs the kids’ camp out at the lake,” he says, looking very pleased with himself.  

She leans in ever so slightly closer, “I caught your Sheriff there staring at me just now-” she begins but is cut off by an abrupt, barking laugh from the bartender.

“Shoot! I bet you did. Guy’s a real weirdo. I mean, we all appreciate him, don’t get me wrong,” he says, putting his hands out in front of him defensively, “He’s good at his job and all…but I think he takes the ‘hardass cop’ schtick a little too seriously.” His tone is still low, but significantly less conspiratorial than before.

She affords the brothers another quick glance over her shoulder. They still seem to be bickering, although a little less heated than before. She could kick herself for not recognizing the familial bond, punchy and playful, only disguised as serious aggression. The younger one, Chris, glances over at her and she quickly returns her attention to the bartender. “How much of a hardass can he be, drinking in uniform?” She asks playfully.

“Ah that,” he says, “We don’t really give a shit about that in the first place. North Kill’s too small for anyone to care,” he says, idly straightening glasses behind the bar. “And besides, it’s his birthday after all.”  

A sly grin spreads across her face at this new information. “Is it now?” She bites her lower lip and contemplates her next move. It’s risky, and frankly, a bit cliché. “What’s he drinking over there?”  

He swings his head in their direction, peering for a moment before turning back to her. “Budweiser. Typical old man beer,” he said with a dismissive shrug.

She promptly pulled out her wallet again, laying a twenty on the counter this time. “Send him another one on me? Tell him I said, ‘Happy Birthday Sheriff’,” she said coyly, taking another long swig of her own drink.

He gave her a very confused look, cocking his head to the side. He put his hand over the bill hesitantly, slowly sliding it toward himself, “Are you sure? The dude’s like, fifty-something.” His disapproval is apparent.

She throws him a pitying smile and a reassuring nod, “Positive. Keep the change.”  

He pursed his lips and quipped, “Hey, whatever you say, high roller,” and added a, “whatever floats your boat I guess,” under his breath as he snatched up the clandestine bottle from below the bar. She took another long pull of her own beer and pretended not to notice as the bartender sauntered over to the Hackett brothers’ booth. She continued to ignore the trio until she distinctly heard the bartender say, “courtesy of that young lady over there,” she turned in time to see him lazily point her way.

The Sheriff looked like a deer in headlights as she gave him a casual wave from her perch at the bar. It was a wonder how someone could be frantic and stoic at the same time, but the Sheriff seemed to manage it just fine. He returned a solemn nod in her direction and was promptly smacked on the arm by his brother. She turned away in an attempt to hide her laugh. And to spare him some dignity. She could still clearly hear him say, “Travis what the fuck is wrong is wrong with you? Go. Talk. To. Her.” He said it through gritted teeth, only half joking now.

“Hey,” the Sheriff said, pointing sternly at his brother like one would scold a dog, or a child, “That’s assaulting a police officer-”

“Get your ass over there!” Chris interrupted. Emphasis on “ass” followed by what looked like a small kick under the table.

The Sheriff put his hands up defensively in the universal sign of surrender. “All right. All right! Goddamnit…” he shuffled out of his seat, hands still raised to either side of his head. “You happy?”

“That’s my boy!” Chris clapped like a character out of a cheesy 90s movie. The Sheriff just shook his head as he took one last look at his brother, straightened his belt, smoothed one hand over his shirt, picked up his fresh new beer, and turned toward the bar. As he approached her at the bar, he tipped said bottle in her direction.

“Sheriff,” she returned the ubiquitous gesture.

“Ma’am,” he gave her a jerky little two finger salute. Or perhaps it was a tip of his hat, had he actually been wearing one. He stood beside her, one elbow propped on the bar. She still had to look up at him, even sitting high as she was. He was taller than he looked sitting down, though everybody typically is. “I appreciate the birthday gift,” he continued. He spoke out of the right side of his mouth as he talked, lips pulled into an expression that was either a sarcastic grin or a pained grimace. Which one precisely, she could not tell.

She gave him a good once-over before opening her mouth again. She couldn’t deny she thought he was handsome, in a…unique sort of way. Strong jawline, gently aquiline nose. He had a nice solid frame, likely quite lean in his younger years. Eyes so brown they were practically black and a head full of thick, black hair, nary a gray in sight. She could see it stuck up at odd angles in the back when he lowered his gaze toward the bottle in his hands, pursing his lips and nodding to himself. Considering something. It lent him a boyish quality, in spite of his apparent age. Five o’clock shadow and heavy eyebags. This was a world-weary man and it showed.

“Wasn’t my intention to cause you so much trouble,” she said with a breathy laugh, tilting her head to peer over his shoulder at Chris, who was shamelessly watching the ordeal unfold like a kid at the movies. He followed her gaze back to his brother and swiftly turned away, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. “Ah, he’d have crawled up my ass about something either way.”  

She shook her head sympathetically, “Tsk. And on your birthday too.” She beamed up at him, and she could see the corners of his mouth twitch upward, ever so lightly. “I’m Nora,” she said, extending her hand to him.

He looked down at her awaiting hand, then back up at her face. He transferred his beer into his left hand and wiped the condensation from his right palm on his shirt. He took her hand, firmly, but not too tight, and gave it a gentle shake. Her hand was small in his, but her grip was solid and sincere. “Travis.”      

Yeah. She could see herself living here.   

Chapter 2 available on my AO3!! 

#travis hackett #sheriff hackett #the quarry #chris hackett #werewolves #ted raimi #north kill #kaylee hackett #silas vorez #harum scarum #eliza vorez #travis hackett fanfic #horror genre

[technologygd]

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[brainrot-the-frog]

How the Inazuma girls listen to you when you ramble

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A/N: back from the dead momentarily!! These are slightly more analytical in terms of character as opposed to the Liyue Version, but I still hope you enjoy!

WARNING(S):

TAG(S): Slight angst??

CHARACTER(S): Ayaka, Yoimiya, Yae, Kokomi, Sara, Baal, Kazari

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『 AYAKA 』 Your company is seldom for the Shirasagi Himegimi, as such, when there is a moment in where you can freely speak to Ayaka she latches onto your every word, almost afraid that if she doesn't pay attention you may flutter away, never wanting to see her again. Her conduct never wavers, her shoulders never slouched, you have her full attention so long as the world allows it. She's more of a listener, and a good one at that.

❝I'm at ease to see you unscathed.❞

『 YOIMIYA 』 Always energetic, never quiet. Yoimiya is gleeful to indulge in conversation no matter how long it may be. She'd gladly push aside previous tasks if it means she can talk to you and hear you ramble.. though.. do forgive her, but Yoimiya sometimes has the habit of speaking over you due to her own excitement, all to keep the conversation rolling is all.

❝Wow it's great that you managed to dodge those pesky trees! Oh that reminds me of this one time—❞

『 YAE 』 No matter what words come out of your mouth, no matter the tone, Yae never fails to maintain the same courteous smile and body language; But her eyes, her eyes are rich with affection and when they crinkle ever so slightly you know, you know you have her enchanted. She listens and beckons you to keep rambling, this is the appreciation—the affection that she's been conditioned to conceal— finally being displayed.

❝My, if this is what transpires when we are apart then maybe I should find a way to keep you here..❞

『 KOKOMI 』 Despite the vastness of her being, and her insurmountable eloquence, socializing has never been Kokomi's forté. She finds catharsis behind mountains of literature and runny ink. She views social interaction as a battlefield of invisible trip wires. She's content with listening to you in pure silence, however the illustration of a battlefield still yields her mind, but with you.. it becomes a mere playful engagement.

❝It goes without saying, thunder and lightning cannot stop you Comrade!❞

『 SARA 』 Sara is the calm before the storm personified. Always tense, always silent. You wonder if she's listening, she's truly unreadable; liken to worn out pages within an unnamed diary. A cage unwilling to open. But inside, a creature, so tense, so silent, yet it hears you. It sings in response, almost desperate. But it hears you. She hears you. She is listening.

❝I see, let that transgression not delay your objective.❞

『 BAAL 』 You walk upon pins and needles when in her presence, this will never change. The words you speak will be filtered to her preference and this will never change. If it serves as a consolation she is listening to you—of course she is, because she allowed you to, you only speak because she allows you. This will never change.

❝You need not fear thunder and lightning, you need only fear its conductor.❞

『 KAZARI 』 Kazari ponders often, worries often. Why do you speak to her in the first place? She is filth condensed, a flickering rotting specimen soon to perish once the arrival of the Destined One makes way. She knows this, she is aware. But when you unravel your latest adventure to her, Kazari cannot help but wish to stay, Is that selfish? Is it selfish that she wishes to hear about your latest fixation? She ponders, what would her best friend say. she worries, for herself—you. What will you do when she's gone? Who will be there to hear you?

❝May we meet again.. for my heart prays for us a happy ending.❞

#genshin impact x reader #genshin impact #genshin headcanons #yae x reader #yae miko x reader #ayaka x reader #genshin ayaka #ayaka kamisato #kokomi x reader #Yoimiya x reader #sara x reader #genshin sara #baal x reader #genshin baal #genshin kazari #kazari x reader

[maybe-theres-hope]

Of Will and Wildflowers, Part 3 (Final)

It’s here! Thank you so much to everyone who encouraged me: @oquinn53, @reyeslonestar, @howtosingit, @a-l-ias, @mtnofgrace, @descending-into-the-crazies @pragmaticoptimist34 if I forgot anyone please let me know! 

Special thanks to my husband for reading this and making sure all my typos were gone :)

Tarlos | period drama/grudging acquaintances to lovers | Part 3/3 | This part: 10,877w | Total: 33,427w

Part 1 | Part 2

Read on AO3

Mr. Strand,

I hope this letter finds you well, and that your journey home was swift and uneventful. The entire house has been mourning yours and father’s departure since you left us. Mamà is convinced the lights are dimmer without the ambience of your father’s amusing anecdotes. 

Elena has been lamenting the fullness of the house as well. She is easily bored without some new distraction every fortnight, but she swears she will convince you to visit again someday. I dare say we all will thank her if she can manage it.

In deference to our conversation, I will not try. I know you would not appreciate my needling. 

Raquel cannot be bothered with the mundane occurrence of the comings and goings of visitors while she daydreams of castles and knights, so her opinion has not been asked. She still insists on helping Mrs. Smith in the kitchen, and Mamà still insists on having fits about it. 

I must agree with my sister and mother, however. The house is a little less bright these days. Usually we can count upon sunlight and laughter to get us through the day, but those seem fleeting of late. 

Flor misses you as well. She’s ornery when I ride her, as if she remembers a more beloved companion and I do not measure up. We lament your departure together when we meander the grounds. 

Jimena is not often in the stable, so her opinion has not been ascertained either. 

But enough of our melancholy!

How is it to be home? Travel can make us all weary, and you seemed so tired even before you set off. I hope you are feeling better in your own comfortable surroundings. Texas will always welcome you, but I know how good it is to feel your own dirt under your shoes. Please tell me something joyful, so that I can remember your face in gladness.

Your friend,

Christina Reyes

My dear friend,

As I sit beside the fire tonight, I am reminded of our last conversation. I am evermore grateful that you are taking on the no doubt immense burden of being my confidant while keeping our correspondence regarding these matters private from your family. Do not mistake me, if you at any time feel as though your obligation to me is taking precedent over your cherished feelings of love toward your family, please by all means give me but a word and I will cease my incessant pining.

Oh how I pine, dear Christina. There is not a day that goes by that I don’t think of the sound of rolling grass and smell wildflowers where there are none to be found. The city is bleak these days, and dark. What once was a welcome cacophony of life and commerce is now to me a teeming mass of sensation that I can barely stand for more than a moment. I long to feel the shift of earth under Flor’s hooves again, and for the caress of the soft breeze against my cheeks. 

But enough of that for now. You asked in your letter for something joyful. My father has secured a deal with a contractor out West, and his—our line will stretch right to the Pacific, culminating at the coast. A fully developed coast to coast line, my father’s dream. It makes me so happy to see him so elated when he talks of it, and of me taking over it in time. I do not like to talk of him being gone, but it is inevitable he says. Men grow old, and pass on. He says what matters most is that we make a mark on the world we can be proud of, and that we touch people in ways that matter. 

I cannot help but think that I have done neither. 

I apologize again for my melancholy. When I sit to write to you I never intend to make you sad. Please, rejoice for my father and his accomplishments, for they reflect on me as well. I will take comfort in his happiness, and you can take comfort in my feeling it. That is enough for now. 

Your friend,

TK Strand

TK,

I must address the most pressing concern from your letter immediately. You have touched us all, please know that. Please do not think you have not made a mark on the world, for our home would not have been the bright happy place it was while you were here without you to provide that light. Every day is a little darker, as I’ve said before, without you and your father in our midst. 

Everyone is a little darker. Especially my brot

But enough of melancholy, as you said. I am delighted to hear of your father’s immense accomplishment. We are all so proud to be a part of it, a part of the future. I shall like to make the journey coast-to-coast someday on it, to me that would be such a wondrous thing! 

I was wondering, would you tell me what Manhattan is like? I do admit I’ve only ever thought of it as bleak and loud and harsh, but surely folk as amiable as yourself and your father cannot come from such harshness. So please, tell me an anecdote of your days since you’ve returned. I’d love to hear of anything joyful. It would provide a balm to the monotony of country life. 

Thinking of you always,

Christina Reyes

Dearest Christina,

Thank you for saying such kind things. I’ve always felt as if I were on the periphery of life. I’ve skated through it mostly by way of parties and luncheons with people who have little to talk about other than themselves. I’m just now getting to a point in my life where I do want to make a mark on the world. I know I can do that partially when I inherit my father’s legacy, and I intend to do it the utmost justice. But I find myself adrift in that I do have family and friends who love me, however…I do not have a love that speaks my heart’s language. A love that is built of trust and companionship and intimacy. 

Please do not chide me for saying such things, we are friends and I feel I can talk about these delicate subjects with dignity. I thank you for your discretion. 

But yes, as it stands, I have made no such mark on the world, have no such intimacy with which to grow old. I feel that the things we do in life do have a way of defining us, but they are far overshadowed by the people we choose to love. 

In the past, I have chosen poorly, through no one’s fault but my own. I hope one day I can remedy that. But right now I feel, as I said, adrift. There is no one to hold me fast to the world, no one strive to do well for, after my father is gone. And I fear I may never have, as I have ceased looking. I cannot bear it at this moment. 

Forgive me, my dearest friend, I have ignored your other request until now. Manhattan is much as it always is, loud and harsh, as you said. But most days it is a good distraction to hear the hustle and bustle outside my window. I do miss the Park and the promenade, but  lately I haven’t felt well enough to venture out. I keep to my father’s study in our townhouse in Midtown while he visits the office near Gramercy and keeps me informed. 

As I haven’t got a joyful anecdote from the days since our return, I will relate to you one from the past that is near and dear to my heart. When I was a young boy of about ten, my mother—God rest her soul—took me to the waterfront one day when my father was stolen from us with work. We gazed out over the Hudson, and even in my young age I tried to imagine that, just across the water, began the vastness of the North American continent. I used to try and picture what the land was like, what exotic treasures it held. I had never been anywhere, though my father had been to Chicago and Philadelphia numerous times. 

I used to picture rolling hills, vast grasslands, and roaming livestock. I had been told most of the rest of the States consisted of farmland. I had never actually seen a bovine in person, but I had seen drawings. I childishly thought of it as one big zoo where all the animals roamed free, and the air always smelled crisp and clean. I imagined it was beautiful.

Funny thing is, I know now that that little boy of ten was at least partially right, at least about one particular place among that vastness. 

I hope I have made you joyous,

TK Strand

My dear friend,

Your letter has made me joyous, in some ways. I wish you could have seen our home with childlike eyes, but alas I think it was better suited to you as you are now, and I’m glad you have experienced it and that it was to your liking. It truly means the world that you think of it as beautiful.

However, I have cause for concern where you have mentioned you have not been out, that you are unwell. Pray, please let me know how you get on, we all worry over you so. I happened to mention that excerpt of your letter at dinner, and I fear I may have incited a frenzy. I am humbly asked by my siblings to enquire after your health. Please tell us what ails you, so we can worry properly, and send up our prayers. I know we cannot do a thing for you, as far apart as we are now, but you are always in our hearts. 

Mamà tells us that our business with your father is nearly finalized. I look forward to a ride on the line, hopefully with you as my guide. I must make the journey near winter, for I long to see snow. I’ve hitherto only read about it in books, a delicate powder that falls from the sky and blankets the world in white. How marvelous a sight must it be! 

Be well,

Christina Reyes

Dear Christina,

As for your family, please tell them I am alright. I did not wish to frighten them or you, and I’m sorry for that. Please trust that our cook keeps me well with sandwiches and fruits when I am able to eat them. Everything is well when father is around to take up my time with business discussion, and as I said I am well distracted most days by the cacophony of the city outside. 

I will venture out soon, I think, as my friends and acquaintances grow weary of my absence and I have left them all to their own devices for quite long enough, I suspect. I presume to know what they will want to discuss—an incident that took place just before our trip to Texas—it will be a drain on me to talk about it regardless. But I cannot put them off forever, I love them too much to deny them my company when they wish for it. Perhaps I’ll take a walk with one of them tomorrow, even if the air of the city is not nearly so keen and invigorating as the air of the country I have run from.

Please give my best to your family, I hope I have not caused anyone undue grief. I will only talk of happy things from here on out, when I eventually find them. 

With affection,

TK Strand

P.S. I believe you know deep down what truly ails me, so I’ll not speak of it further lest I lose all dignity. 

*

Mr. Michaels, the butler, stopped TK on his way to the dining room, handing him a card on a tray. He read it and smiled. “Miss Marwani called on you earlier, I told her you hadn’t yet come down. She left her card.”

“Thank you, Michaels. Will you send her a message that I’ll be free after luncheon today? I know it’s been so very long since I’ve made time to see her.”

“Yes, my lord. I dare say all your friends and acquaintances have been calling on us nonstop since your return home. But I trust it’ll take you a moment to get back into the swing of things after…your trip.” 

TK smiled sadly. He knew what the butler was going to say before amending it. He’d been an absolute wreck after finding Alexander and the footman and had left for Texas only two days later. The entirety of the household and all of his friends must think he’s still in a melancholy state because of the slight. 

If only they knew the truth. He might tell some of them, but only a select few he could trust. Michaels was a good man, and hadn’t overstepped. He’d practically raised TK since his father was so busy with the rail when he was younger. He knew the man was only looking out for his happiness. 

“Michaels?” he said before turning to go on to the dining room for breakfast.

“Yes, my lord?”

“If you were faced with a time limit on a decision that governed your whole life, would you wait until you’d found the right solution? Or would you take the first viable solution to come along?”

TK knew that Michaels knew exactly what he was talking about, but was too polite to call attention to that fact. “I think if it were me, I’d examine every detail of each choice before deciding on the one most beneficial to my life in the long run. After all, some decisions are for a lifetime.” With this, he gave a small reproachful smile to his once young charge.

“Yes, well. What would you do if you’d found the right solution, but it turned out to be impossible?” TK’s eyes looked up in earnest at the butler, whose expression had turned kind and commiserating.

“I do hope you don’t think you’d found the right solution to this problem just before your departure?” It was obvious Michaels thought Alexander was far below TK even before the scandalous tryst was revealed. 

“No, no. Nothing like that,” TK reassured. He was pensive for a moment, caught in his thoughts of rolling pasture and wildflowers, their scent dancing across his senses even from miles away. “I thought I had found the right avenue during my time away. It seemed a nice thing, a wonderful thing actually. I daresay my hopes were quite built up for a time. But in the end it proved, as I said, impossible.”

Michaels gazed at his young master for a moment, unmistakable pity in his eyes, but TK didn’t comment on it. He was too miserable. 

“I hold the utmost confidence that the right choice is out there for you. But, my lord, you will never find it unless you leave this house eventually. I am glad you’ve decided to start breakfasting in the dining room again, and I know that if you do go out later today your color might begin to return. I worry for you, my lord. I hope I am not impertinent to say so.”

“No, no Michaels. You’re not impertinent. I know I’ve been ghastly to be around these last few weeks, and I do hope to remedy that. To begin…moving toward the future, no matter how much I wish I knew its contents.” TK gave the butler a sad smile before turning away again, the weight of all he wished for still on his shoulders and bright, luminous brown eyes on his mind, no matter how much he wished they’d fade.

*

“I know you’re still mourning Alexander and his licentious ways, but I promise you, you can do much better. His family isn’t even that well connected! He’ll be a faint stain on your past and nothing more.”

TK looked over at his friend, the navy ribbon on her silk evening bonnet getting caught by the light breeze weaving through the Park. Her dark eyes held an intense shine as they often did when she went on a tirade. He let himself smile at her ability to be both vicious and diplomatic.

“Marjan,” he chided gently, “his family owns three quarters of the orange trees in the country! I wouldn’t say he’s not well connected. Half of Florida bears his family name in some capacity.”

“Oh, to hell with that,” she spit delicately. TK was also impressed by her proficiency in cursing with a velvet tongue. “Then he should be sent off to oversee them. Rid this city of his stupidity. Even further! Florida is too close, send him to the West Coast! Let him disappear. Society will be all the better for it, mark my words."

TK was brought up short by the mere mention of the opposite coast, since thoughts of that region gave in to thoughts of a certain eligible bachelor which gave in to thoughts of his intended that TK desperately wished was his own intended and—

It must have shown on his face.

“TK, my friend, trust me. He is nothing of consequence.” Her voice had turned gentle again, not the outrage on his behalf she’d been spouting for the past few minutes. TK could not help connecting her statement with his thoughts, even if she was off the mark at the moment. 

“I know that. It’s not him that unsettles me; he is firmly in my past and I shall not revisit my temporary lapse of judgement in giving him even a small parcel of my affection.” He patted her hand that rested in the crook of his arm as they walked leisurely around a small fountain, the sound of bubbling water serving to soothe his psyche for the time being.

She was silent for a moment before she tugged them to a pause on a semi-crowded knoll. “Then, pray tell, what has you so blue? Ever since you returned from the South you’ve been distant. I thought at first it was just lethargy left over from the long journey, but it has been over two months! I fear I shall never see you smile again as before. Please tell me what troubles you? Is it your father?”

Marjan was a close friend, and as such, she was privy to some news about his father’s health. The man wasn’t in immediate danger, but TK had confided in Marjan that his father had taken to being more…forceful in his demands that TK take a more active role in the business. He had a persistent cough but no fever as of yet. The doctors did what they could to alleviate the annoying ailment—as his father called it—but they all knew Owen Strand was beginning the downslope of his life. At nearly fifty years of age, he was nearing the last stretch of life expectancy and sometimes TK could see it plain on his father’s face. It made him apprehensive for the future, not to mention the fact that still stood: he had to marry before he could take over the business. 

And that thought brought him back around to his other melancholy. For if the desired recipient of his affection would return said affection, he’d be happily married yesterday. But alas, it was not to be. 

He dreaded a letter from Christina detailing an engagement. He knew it was coming soon, and he’d tried to resign himself to it. Perhaps she wouldn’t even tell him. After all, he’d asked as much of her. Nothing of Carlos, none at all; that had been his request. 

“It is, partially, my father’s health that concerns me,” he said as he came out of his thoughts and back into the conversation at hand. “However I…”

“What is it?” Marjan asked when he refused to speak further after trailing off into silence. “What makes your heart ache so? I can see it in your eyes that it is your heart that is broken. If it was not Alexander, then who?”

Trust Marjan to read him like a book. 

“I met someone. In Texas. Oh, Marjan—“ he paused a moment and could not help a smile crawling across his features at the thought of his week spent in bliss, before it all came crumbling down. “He is the most wonderful, kind, and beautiful creature I have ever met. At first I thought him a cad, as our first meeting was less than cordial. But upon learning why he felt as he did, I was persuaded to understand and to admire his candor. He spoke of his home with love and deference, and it was such a treasure to be shown the land with such a companion.”

He closed his eyes for a moment and pictured the apple orchard. Marjan caught his flush and smiled.

“And so? When shall we expect an announcement?”

TK’s smile quickly dimmed to a grimace, now tasked with completing the story.

“An announcement will not come, I’m afraid. He is betrothed to another. I found out on our second to last night in Austin, and I must confess I did not handle it well. I made a complete fool of myself and I’d like to never repeat it by seeing him again.”

“Wait, he did not tell you he was spoken for? And he courted you just the same and let you think you had a chance?” Her voice was angry and TK sought to soothe it with the truth.

“Truthfully, he never actually courted me. We were thrust together by circumstance, and he was a perfect gentleman throughout. It was I who read too much into each interaction, each conversation, each dance held in his arms. It was I who was a complete fool to let my feelings show on my face to all his family when they all knew nothing would ever come of it. I feel so stupid, Marjan. I practically begged father to cut the trip short. But…” he paused again, thinking of the dust kicking up behind Jimena’s hooves as Carlos rode out to meet their carriage after they’d already set off. The small bud of Indian Paintbrush was still blooming in a jar of water next to his bed. 

“But?” She prompted. 

“There were some moments where…where I could swear that he…but it was obviously a trick of my imagination. His betrothed is a marvelous gentleman, beloved by all, and he would be a fool not to accept an eventual proposal. As I said, it is well and truly over and out of the question that my pursuit would yield any happiness.” 

Marjan was silent while they resumed their walk, her hand steady in the crook of his arm. Eventually, she spoke softly. “Well, I must admit I am glad this melancholy is not on Alexander’s account, but I also must admit I am saddened by this turn of events. I know you to be a perfect gentleman, and I have always wished you could find someone as wonderful as you to share your life with. I know you’ll do great things and I know you want someone to share those triumphs with. If this man is who you feel is perfect for you, why not fight for him? It is not in your nature to give up so easily.”

“That’s just it, Marjan. He is perfect, and honorable. Which is why I could not jeopardize his honor by asking him to abandon a promise he made before he met me. I would never forgive myself if his good name was tarnished.”

They walked in silence until the end of the lane, where they turned to leave the Park and hail a carriage back to Marjan’s home up the avenue. 

*

When TK returned home later in the evening, Michaels stopped him in the entryway and held out a tray. “This came for you while you were out, my lord.”

TK took the proffered package and stared at it in confusion. The return address from from Christina, but usually all she sent were letters. This parcel was still small, the shape of a single letter, but thicker. It weighed little, giving no clue as to its contents.

“Thank you, Michaels. Is dinner set already? Do I have time to change?”

“You should, my lord. I shall call for you in about half an hour. Your father is in the parlor already, if you wish to check in with him, now you’re home.”

“Was he missing me? Did he need something?” TK wondered, a little worried. 

Michaels smiled. “No, my lord. He was actually quite content all day, and was happy that you’d gone to call on Miss Marwani. I only say to check in because he probably hopes to hear how happy a time you had.”

TK smiled sadly. He knew he was worrying his father with his refusal to leave his own rooms for the past weeks. It saddened him further that he could have possibly made his father’s condition worse by stressing him. He vowed to himself to make a better effort to get back into real life sooner rather than later. After all, as he’d told Marjan earlier, there was nothing to be done about…Mr. Reyes. That was well and truly over, in fact it had never begun. There was no reason to pine after a man who did not do the same for him. TK was worth more than that.

Yes, he must convince himself of that, and quickly. 

“Alright, Michaels. I’ll change quickly and meet him. Thank you,” he said with a small nod. Turning to ascend the stairs, he started to unwrap the small, delicate parcel Christina had sent. As he entered his rooms, his efforts revealed that there was, in fact, a letter inside. However it was nestled atop a small folded square of cloth, delicate and airy and fine. 

Setting the letter aside for the moment, he unfolded the fabric to reveal that it was a handkerchief, finely made and embroidered in bright colored thread. The edges were a gleaming yellow, reminding him of sunlight. On one corner, no bigger than his thumb, was the most intricate rendition of a yellow wildflower—he recognized it almost instantly. 

He moved to sit on the nearest surface, which happened to be the edge of his bed. The pads of his fingers caressed the tiny design reverently, as if touching it would somehow unravel all the thread that comprised it. As if by acknowledging that it was there, it was already in danger of disappearing. There was no doubt of the reference used—he had seen so many of those little yellow blossoms on his journey around the Reyes ranch. The breath left his body as his mind’s eye conjured a bright smile and the smell of clean sweetness on the air. 

After he’d regained some of his composure, he picked up the letter. It was shorter than most of her other letters, which stood to reason as he’d just received her last one a few days ago and he’d yet to answer it. She must have sent this just behind her previous one. 

Beloved TK,

I hope you are well. I know I have just posted a letter to you two days ago, but I saw this in a shop window and immediately thought of you. I know how you enjoyed the wildflowers around our home, and I wished for you to have a reminder of them—especially one less prone to wilting than the genuine article. 

You are always in my our thoughts, and I wished to keep us in yours. Please, think of Austin when you hold this token, and know that you are so dearly missed. 

Yours in heart,

Christina Reyes

TK stared. It seemed as though the letter had been written in some sort of haste, as it was unusual for Christina’s hand. The letters were slightly more slanted, and the spaces between paragraphs larger than her delicate way. Even her signature was off, as if it had been written by a proxy. And the contents…she’d never called him a beloved friend before. Well, no, it wasn’t even friend. It was just “beloved”. 

He wondered if she was growing melancholy herself for some unknown reason. The letter seemed sincere, but heavier than her usual correspondence, as if she was feeling his absence more acutely in this instance. 

Furthermore, he wasn’t sure he’d told her about what the wildflowers meant to him. He’d thought that was something he and Mr. Reyes had shared between themselves for the short time they’d been acquainted. But perhaps her brother had recited a few of their outings to her, and remarked on TK’s fascination with the surrounding flora of the country. 

Perhaps. 

He concluded that the whole parcel was a product of a hastily made decision when she’d seen the handkerchief in the window, and the oddities contained within the letter were the result of her haste to get it posted while she was still in town that same day. 

He gently tucked the gift into a box next to his bed, giving it one last longing stare before closing the lid and beginning to dress for dinner. 

*

“We’ve had a letter from the Doña,” his father said over luncheon a few days later as he perused said letter which Michaels had handed to him upon their arrival in the dining room. “It seems her agent agrees to our terms, and they are sending a liaison with the documents to finalize.” He set the page down on the table and picked up his glass of port. “I do believe we are almost settled with the entirety of the preparations, and we can begin construction early next year!”

“That’s wonderful news, father,” TK said quietly, his tone not matching his words. He was looking down at his plate with no intention of picking up his fork, so he missed his father’s knowing and saddened expression. 

“It is. Another piece of news that I’ve gathered from earlier today, is that the Vanderbilts are throwing a ball tomorrow night. Well, I suppose Mrs. Vanderbilt is, at any rate, and Mr. Strickland asks if you can accompany him.”

“I don’t know, father. I’m not sure I’m feeling well enough to socialize on such a scale. I’ll be a bore to everyone there and then you will have to answer for my behavior.” 

“I don’t think you’d be a bore to Mr. Strickland, surely. He’s been asking after you these last few weeks. I daresay he plans to eventually kidnap you from your rooms if you do not answer his calls. Surely he’ll want to hear how you’re getting on?” His father’s transparency was apparent, but TK did not call him out on it. 

“I don’t know, father. I’m not quite well at the moment so I probably shouldn’t be gallivanting about at parties.”

“You are unwell because you refuse to eat or see sunlight,” Owen said, not unkindly. His next words were suffused with affection and it only made TK’s heart ache more. “My son, I worry for you. The whole household does. Mrs. Talbot says you only ate half the small sandwich she brought you last night. And you haven’t touched your soup yet since we’ve sat down. I worry you’ll be skin and bones before long.” His words weren’t scolding, only concerned.

“I’m sorry to worry you, father, and the servants. I just find it…difficult to keep anything down. It all tastes like ash, and I know that description would never do Mrs. Talbot’s cooking justice.” At this, he made a gamely attempt to sip a spoonful of soup, and found his assessments confirmed. He swallowed anyway, and kept the grimace off his face with great effort. 

“Tyler,” his father said in that affectionate tone once more, “You must try to move past your heartbreak. I know that’s what it is,” he said as TK made to interrupt him, “I know it when I look at your face and see only sadness. I know it when I hear from Michaels that you have not descended the stairs all day while I’ve been at the office. I know it because that single flower is still thriving at your bedside.” At this, he had the decency to look only slightly chagrined. TK said nothing.

“I looked in on you a few nights ago. You didn’t come down to dinner and I was worried you’d gone hungry again. Your sleep looked restless. I also noticed a letter from Miss Christina.”

“You went through my things?” TK said without any real malice. He knew his father meant well but he had put a lot of private thoughts into those letters and Christina had answered them in kind. 

“I only ascertained that she wishes to see snow. You should take her up on her request to ride the line once it is finished. I know she would love to see you again. And maybe by then, it will be less painful for you.” Owen’s face was drawn. 

“Maybe, in a year or two. For now I am content with her letters.”

“What does she write of her brother?” his father asked.

“Nothing, because I asked her not to,” TK replied. He again missed his father’s pained expression of concern as he took another forced sip of his soup from his spoon. His hand trembled slightly at the most direct mention of Carlos since his talk with Marjan earlier in the week. 

Owen seemed to take this answer as a plea to end the subject of conversation. He simply watched his son silently, wishing he could help ease his pain and knowing he was unable.

*

“Mr. Cartwright has not stopped staring in this direction since we sat down,” Paul remarked over the swell of the music, another quadrille beginning causing cheers and the shuffle of feet to the dance floor. 

“Perhaps he’s trying to figure out a way to ask you to dance,” TK answered as he sipped his brandy. Paul was a dear friend, and he was happy to be in his company, he just wished it didn’t have to be surrounded by laughing couples and a revelry he felt entirely apart from. 

His friend gave him an incredulous look. “Are you serious? He’s been shamelessly staring at you,” Paul countered. “He’s practically mapped out every thread in your coat, the cad.” 

“I doubt that. No amiable gentleman would give me a second glance as I look now. Maybe a few months ago, but not now. I’m well aware the color in my cheeks and the bulk of my frame have left me. The servants, my father, you, and Marjan remind me every day of that. How could I be any object of desire?”

It had been a full week since his first venture out of the house with Marjan—and nearly three months since his return from Texas—and TK was trying for his friends’ sake to get back out into the world. Hence accepting the invitation to a ball at the home of some debutante or another of their set, with Paul as his moral support should he feel the need to flee the social setting at his earliest convenience. TK was still trying to get used to other people around him being so happy and carefree when he himself wished to crawl into his bed and remain there until the second coming. 

He knew full well that his behavior wasn’t healthy. He’d made the decision himself to try and get past his heartbreak, lest it cripple him forever which definitely could not happen if he wanted to give his father any peace of mind. 

“My friend,” Paul chided kindly, “you’ve always been a vision, sought after by many a connected suitor. You haven’t lost your appeal I can promise you. We harp on your well-being because we care about how you’re feeling on the inside, and the outside is a good testament to that. I dare say it’s made you more desirable, at least to those who’ve mourned your absence since your trip, that you’ve stayed away. It inflates the intrigue.” He gave a small chuckle that TK tried to match. 

“Well I’m afraid Mr. Cartwright will have to find another object of desire. I do not believe I could content anyone as a courting partner as of now. I need a bit more time to settle back in, I think.” That was as diplomatic as TK could be about it. The reality was that he’d still been unable to remove thoughts of Mr. Reyes from his mind, and it grew more difficult every day. He absentmindedly reached into his jacket pocket and rubbed the delicate fabric of the handkerchief between his fingers, feeling the bumps and valleys of the embroidery, and almost smelling the sweet scent of the country in the air. 

He hadn’t noticed he’d closed his eyes until he felt a brush of air next to his face as a reveler approached their table. 

“Hello, Mr. Strand,” Mr. Cartwright beamed. It seemed he’d worked up the courage to approach after all. 

“Good evening. Are you enjoying the festivities?” He answered, attempting cordiality. 

“Of course. And yourself, Mr. Strand? Wouldn’t you better enjoy things in their midst than here on the periphery? Fancy a dance on the next waltz?” The man sounded so eager that TK almost obliged. But his honor would not let him lead the man on. 

“I’m afraid I’ve quite exhausted myself already,” he said, even though all he’d done was make one round and plop himself into his current seat since arriving. “I do apologize for being unavailable, but I’m sure there is someone else dying to catch your hand for a waltz. Please let me do them the favor of leaving you available.” 

It was almost comical the way the man’s face fell, but TK was not in danger of showing any glee at it on his face. He understood far to well the melancholy of unrequited affection. But alas, he could not feign interest at the moment, so he let the man trudge away with only a bit of guilt. 

“He’ll get over it,” he said when he caught Paul’s glance. 

“But will you?” It was clear he wasn’t talking about Mr. Cartwright.

TK didn’t answer. He could not. 

*

The day of the arrival of the Doña’s liaison dawned and once again TK could barely face the sunlight. He wished with all his heart that he could place the blame on too much of the good-natured debauchery that plagued his set when they got into their drinks, but he knew he could not. He’d barely partaken in a full glass of brandy with his father after dinner the night before. 

He felt some guilt at not hurrying down to meet the man at his father’s side, as would be expected of an only son in position to run his father’s business someday, but could barely bring himself to nibble at the scones Mrs. Talbot had sent up the night before.

Sooner or later, however, he knew he must face the day. He finally got himself dressed near luncheon time, deeming his appearance presentable enough for a middle manager he’d never meet again. 

He straightened his collar and pulled his lapels taut just before Michaels announced him upon entering the parlor. As he surveyed the scene before him, his stride halted, all breath left his lungs, and the color drained from his face. 

Seated on the settee across from his father and wearing the most disarmingly beautiful smile, eyes dancing in the sunlight filtering in through the damask curtains, was Carlos Reyes. 

The man had clearly just been given some wonderful news, though TK couldn’t imagine what his own father could have told him to elicit such a response, but it was plain on his face that he’d just been told something truly delightful. However, when his eyes strayed to the entrance to the room upon Michaels announcing TK’s presence, the smile on his face faded slowly to a deep concern. TK didn’t miss the subtle perusal of his person, Carlos looking over his face with a slight furrow of his brow that grew deeper the longer TK stood there dumbfounded. 

Mr. Reyes, of course, was the first to remember his manners, though his employment of them seemed over the top to TK. He’d jumped up and nearly ran over to TK, taking his elbow in hand ever so gently as if the touch was nothing. As if it didn’t send TK’s whole world tilting. 

“Mr. Strand! I…please, sit. Should I fetch some water? You look like you’ll be ill any moment…” He sounded almost…afraid. Not disgusted and annoyed as TK thought he might have been upon their next meeting. After all, TK was the one who’d made a fool of himself by pining like an imbecile in front of the Reyes’ family and friends. He could only imagine how much Mr. Reyes regretted their time together, now that he’d had a few months to ponder it. 

“I’m alright, Mr. Reyes, thank you,” TK managed to croak out as the man ushered him to a chair across the room, seemingly careful as not to touch him. 

He must be master of himself! This was almost more embarrassing than what had initially transpired between them in Texas. “I…hadn’t known that you’d be coming as your mother’s agent. I was only…surprised to see you. Here.” He forced his lips to stop moving.

Mr. Reyes’ face had yet to lose it’s pinched brow and shining eyes. What TK had initially catalogued as fear now looked like…concern. But that was impossible. Only, maybe not, since Mr. Reyes was a quite honorable and sensible man, and TK knew he looked gaunt and lifeless on his best days lately.

Turning to look at his father, TK only noticed that he too was focused on Mr. Reyes, and TK couldn’t quite place his expression. He’d been smiling as well when TK entered, and now he seemed a bit subdued but no less mirthful. It was an odd juxtaposition. Just then, he turned to his son and gave him a gentle smile.

“Well, I must be off. Quite a bit to get finalized with the documents you’ve brought me.” He stood and offered a hand to Mr. Reyes. “How long did you say you’d be in the city?”

“A few days, sir. I had hoped…well, my mother wishes me to return with everything in order,” he answered cryptically as they shook. His face was hopeful though TK couldn’t think why. They had pretty well come to a mutually beneficial agreement through correspondence. The rest was simply formality at this point. He couldn’t think what else would need to be settled. 

“I’m sure she does,” Owen said with a smile and another odd look at TK. He could not figure what to make of the exchange, but truth be told he was still reeling from Carlos—Mr. Reyes, he reminded himself—being in his home so unexpectedly. 

His father was turning to him next. “Tyler, would you be a gentleman and show Mr. Reyes about for a bit? I’m sure he’d like to stretch his legs after his long journey. You could take a taxi to the Park?”

TK fought the urge to gape at his father. He expected them to be…alone? What would they even discuss? TK wished the Turkish rug’s threads would open up and sew him into the floor. 

He was however, as his father said, a gentleman, and he could not let his manners slip no matter how much he wished to be anywhere but alone in the confines of a taxi and then in the beautiful intimacy of the Park at dusk with Carlos Reyes. 

“Of course, father. It would be my pleasure.” Somehow the words left his lips without a tremble. Or so he hoped. He did not think his father could be so cruel, knowing TK’s heart. 

Mr. Reyes looked half ecstatic and half terrified. TK could relate whole-heartedly. 

As Owen bid them good night and made to ascend the stairs to his study, TK slowly turned to look at his circumstantial companion. Here they were once again, thrust into each other. TK thought back to that first morning they’d toured the ranch together; Mr. Reyes had been cordial, despite their initial meeting and his own hesitation about the Strand’s business with his family. He’d been courteous and knowledgable about the land, wishing to give TK a good impression which TK in turn appreciated. 

He vowed to himself he would attempt to do the same when showing Mr. Reyes his own home. 

With somewhat renewed countenance, TK took a breath. “Well, shall we, Mr. Reyes?” His voice barely shook. The man in question gave him a fond smile that melted TK’s very soul.

“Lead the way, Mr. Strand.”

*

The taxi ride proved to undo all of TK’s borrowed confidence. Sitting so close their knees brushed reminded him of riding through the apple orchard, which in turn reminded him of Carlos’ hand in his, which set his heart fluttering and mind whirling, which led to an awkward silence the likes of which TK never wanted to experience again. Mr. Reyes was waiting for him to speak, it seemed—as TK was ostensibly his guide in this place unfamiliar to him—and he was thoroughly incapable. All that accompanied them was the clap of the horses’ hooves on the stones and both their nervous breathing. 

When they arrived at the southwest corner of the Central Park, TK paid the driver and slipped out before Mr. Reyes could offer him a hand. He knew not what he would do if he felt that warmth upon his skin again in his current state. The other man looked a bit let down, but TK dismissed it as a trick of his longing imagination. 

They entered and set about the promenade which, even at this time of the evening, was still thronged with late perusers. As they walked among the fresh grass and beautiful tree lined paths, TK did his best to drum up the wherewithal to speak, to offer some manner of conversation lest he seem rude in his silence.

“I suppose it looks rather…artificial to you,” he said quietly. 

Mr. Reyes startled a bit, apparently accustomed to TK’s lack of voice thus far, but he recovered quickly with an eager smile turned to his companion. 

“Not at all! It’s all very…whimsical I think. This beautiful bounty of nature preserved in the middle of all that stone and brick. It’s…peaceful.”

“Yes,” TK thought aloud. “It’s quite serene. The further in you go, the less the city outside of it seems real. The sounds and smog melt away and you just feel…” he trailed off, words failing.

“Like we’re in our own little Eden.” Carlos’ eyes were like pools of shining dark chocolate in the gaslamp light. Sweet and alluring. 

TK could only nod dumbly, and try to look away. He accomplished it with much difficulty. 

They walked in a much softer silence for a time, passing a couple of people TK recognized from parties and balls around the city, but they never stopped to converse with anyone. Mr. Reyes seemed to want to keep his company for himself, which TK could not think what to do about, so he remained passively quiet. 

About half an hour into their journey, his companion spoke. 

“I’ve actually got something I’d like to…well, first there’s something I…I need to tell you.” Carlos’ face was unreadable, but his tone was quiet and reserved. TK’s heart clenched painfully. Carlos had been in an odd countenance since his arrival, and TK could only attribute it to the awkwardness surrounding his ridiculous assumptions about Carlos’ feelings and the utter embarrassment of his departure from Texas. 

“Oh?” was all he said, suddenly breathless with an ache he could barely stand. 

“I’m not sure if you were informed when you last visited, but—” he paused for so long, TK turned to look at him at his side, wondering what halted his speech. His face was still unreadable, but his voice now had a very slight tremble to it. TK tried to keep his own face open, so that Mr. Reyes felt safe to continue. 

“For several years now I have had an...understanding. With a gentleman from California, with whom my family is quite acquainted.”

The vice around TK’s heart clenched cruelly at the reminder. “Yes, Mr. de Castillo. Your mother and sisters—and some of those from the county—told me about him. Quite admired, he is, by all.”

“Yes…” His voice trailed off into silence again, and this time when TK sneaked a look he seemed troubled. TK wished he could put the man’s fears at ease, that if he feared a faux pas in tearing down TK’s feelings that he needn’t worry about it.

But that would have been a lie.

“Yes,” he said again, going on. “We’ve actually been courting these last months, not long after yours and your father’s departure.”

TK took the blow as best he could, with a calm countenance, when really he wished this torturous conversation would end so that he could limp back to his bed and curl up in misery until the second coming. Why on earth did Carlos feel the need to do this? Weren’t they settled in being apart from each other? No more than business acquaintances? 

The thought alone dealt his heart another painful blow. 

“About a month ago he—he called on me to...state his intentions.” His voice sounded flatter than TK would assume from a happily engaged man. Still, he tried to inject some light into his own tone when he answered.

“I am so happy for you, Car—Mr. Reyes,” he said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster which, admittedly, was not very much at all.

However, his tone must have belied his utter devastation because Mr. Reyes abruptly stopped and gently tugged him to the side of the path, so that they would not impede other couples on the promenade. TK almost swooned at the touch.

“I’m sorry?” the other man said, a look of confusion and slight hurt across his beautiful eyes. TK was now confused as well.

“I...I only wish to convey my happiness on your engagement. You must be thrilled to have your future finally settled. Not only must it be a relief, but with such a fine gentleman as I have heard.” Carlos’ hand was still lightly holding onto his upper arm, and though it pained TK in the worst way to do it, he ever so deftly maneuvered his body so that the contact was dropped. 

“I think that...well I...that is…” Carlos was staring at him, that hurt look growing in his brown eyes and TK wanted nothing more than to take it away but he didn’t know how.

“Mr. Strand—TK,” he said so softly that TK could hear his own heart beat in the silence. “I think that you have...misunderstood me.” TK had been staring at a spot over Carlos’ shoulder until then, unable to meet his eyes any longer for fear he’d burst into tears in the middle of Central Park, but at the plea he shifted his watery gaze back to sink into the pools of liquid chocolate in front of him. 

“Mr. de Castillo—Fernando, that is—has proposed marriage to me, it’s true—” In the minuscule pause between these words and the next set, TK felt his heart slow to a stop with the inexorable weight set upon it by this conversation, “—but I have turned him down.”

And at this, that traitorous heart gave one slow, painful beat of hope that TK was powerless to tamp down. 

When he could find his voice, it was to incredulously say, “Whatever for?” 

Carlos reached down to take TK’s hand in his, and TK was sure he was trembling like a sheaf of paper caught in the wind. He brought it between both his hands, brushing the knuckles ever so lightly—so much so that TK was sure he’d imagined it. 

“Because I could not marry a man that I do not love, and I do not love Fernando. No matter how much of a wonderful and kind gentleman he is, and no matter how ashamed and saddened it made me to tell him so. But I cannot betray my own heart.”

TK’s legs were going to give out any moment. He had no other thought in his head but staying upright, using that tentative hold on his hand, still gentle as ever, as his anchor. He dare not let his thoughts follow themselves to any conclusions. 

“The truth is, TK, my heart belongs to another. It has for some time, and I was too stubborn with misplaced loyalty to give it a say. That is, until now. Which is why I imparted the information to you.”

TK kept staring into the man’s eyes, wondering if this was all some dream he’d tumbled into in slumber. He was sure this must be his own mind conjuring the conversation, guilty as it was of yearning for it. 

“I wish to apologize for taking so very long to come to my senses. I always strive to be honorable, and for a time I thought that meant that I must remain true to Fernando. But I’ve been made to realize that my thinking was wrong.” TK could only take the words in stride, adrift as he was on the roaring sea of his emotions. 

The man continued, while TK himself was made to listen to the most illogical combination of words his brain could have come up with in his current state. He was still convinced he was dreaming. Carlos reaching down and taking both his hands did nothing to bring him out of said state. Furthermore, it made him feel as if he was about to float away into the stars, unmoored as he was except for those twin points of contact. 

“You are the most optimistic, brilliant, engaging creature I have ever known. Your smile could light up a room if every candle failed. I find myself riveted any time you’ve got an anecdote to tell, and in these months of not hearing your voice I have conjured it in my dreams more times than I care to admit.

“I wish to spend the rest of my days making you smile and laugh, waking with the morning sunshine just to see how it dapples your face, and admiring you from across the dinner table every single evening for the rest of my life. TK, if I have been mistaken, and you do not return my affections, please stop me from making a further fool of myself.” This he said with a little nervous chuckle that cut straight through TK’s very soul. He looked up through his lashes at TK, nervous. 

TK, in turn, was struck dumb by the confession. Carlos apparently took this as a queue to continue to the most preposterously happy thing that had yet to be uttered in this very winding conversation that had had TK’s heart in knots since it began. 

“Mr. Strand. If I have not been remiss in my assumptions of your affection, I urge you, no I beg you to consider my humble plea. Would you consent to be my husband? It would make me the happiest man in the entire world.”

TK felt himself take in a slow, careful breath. It took several moments for him to find his voice, and then it was only to utter on a half-expelled gasp, “Truly?” 

“Yes, truly,” was the nearly equally breathless answer.

Again, it was a struggle to find volume behind the utter euphoria that had overtaken him, but soon enough, he pushed the words out in a little more than a whisper, lest he accidentally shout and call undue attention. “Then, yes. Yes!” Tears were already warming his cheeks and chin, but TK didn’t care a wit. He went easily as Carlos embraced him tightly, feeling warmth suffusing his entire body at every place they touched. 

Before long, they had to part, lest they invite accusations of impropriety.

“I…I had thought…well it doesn’t matter now I suppose,” he stammered, thoughts swirling with emotion and unable to tamp them down. Not wanting to. 

“I apologize again for taking so long. Your smile, your face is all I’ve thought about for months. The moment you were gone my heart sank to the deepest depths.”

“Mine as well,” TK admitted. “I have…neglected myself these last few months, I’m afraid. I thought I could learn to forget you in time, but alas…”

“When you entered the parlor, I was distraught to see you looking unwell. Please, I beg of you, please take care of yourself. I don’t know what I would do if…”

“I know. I apologize for my appearance. I did not mean to give you cause for concern.”

Carlos briefly reached up to touch TK’s slightly sunken cheek. “I hope you can forgive me, for it is my silence that has caused you such distress, but I also find myself elated that you feel the same as I do. I can still scarcely believe it.” His voice was rising with happiness, and TK felt drunk on it like the sweetest wine. “I must admit, though, I cannot claim full responsibility for coming to my senses. Christina was quite adamant that I was being an imbecile.”

TK looked down at the ground for a moment. “I…asked her—no, begged her really—not to speak of you in our correspondence.”

“She told me. It’s why I—“ Carlos stopped abruptly, looking chagrined. 

“What is it?” TK asked.

“Well I…I knew you did not want to speak to me, but I just had to…that is I…I sent you…something. I wrote a letter and signed her name to it. She laughed about it later, but she called me an utter fool for not being more courageous about it.

TK halted in the middle of the path. Immediately, he knew. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulling out a delicate fold of linen edged in bright yellow. He held it gently in his fingers, caressing the soft folds that had cemented themselves after so long kept in his pocket. 

Even in the lamplight, he could see Carlos’ face flush slightly. 

“I wanted to court you properly, but circumstances were…well. In the end I was cowardly about it I suppose.” He ducked his head bashfully. 

“I think, deep down, I knew. I didn’t want to let myself believe, but…I’d never spoken to Christina about the wildflowers.” TK’s own voice was reverent. 

“She told me that. When I told her what I’d done, she told me you would see right through it.”

“You called me beloved…”

Carlos looked deep into his eyes. “Yes.”

TK nearly swooned again, new tears dripping down his cheeks which were positively sore with how much he was smiling. He tucked the treasure back into his jacket.

“We’ll have to tell my father, I suppose,” he said after a time, absolutely giddy as they began to walk along the path again, back to the streets toward the Strands’ home. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. I’ve already gotten his blessing,” Carlos answered with a smug grin to answer TK’s astonished expression. “That’s what we were talking about earlier today, before you interrupted us.”

“Well, you’ve thought of everything haven’t you?”

“I think I’d like very badly to kiss you, but I’ll hold off. Wouldn’t want anything to jeopardize your good opinion of me, would we?’ His smile was absolutely radiant. TK thought to himself that if this were to be his life, staring at this gorgeous face full of love for all his days, he’d never be unhappy again. 

*

The fire was dying down and Carlos finally moved to take his leave. 

“Must you go?” TK couldn’t quite keep the pout from his voice, but at least now, he did not care too much if Carlos heard it.

“I’ve stayed too long as it is, people will talk,” he answered with an indulgent smile as TK walked him out of the parlor and into the hallway. The servants had long gone to bed, so it was up to TK himself to help Carlos on with his coat. 

“You’re my fiance now,” he said, glowing all the while and unable to help it. “People will have to get used to the fact that I want to be around you every waking moment of the day without pause.”

“Yes, but no one knows that yet and I wouldn’t want to besmirch your good name.” 

“When will I see you again, then?” He slid the overcoat onto broad shoulders, nearly letting his fingers linger a bit too long for propriety.

“I’ll call tomorrow to meet with your father again. We do have actual business to finalize after all. You’ll be there, won’t you?” Now it was Carlos’ turn to pout a bit, and TK was powerless against it. 

“Of course. Well, I’ll say good night.” He looked up into the face of the most beautiful man, the man he was going to spend the rest of his unbelievably happy days with. 

“Good night, my heart,” said Carlos, reaching up a hand to caress TK’s face so gently it caused an aching pang in his heart. Slowly, carefully, he moved his calloused thumb across TK’s lips, back and forth a few times as if trying to memorize the shape of them. TK gave a small shudder.

“My, Mr. Reyes, you’re being very forward.” He couldn’t help smiling. As the man had not removed his hand yet, TK pursed his lips ever so slightly, bestowing a chaste kiss against his thumb.

Carlos chuckled softly, covering an intake of breath. “Now who’s forward?” He was smiling so wide it looked as if it hurt.

“You’re my fiance,” TK answered against the warm skin, the word still feeling like glistening honey in his mouth, “I can be as forward as I like.”

“God in heaven, I want to kiss you.” Carlos looked like he might do it, but restrained himself as a gentleman should. They’d pushed the bounds of propriety enough for one day, TK supposed. Though he would have welcomed it gladly, as clandestine and salacious as it would have been. After a few more strokes, Carlos finally dropped his hand from TK’s face. “This will have to do for now, I suppose.” He took TK’s own hand in his and laid a gentle kiss against his knuckles. 

“But not for long?” 

“No, my heart. Not for long. I won’t be able to do with a long engagement. I will perish before I make it to the church if you make me wait for more than a couple of months.”

“I’ll see what I can do. But my father will want to invite the whole of New York, so you know.” He couldn’t help a roll of his eyes, however fond the gesture was. His father loved a good party, and the marriage of his only son—finally, he would probably say—was sure to prove one for the ages. 

“Ah, yes, and we mustn’t forget the entirety of the county back home, if my mother and Christina have anything to say about it,” Carlos said with another fond chuckle. “You have her to thank, by the way. For getting me out of my head and back on solid ground. My sister is your champion in sickness and in health. That is, until I get to call you my husband.”

TK shuddered again at the mere word. 

“I really should go,” Carlos said again. He made no move toward the door. 

“You really should,” TK prompted. He moved to open the door, and finally they broke their gaze from each other. 

As Carlos stepped out, he turned to smile one last time and it turned TK’s stomach into a whole flock of butterflies. “Good night, dearest. I’ll call on you and your father tomorrow.”

“I will be dying a slow death until that moment breathes me back to life,” TK lamented.

“As will I.”

TK watched him walk away into the night before finally closing the door against the chill of the Manhattan midnight. For several long moments, he simply leaned against the door and caught his breath, giving thanks to all the forces that managed to bring the two of them together so favorably. He’d have to write to Christina the moment he woke in the morning. 

#tarlos period drama #tarlos #tarlos fic #911 lone star #of will and wildflowers #brooke writes #IT'S DONE GUYS #enjoy :) #I'm going to sleep now

[hobidreams]

Bloom | KNJ {M}

Family is who you kill for. Who you die for. In this society, you and your kin are shadows, clinging to the darkness to obey orders absolute. But when such orders command you to abandon what little honor remains for wealth and notoriety, you find yourself lost in lonely uncertainty about the only vocation you’ve ever known. That is, until you meet a man with gentle hands, a poet’s heart, and a love for coaxing the world into bloom.

pairing: assassin!reader x florist!namjoon genre: smut, angst, action, sprinkles of fluff words: 20.7k contains: descriptions of violence & blood, weapons, minor character death, fingering, dirty talk, oral (f), protected piv, multiple smut scenes, namjoon talks to his plants a/n: this piece challenged every ounce of my creativity (in the best of ways) & i’m so ecstatic to share it with you all! i tried my best with the floral research, please forgive me for any inaccuracies.

Night is coming.

With steady hands, you draw taupe curtains on windows that reflect the light of a dying sun, melting into the horizon to pave the way for the illustrious moon. The space now cast in darkness, you follow the trail of shadows to the full-length mirror that lines a wall in the entryway of this hotel room.

“Lights on, 60%.”

You tilt your head to a side, scrutinizing the dress that hangs loosely from your figure, done in a muted, subtle navy. With no loose threads to be found, you focus on your hair, on the carefully pinned bun and the solitary tendrils that weave their way down the side of your face. Just below, two earrings, diamond studs, add just a hint of distracting sparkle. But the most important accessory of your night will be the ring on your right hand’s middle finger, and the thin, imperceptible needle hidden inside, filled with exactly one dose of lethality.

From the designer purse that sits at your side, you extract your mini-communicator. A few taps has the hologram pixilating to life, bursting from the screen as you confirm the details of your mission. Tonight, you intend on making the acquaintance of one Park Siyeon. Multi-millionaire. Entrepreneur. Target.

Why Siyeon? That’s the one thing this file doesn’t mention. Nor did your brother Yoongi, when he issued your orders, though that’s been the trend for the last while. Tonight is the culmination of months of extensive planning, and Yoongi made it clear that this mission was not one you could afford to fuck up. Especially not after the last... incident.

Inhale.

Exhale.

It’s been a while since you were in action, but you’ve pored over the documents. You know Siyeon’s face, her habits. And this is not your first kill.

You drop the mini-com back into its home with your handkerchief and lipstick. The watch on your left wrist reads 7:31pm. The charity event downstairs started thirty minutes ago, and now you will be perfectly, fashionably late. Thoroughness (or perhaps paranoia) dictates you take one last look in the mirror. Then you slip into your nude heels before reaching for the door handle.

“Lights, off.”

By the time the steel elevator doors slide open to deposit you on the luxury hotel’s ground floor, the mingling is in full swing. Confidence radiates from your every step as you stalk to one of the men standing guard before the entrance. “Good evening, ma’am.” You offer a stolen invitation in response to his outstretched hand. “Thank you. Please enjoy your night.”

“Thank you.” You step inside, blending in effortlessly as you lift a flute of fizzy champagne from a nearby waiter’s tray. You have less than an hour before the main event begins to make contact, to make use of the hidden syringe that will render Siyeon incapacitated exactly twenty minutes after injection. It will look like a heart attack, a sudden tragedy brought on by unfortunate circumstance (stress being the usual suspect). By then, you will be safely miles away, retreating into the shroud of your underground headquarters.

You return smiles and head nods to those who toss them your way, probably assuming you are another one of the countless business associates in this flood. Weaving your way through the crowd, you sip at the bubbly drink.

“I haven’t seen you at one of these events before. What’s your name?” A deep voice interrupts your search. You turn to find a pudgy man grinning at you. Well, more like leering. You rattle off a fake name. “That’s pretty. Which company are you with?”

You feed him another false tidbit. He starts rattling on about how his company knows yours, how he’s senior executive whatever, and would you like to get a “business” lunch sometime? You’re not actually listening, too busy landing eyes on the lady of the night. Siyeon stands near the front of the room, draped in exquisite Chanel and a glittering shawl. Though her back is turned towards you, you catch enough of her face when she turns to greet someone who approaches her. Perfect.

“Of course, I’ll have my office call yours.” All the creep gets is one perfunctory nod before you step away, ignoring his protests that you didn’t even give him a card.

It is just your luck that there are a few tables set up near where Siyeon stands. You pick the one slightly to her right, in earshot of her conversation with an elderly woman. You need the perfect opportunity to cause a quiet commotion, just enough to distract her from the slight pinch of inevitability.

“Oh, please, you flatter me! I didn’t start my company alone. I have a lot of people to thank for all of this, truly.”

Hearing Siyeon’s voice in person is somewhat jarring, as you’ve only listened to it in surveillance footage. But if it bothers you, it never shows on your perfectly-crafted face.

“Always so humble, Siyeon. That’s why we all like you so much. By the way, I hear congratulations are in order! How far along are you now, Siyeon?”

“Thank you, thank you. I’m about eighteen weeks in now!”

Your breath catches. No... Purposefully, you shift. You swivel just enough to catch a better glimpse of Siyeon’s body. Your stomach drops.

Looks like the file left something else out.

Siyeon has loosened her shawl. The midnight of her dress bulges over her stomach. It’s not too obvious yet; you perhaps wouldn’t have noticed at first glance. But now, you can’t ignore the growing swell, no matter how much you want to. Siyeon cups the underside of her belly with dreams in her eyes.

Damn it. You’re no expert, but eighteen weeks doesn’t sound like very much. In fact, it doesn’t sound like much at all. Medical advancements in the past century have been vast, but a tiny infant of eighteen weeks might just be impossible to save on its own.

...But that’s not your problem, is it? You were given orders. Orders that have to be carried out, or else.

You spot someone walking purposefully towards the pair from the other side, probably to pull her speaking companion away. This transition would provide the perfect chance for you to make your move. You will only have a few seconds, not enough time or space for hesitation.

This is what you’re supposed to do. This is what you’ve always done. You finger the ring on your hand as you shift in your shoes, moving just an inch closer. You find the activation switch, though you don’t press it yet.

“Siyeon, are you feeling alright, my love?”

You fight the urge to spin towards the voice as your thoughts are interrupted. You recognize the tone, one smooth and self-assured. It comes from beside you. The owner, suit-clad, slim, brushes your arm as he passes by. Kim Seokjin. Siyeon’s husband of a few years, another company head and one of the most handsome men you’ve ever seen.

Through your peripheral vision, you watch Seokjin slide an arm around Siyeon’s waist to pull her in close. He presses a kiss to her cheek, turning her towards him as his other hand comes down, slides over her belly. “You’re not tired? Do you want to sit down?”

“No, no, I’m just fine, honey.” Siyeon beams at him.

“Ah, Seokjin! Siyeon was just telling me about the baby.”

Seokjin’s smile blossoms into utter bliss. “Our favorite topic! We just renovated the baby’s future bedroom, actually.”

“Jinnie here is going to build the cradle himself when we get to England. Can you believe it?” A burst of laughter, like chimes.

“Anything for my baby girl.”

You want to curse but hold your tongue. You press your eyes closed, squeeze in irritation at yourself, at Siyeon, at chance. You could still do it. Erase the light from her eyes and his. It would be simple. Too easy, in fact. But your thumb falls away from the ring like dead weight. It would take a strength far greater than what you possess to find the switch again, no matter what logic dictates.

The unknown guest reaches the trio to pull the older woman away as you predicted. But you stand rooted to the spot as you let them go, watch the opportunity slip away like sand through half-heartedly cupped fingers. Seokjin and Siyeon are still trapped in their bubble of pure joy, gushing about baby clothes or names or something you can’t stand to listen to any longer. You turn away.

Excuses whirl through your head, knowing there’s going to be hell to pay but there’s probably worse if you carry out the orders. You’ve found another damn line you can’t bring yourself to cross. Another line that reminds you that you’re weak, no matter how you try to hide it. Your footsteps feel too loud on the marbled floor despite the music and the chatter as you surge through the bodies in seek of the exit.

Then your instincts kick in.

The raise of a hand to an ear, from one of the suits standing against the wall: the telltale sign of a hidden ear-com. You whip your head around, spot another woman in a short dress speaking into a com that looks far too official for your liking. You don’t even make it ten more steps before you spot a man with a bulge in his jacket that can only belong to a holstered weapon. They would be invisible, well-camouflaged to the layman’s eye. But you’re a professional.

To make it to the exit, you have to pass the man near the wall. But now he’s on the move, seemingly headed to the same direction you are. Have you been made?

You reach for your communicator. Now you’re less than fifty steps away from the exit. He’s less than thirty from you. There would have to be something from HQ if they caught even a whiff of danger, especially from the NIS. The National Intelligence Service has always been a pain in your ass, trying their best to ruin what you and your family have built. But the mini-com you pull out is devoid of any new info. You fail to notice your handkerchief coming out with it, falling onto the floor as you shove the com back into your purse.

Close. Freedom is so close. You speed up.

“Ma’am?”

A man’s voice comes from behind, but there’s no way you’re going to stop for him. If you turned, you might have noticed him pick up the bit of cloth. Instead, you rush past the guards, keeping a pace that just looks like you have to run to the washroom for some emergency. But instead of going deeper into the hotel, you head for the automatic double doors that part quickly for you.

“Ma’am, you dropped something!” But the words aren’t loud enough to surpass the music to make it to your ears.

Onto the street, you’re hit with the last rays of sunlight. You blink, mind working overtime. You can’t outrun them; hiding is your only option.

You decide right instead of left. Two doors down from the hotel, you find a store overflowing with flowers in the storefront. You ignore the almost-sickly saccharine perfume as you yank open the entrance and throw yourself inside.

A glance at the counter tells you that any employees here are thankfully absent. Hidden behind several, giant potted plants, you watch as your pursuer runs out past the glass window. He looks around, turns a few times, but can’t find who he’s looking for. Afraid he’ll look into the shop, you turn as well, focusing on the table behind you. Which just so happens to be laden with flowers, delicate and exploding with color.

It occurs to you that you’ve never been in a flower shop before. While the scent of the blossoms was overwhelming at first, your nose is steadily becoming accustomed to the sweetness that is nature coming to life. There’s no harm in taking a few more minutes here, you think as you take steps towards the table. You have to wait out the man outside anyway. And curiosity has always been one of your vices.

The flower that catches your eye is circular in shape; its oval, almost-spikey petals are dyed in a soft pink. It sits elegantly in its pot, a single floret amidst a bed of green. You reach out for it with a palm, not wanting to crush or ruin anything as you cradle it in your warmth. You don’t notice the soft smile waning your lips as you memorize its curves. You haven’t the slightest idea what kind of flower it is, but you can’t remember the last time you saw something this beautiful.

“I see you’re fond of the dahlia.”

“Oh!” Caught off guard by the sudden voice, your hand jerks up. The pot shakes violently from the sudden movement. It spins, wobbling over and—

“Whoa!” All you see is a flash of dark hair and flying clothes as the speaker hurtles towards you. He catches the pot just as its about to tip over. Then he sets it back onto the counter. “Phew... That was close.” He’s squatting, tall enough to still comfortably reach the pot as he gives the dahlia a light pat.

“Sorry! I’m sorry.” You hide both hands behind your back, not wanting to accidentally ruin anything else.

In response, he offers you a dimpled smile that does the opposite of setting your heart at ease. “No worries. I’m sorry I scared you. Are you alright?” He stands up, faces you.

“Yes, I’m fine. But is the flower okay? The, uh, dahlia?” You’re trying your best not to stare, but that’s a difficult task when he goes to brush his bangs back, taut arm muscles shifting along with it. His outfit is simple, a white tee and black jeans, with a stained black apron thrown overtop, but there’s something oddly attractive about it.

“She’s fine too.” There’s a fondness when he stares at the bloom, a tenderness that makes you feel more like the intruder you are in this precious space. “She’s been giving me trouble during growth so I’m a bit overprotective. Haven’t you, girl?” He chuckles lightly at himself, covering his lips with his palm as if he’s embarrassed.

“That’s cute,” you blurt out before you can help yourself.

“Is it?” That makes him smile again, and you swear your cheeks flush. He makes sure the dahlia is secure before he looks back at you. You follow his eyes as they rake across your outfit, taking in the formal dress and diamonds. “It can’t be comfortable walking around in that all day. Me, I prefer jeans over heels.” He laughs, and you can’t help joining him.

“No, no, I was at an event.”

“Oh, at the hotel?” You raise your eyebrows, not expecting him to know of it. “A few people came in to buy bouquets and wreaths for it earlier.”

“Ah, right. I remember seeing them. They’re beautiful. You did a fantastic job.”

“Thanks.” You’re beginning to realize it makes him shy to receive compliments, from the way he breaks your gaze to stare distractedly at the dahlia with lightly pinking cheeks. “So, why aren’t you there now?”

“I can’t stand those kinds of events.” It’s not technically a lie. “They’re always boring.”

“Why do you go then?”

“...Family obligation.” You cut this line of questioning short by focusing on another flower, this one multiple spheres of small purple blossoms. “What’s this one?”

“Oh, that one? It’s a hydrangea. If you look here...” He continues to talk as he closes the distance. A scent like fresh linen and soap cuts through the floral perfume, a summer’s day at its most stereotypical but you find yourself drawing closer for more. There’s something so soothing about his voice and the love weaved into every syllable as he gushes about the flower. Yet, you don’t even know his name. And it should stay that way for your safety, and for his.

When he takes an elongated pause for breath, you realize enough time has probably passed. You don’t see the NIS agent outside any longer, and the best course of action is to make your way back home as swiftly as possible.

Yet you find yourself asking, “why do you love flowers so much?”

He looks taken aback, like he wasn’t expecting the question. Then excitement glows in his warm eyes. “Stop me if I’m rambling too much, okay?” He smiles as if he already knows you have no such inclination. “At first, I was interested because there’s something so satisfying about watching a plant grow. About raising it from a tiny seedling or rescuing it from dying.” He reaches for a nearby pair of scissors to lightly trim off some greenery. “But the more I learn about nature and flowers, the more fascinated I am with how much they really understand and silently absorb from us.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, for example, if you talk to a plant every day, it’ll grow much better than a plant left in silence.”

You look absolutely bewildered. “Really? That can’t be true. There’s no way they understand us.”

“It is!” He’s becoming more and more elated as he talks, his entire face brightening at your inquiry. “Research has proven it. And I know the latest tech in 2105 is that self-watering, self-growing planter but I think that’s all bull. Those flowers will never grow as beautifully as these ones. Plants are just like pets, or people. They need care, affection, and interaction too.”

“Hm. I’ve never thought about it that way.” You’ve never thought about flowers at all before today, actually. But his smile and clear enthusiasm is infectious, making one of your own bloom on your lips. “I think you might just be right.”

Before either of you can say anything else, your phone buzzes. A succession of three pulses, like the quick-quick-slow of a dangerous tango. “Sorry,” you mumble, grin faltering as you pull out your com. Come back. Now. Three short words spell your doom. You let it fall into your purse, keeping neutrality on your face even though there’s disappointment in your heart. “Um, I should get going. It’s getting late.”

“Right.” Is it your imagination or does he look just as upset to let you go? “Wait, just a second. Let me give you something. A gift for letting me talk all over you.”

“Uhh, no, that’s alright. I was happy to listen.”

“Please. I insist.” He disappears for a few moments behind the shrubbery to the back room.

You stare at the door, feeling your communicator and the words on its screen spurring you to leave right now. You just walk out the door, and this florist will never find you again. That’s the logical thing to do. ‘Never get attached’ is practically lesson number one. Right up there with ‘don’t accept anything from strangers.’ But you’ve already broken one rule today. What’s another?

“Here.” The man returns with a small cardboard box, the top flaps yet to be closed. You tilt your head, look inside to find a tiny plant with rounded petals, almost like a lotus, but swathed in dirt instead of water.

“What is this?” You take the box though, mimicking how he held it – like something precious.

“A succulent.”

“I really can’t—”

“Just take it. It reminds me of you and... I get the feeling you need it.” There’s that smile again, the one that makes your heart weak, its doors pliable. “Take good care of it. I know it’ll be safe with you.”

“Ahh, fine.” You fold up the box, feeling like you’re standing on the cusp of something wholly new and rather terrifying. You’ve never been responsible for another living thing before, even if this is just a plant. “Thank you.”

“Joon. I’m Joon. And you?”

You purse your lips. “...Dahlia.”

That makes Joon laugh, and you half-expect him to question you over the obvious pseudonym but he doesn’t. He just nods his head. “I hope I see you again, Dahlia.”

You’re not afraid to return his grin before you push out into the fresh air, knowing too well that this meeting will be your first and last.

“Where have you been?” The second you plunge into the darkness that is the underground headquarters, your arm is grabbed. The voice belongs to Taehyung, one of the members of the family. “Yoongi hyung is really angry.”

“Shit.” You hurry through the dimly-lit hallway, familiarity trumping illumination as you head towards the meeting room. “I didn’t know it was so late.”

Another body comes up to join you on the other side, this one belonging to one of your younger siblings, Jun. “Hey, what’s that?” He indicates at the box in your hands. “Food?” He grins with cheeky hope.

“No. Uh, can you put it in my room?” You pass it over to Taehyung, careful not to jostle it too much lest the small pot overturn. “It’s fragile, okay?”

“Mhm.” Taehyung nods, taking it from you.

Jun’s eyes soften with pity. “Good luck.”

You know you’re going to need every ounce of that luck as you continue on alone. Rounding the corner, you’re a few feet away from the dark door of Yoongi’s office. You gulp, desperate for any sort of excuse to delay your entrance, but you know that reckoning is inevitable.

You knock. Twice. Short raps before you let your hand fall.

When the door opens, it’s Hoseok that greets you instead of your brother. His face is somber, betraying no thoughts as he backs up to grant you entry. Yoongi utters your name like a curse as he pushes up abruptly from his chair. It rolls backwards, colliding with the wall to rattle before joining the tense silence that follows as you walk inside. “Where have you been?”

“Out for the mission.” You gesture at your dress.

“Oh, right, right. The mission.” Yoongi’s fist lands on the desk with a crash. His old-fashioned fountain pen jumps an inch to the right and you’re seconds away from doing the same. “The one you fucking failed.”

You stay silent, because that look in his electric eyes says he’s not done yet.

“Park Siyeon is on a private jet as we speak. She’s not coming back. Not for years. Tonight was the only chance we had and you let it go.” You want to shy away from the anger in his expression but he rounds the desk to trap you in his glare. “Why didn’t you kill her?” The question sits in the stale air; you can taste its bitterness on your tongue. “Why didn’t you complete one of the simplest jobs we’ve ever had?”

“She...”

“She, what?” Yoongi leans in. You can see Hoseok in your peripheral vision, but he's not about to intervene. “Speak up.”

“The files. The case files...” You squeeze your fingers until they ache. “They didn't say she was pregnant.” Right now, the truth is the only thing you have. You cling to it like a lifeline. But it’s going to be the thing that drowns you.

Yoongi stops, as if frozen on a screen. You actually see mirth seep into his eyes, false as it is. “Pregnant? She’s pregnant?” His bark of laughter rings out like a bullet. It makes you jolt back, instinctively needing distance before-- "Who the fuck CARES if she’s pregnant? You had one task. One fucking task and you just cost us three hundred. Million. Won."

"B-But it's just money, Yoongi." Your hands twist together as you cast a look at Hoseok only to gain a frown of sympathy. "We can get it back with the next job, I promise! There'll be other contracts."

"Bullshit. Your promises mean nothing to me right now. We need the cash!" Yoongi scatters the stack of silver credits on his table with an angry swipe. "We need as much of it as we can goddamn get."

"Do we? Do we really?" You try to stand your ground, despite trembling legs. "We're all doing decently. Well, even! Isn't that enough, Yoongi?"

"No!" His voice surges. It’s an explosion in the taut space. "It's not enough! When will you understand it will never be enough if we want to be on top? Those damn Foxes have already been stealing clients and contracts from us, getting more powerful by the minute!"

"But when did it start being about who’s on top?” Frustration leaks through your every word as your pinned hair comes more undone by the second. “You never even told me why we have to kill Park Siyeon anyway! Is it really that important? What if she did nothing wrong? We have to punish her baby too?”

Yoongi makes a face so vicious that you know if you were anyone else, you’d already be violently punished. “We are not the police. We are not the fucking NIS. We’re assassins. It’s not our job to question why.” His voice has quieted but lost none of its intensity. You’d prefer the yelling. It’s this coolness that truly frightens you. “We just carry out the hit. And then we get paid.”

“But I—”

“I don’t have the time to argue with you anymore. Bottom line is, you fucked up the job. Again.” Yoongi pauses, inhales deeply. When he speaks next, he does so deliberately, enunciating every word. “If you fuck up one more time, you’re out of the family.”

“Wait, what?” You blink. “Yoongi, I’m your sister. Your blood sister, I—”

“Family is who you kill for. Family is who you die for. If you don’t understand that, then you’re out.”

He turns, forcing the conversation to come to an end even though you’re far from done.

Your voice trembles. “The NIS. They were there tonight too. They looked like they knew that someone, like they knew I, was going for Siyeon. If I had done anything...” You don’t even wait for an answer before you whirl on your heel. “Maybe I should have just let them take me.”

You steel yourself, managing to keep your head high as you stalk out of the room. Your pace quickens as you speed towards your room, heart pounding in your ears. You crave sanctuary, somewhere you can just wilt without witnesses. Somewhere along the way, you started sprinting. You don’t stop until you burst through your door.

Off go the shoes. Then the purse, tossed onto the floor. You unravel the rest of the bun, let your locks fall freely, haphazardly. Your fingers claw at the zipper of the expensive dress, uncaring if some seams are ripped apart in the process. You just need to get out of this. Out of this constricting fabric and out of this makeup and out of all of this.

The dress collapses into a puddle around the shoes. It’s joined by your bra, then the thin knife taped to your thigh. Your heart thrums, pulsing like a livewire that causes jitters to spark beneath your skin and they won’t stop, they won’t calm down because your mind is just as much of a mess as your breath and—

You spot the box when you whirl around to grab an old t-shirt.

A tiny box, inconspicuously perched on top of your cabinet. You pull the shirt on as you walk towards it, prying open the top like a gift even though you already know what’s inside. A succulent. Sitting delicately at the bottom, its teal leaves are gentle, soft.

With great care, you lift it out of its cardboard cradle. You force yourself to inspect it, your trembling hands stilling more with each ounce of care you pour into the action. You remember Joon, with his soft voice and kind eyes.

“Um... Hi?” You mumble at the pot, feeling a bit silly. You pat one of its leaves, and it wobbles a bit to the side. “Hi. Guess you’re mine now.” Of course, there’s no reply. But there’s something oddly cathartic about this whole process nonetheless.

Before you can do anything else, you hear three quick raps at your door.

“Come in.”

You know it’s Hoseok even before his face appears. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

You manage a sort of shaky half-smile, meant to put that worried look on his face at ease. It doesn’t work. “Can I stay for a bit?” He asks, already settling himself on your bed.

“Yeah. Always.” You join him, the bed creaking under your weights.

“Boss was pretty hard on you.”

“He’s right though. I failed the job. I cost us a lot of money. I knew that when I walked away.” You stare at your hands. “But when I saw how happy she was... And the baby... I just couldn’t do it.” Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. “Isn’t that pathetic? That lately, I can’t do something that I’ve been doing all my life?”

Hoseok says nothing. He just wraps his arm around you, lets his warmth and cologne comfort you.

“Hoseok, it... It never used to be about the money.” You have no qualms taking out a corrupt politician or a criminal set free by a failed system. What laws cannot govern, you take into your own hands. But just a few weeks ago, it was a nameless father whose life you ended. And it was that father whose three-year-old you spared, leaving a potential witness. Yoongi had found out about that too. Before the father, it was an inventor, a professor, an heiress. All these people. And you were given no reason for their demise. Only promises of deep pockets and the jingle of ill-gotten credits.

“I know.” Hoseok squeezes you tighter. “But we do as we’re told. Those are the rules. Those have always been the rules of being a Nightingale. You, of all people, know it best.” He frowns. “Besides... We can never escape death in this world. If we don’t kill, someone else will. That’s the way it goes.”

You bite your lip. You don’t think that’s good enough of a reason, but there’s truth behind it. Exhale. “You’re right, Hoseok. This family... You guys are all I have. You’re what’s important. I can’t lose you.” You’re not related by blood except to Yoongi, but they’ve been with you since you were barely two feet tall.

“Then you know what you have to do.” Hoseok’s eyes harden. “This is the legacy we have to uphold. Family is—”

“Who you die for,” you finish. “Yeah.”

“And for what it’s worth... We didn’t know about the NIS. There were no signs that they planned to be there, and no information leaked. Yoongi would never have sent you in if he knew about them.”

“I-I know. But these jobs just keep getting riskier. Our chances of getting caught keep going up and I’m worried that...” You can’t bring yourself to finish the sentence. “Anyway, thank you, Hobi.” You slip easily into the childhood nickname you created when you first met him, when you were five and him a couple years older. When you knew nothing of this dark world, and he already knew too much. “Truly.”

Hoseok holds you for a few seconds more before he lets go. “I still have to scout a location tonight, so I can’t stay any longer. Are you going to be okay? Should I get Tae or Jun to keep you company?”

Instinctively, your eyes flicker to the succulent on the dresser. “I’ll be fine. Thanks for checking in on me.”

Hoseok follows your gaze. “That’s new,” he chuckles. “Never pegged you for a gardener. But alright. Whatever works, as long as you feel better.” He stands, pats your head. “Don’t forget to water it!”

You summon the strength to smile back. “I won’t.”

It is two weeks before you are sent on another contract, though you’re certain it is only because you are the sole member of the family with the right appearance and time for the job. Still, it’s a sign that Yoongi’s irritation with you is lessening with the passage of time.

Tonight, the plan is a seduction, leading to a sudden, fatal ‘heart attack’ in a locked hotel room.

You sip on a glass of wine as you watch the target pull up and park his car outside the bar. He looks like an average man in every sense of the word, a suit in tie corporate drone, and you wonder who would pay to have him gone. The ring on his finger glints in dull gold. His shiny oxfords look well polished, expensive. You finish the last dregs of your drink, setting the long-stemmed glass on the counter as he enters the bar. You compose your mask. Time to make the approach.

Hours later, the job is completed. Your escape is safely secured and executed. Everything has gone to plan. You return to headquarters with a desperate wish for a scalding shower because you feel utterly disgusted. Chiefly by the haste in which the target followed you into the hotel, then with how he made for you with his ring-clad hands without a trace of hesitation. Finally, it was how eager he had looked when you flashed him a bit of skin to distract him from the needle.

You need to wash the feel of him off. But first, you have a report to make.

“Yoongi, the job is done.”

Yoongi looks up from his computer. “Good.” He’s buried back in the work for about a second before he locks eyes with you again. “You okay?” Maybe he’s caught on to how much paler you look.

But what can you say? You just end up nodding, a few curt dips of your head. “Fine.” You close the door firmly shut behind you as you leave.

Back in the safety of your own room, you let the fatigue wash over you. Each contract seems to take more and more out of you, no matter how easy the actual task is. “Do it for the family,” you remind yourself as you strip from your dress. Each job fulfilled just solidifies the Nightingales’ position further, ensures that you will prosper for the years to come. This is bigger than you. This is what you have to do.

After the relief of a hot shower, you change into dark jeans and a hoodie.

As is your new nightly routine, you pad through headquarters in sneakers, making your way upstairs to the ‘house’ parts of the space that act as camouflage towards the rest of the public. You’ve been moving the succulent between these two worlds every day, for you figure it needs sun that your basement room cannot offer. But you can’t seem to sleep without it at night, without the comfort that there’s something growing, thriving in life just a few feet away.

“Time for your watering.” You fill a small cup with water, dousing the succulent until its soil is pooling, collecting the excess liquid before it sinks in. You watch the dirt suckle at sustenance, lips twisting into wistfulness. Joon was right again. Something about sustaining a life tugs so fondly at the pit of your stomach. “I’m sorry,” you end up whispering, an apology that the family of tonight’s target will never hear. You pour another splash of water in.

It is when you pick up the pot that you realize something is off.

The leaves on the side facing away from you are puffy. You capture one petal lightly between your fingers, but its squishy where it once was hard and sturdy. “Lights on, 80%.” You’re stunned when the room floods with light and the succulent’s once teal color has yellowed, becoming almost translucent. “What the...” When you nudge a leaf aside to check on the ones at the bottom, it falls clear off.

Even with your limited plant knowledge, this is one thing you can diagnose too well. It’s dying.

He trusted it to you and now it’s dying.

Strange, overwhelming panic douses you like a bucket of ice water. Instinctively, you grab a tote bag, nestling the plant inside. You swing the straps over your shoulder, one hand placed on the pot to ensure it won’t shake too much as you rush out the door. Your destination: the quaint flower shop you swore you’d never visit again.

It isn’t until you’re standing right outside the flower shop that you realize it’s half past ten, and no reasonable person would still be at work. All the shops around you are closed, neon signs turned off for the night. The streetlights blinking red and green and the cars flying over your head are the only illumination. You should probably just go home.

But you’ve come all this way. And your succulent needs saving.

Stubbornness and panic dictate you peer inside the glass door. The plants that are normally decorating the storefront have already been brought in for the night; they obscure your vision, but you think you can just faintly make out a light in the back.

You knock, biting your lip as you wait. When there’s no answer, you knock again, harder this time. Please. Please be here.

It’s another minute before a familiar face appears through the plants like a woodland spirit. You step back as the door swings open. “Hi, sorry, we’re closed...” Joon’s sweet eyes meet yours; recognition flickers. “Oh. Dahlia?”

You don’t blame him for the question mark. The last time you saw each other, you had a full coat of makeup on. Right now, you’re bare faced and a sweaty mess. “You’re still here!” you breathe in relief.

“You okay? Come in.” You follow him into the maze of flowers. “What’s wrong?”

You wipe away the perspiration coalescing on your forehead with a sleeve. “The plant. The succulent. I messed up somehow, I must have...” You’re almost ashamed to show him the pot, but you unwrap it from the bag. He takes it gingerly to place it on the counter, before crouching down beside it. “I’m really sorry! I’ve been trying to give it sun and water and I’m even talking to it, but it’s just...”  Your babble trails off as he inspects the leaves, then touch a finger to the soil. The poor succulent looks even more sickly in this light. “I know you’re closed. I just didn’t know where else to go.”

When Joon looks at you next, he’s smiling so softly it stirs your heart. “Don’t worry about it. I’m usually here working late anyways.” He straightens, dusts off his apron. “And the succulent is just overwatered.”

“Overwatered?” You repeat, incredulous. “Plants can be overwatered?” You were under the impression of the more the better.

Your surprise makes his eyes crinkle with a chuckle. “Yup, they can be. Especially succulents. They’re used to much drier climates. It’s my bad, really. I should have given you better instructions.”

“So... it’s not dead, then?”

“No, just weakened. If you dial back the watering and let it stay in the sunlight, it’ll become nice and healthy again. Don’t worry, it’s a good thing it’s summer! This little guy will recover quickly.”

“Wow... Thank god...” Your tired muscles finally relax as you lean against the counter, relief spreading through your veins. You never could have imagined feeling this way about a plant of all things, but there’s no denying that it’s become a sort of companion to you in the last few weeks. The only thing that listens without demanding, without commanding.

An adorable, low-toned chuckle makes you turn your head to him; Joon is all dimples with a grin so wide it makes you bashful. “Now who’s the one that’s all cute, fretting over a plant?” He doesn’t seem shy now, keeping the eye contact between you so steady you’re afraid he can see right through you.

“I just panicked, okay?” You mumble, playing with an errant lock of hair as you feel a heat on your cheeks. You wish he’d stop staring. “It’s my first time taking care of anything like this. Ugh, I really should have at least looked it up online or something. It was careless of me.”

“Well, don’t beat yourself up about it. Your heart was in the right place.” Joon pats the succulent fondly. “This isn’t easy.”

“No, it sure as hell isn’t.”

He laughs, his easy, pure-hearted mirth addictive. “You can ask me for help anytime. I live in the apartment above the shop, so I’m usually around. But try not to come out so late! It’s not safe. You never know what’s out there in the dark.”

The weight of the hidden blade taped to the back pocket of your jeans reminds you that you know perfectly what secrets the shadows hold. “Right. Thanks.”

Joon turns back to your succulent, snipping away a curled leaf you hadn’t even noticed was there. “Had a long day at work?” He asks.

“Mm, something like that.”

“What do you do, anyway?” It’s a casual question, but it sends you for a spin. Thankfully, he’s too focused on doing something to the soil to notice how you tense. “Definitely nothing to do with gardening, huh?”

You roll your eyes. “No... I’m in the family business.”

“Do you like it?”

It’s clear nobody could love their job as much as Joon does. You know you should lie to him, but somehow that makes you uncomfortable when he’s always been straightforward and honest with you. “It’s alright, I guess. I never really thought about doing anything else.”

“Why not?” Joon cocks his head to a side. “I mean, I know family obligations are strong, but it’s your life. You should live it how you choose.” He grimaces. “Not to be preachy or anything.”

“... It’s complicated. But my family needs me. Even though we may yell at each other or want to bite each others’ heads off, they’re still all I have.” You bite your lip. “And I owe them everything.”

“But what do you want?”

You stare blankly at Joon, mind searching for words that only come up muddled. When is the last time someone asked you that? All the letters, the languages that you speak yet there’s nothing coherent enough to be sent out on your heavy tongue. You’re barely aware your hands have clenched into fists, nails carving crescents into your palm. You don’t even realize you’ve begun to hold your breath.

Then your com buzzes.

[11:01pm] hoseok: where are u?

“Everything okay?” Joon asks as you shake yourself out of your stupor after reading the text on the tiny screen. Reality calling yet again.

“Yeah! Yeah. Sorry. I was just...” You slide the com into your pocket. You give an awkward laugh, not sure who you’re trying to convince more, yourself or him. “Anyway, I should get going. I shouldn’t be keeping you here this late.” You throw a glance towards the door.

“Hah, you had to leave early last time too. Are you Cinderella?”

“Can’t let my jeans turn back into a pumpkin. Is that how it goes?” You smile, turning back for your succulent. You weren’t expecting Joon to be right beside you. He’s standing so close you can feel his warmth, smell the scent that makes you think of home. Not yours, but what you always imagined the magazine depictions would be like in your childhood.

“For what it’s worth, I think you’d look adorable as a jack-o-lantern,” he murmurs. Those sweet midnight eyes could hold a galaxy’s worth of stars within them, but tonight, they reflect only you.

...You could kiss him right now. It would be so simple for you to touch those gentle lips with your own and leave a trace of yourself behind in this oasis forever. But you know better than that.

Taking the succulent from his hand, you force yourself to walk to the door. At it, you bow, grateful for how he’s saved the life of the plant, grateful for how he listened to you ramble, grateful for him. “Goodnight, Joon.”

His eyes sparkle. “See you soon, Dahlia.” You don’t, can’t, respond.

It isn’t until you get home that you discover he slipped a dart of hardened paper into the pot, hiding just beside a petal. When you unfold it, ten numbers in raven ink stare back at you. And at the end, a single word: Anytime.

“Ugn! Hah! Yah!”

Sweat drips in rivulets down your forehead as you slam your glove-wrapped fists into a punching bag. You relish the bite of the friction, the soreness in your muscles as you whip around and kick the side to a satisfying thwap. Evening training has always been your favorite. Especially these days, when your body feels like one of the only things you have control over. Well, your body and the cute succulent you’ve named Moon.

“Hey, boss called a meeting!” Hoseok’s voice blares out just as you land another hook on the abused sandbag. He pokes his head into the training room, his expression carefully neutral.

You lower your fighting stance. “Okay. I’ll be right there.” You peel the moist gloves off your hands. Why a meeting? Weird.

When you walk out of the room and into the common area, the familiar faces of your family are already gathered. All fifteen of them look nervous as they mumble amongst themselves, probably trying to guess what this is about. You fill the open space between Hoseok and Taehyung. Yoongi stands at the head of the room, inspecting documents.

“Where’s Jun?” You quietly ask Taehyung.

“Mission.”

“Okay.” Yoongi straightens, drops the papers on the table before him. “Listen up, Nightingales. I’m sure you’ve noticed that we’ve been losing contracts. To the Foxes.” He spits the name out like poison. “Those assholes have been taking what’s rightfully ours. The money that should be in our pockets. I found out today that we were passed over for the assassination of that visiting VP of GCF Industries.”

“Shit.”

“Shit is right.” Yoongi paces a few feet before he whips his cold eyes to behold his brothers and sisters. “We have to do better. We have to be faster. But we still have to be careful. As if the Foxes aren’t enough of a pain in my ass, the NIS have been poking their noses where it doesn’t belong again.” Yoongi rests a strained hand on the table. “If any of you are caught by them...” His gaze finds yours.

Slam!

The sound of a door being violently thrown open makes all your heads snap up.

Within seconds, Taehyung’s off, his lazer pistol in hand. You’re right behind him, extracting your switchblade. Nobody would be stupid enough to attempt an infiltration of your headquarters. But lately nothing surprises you.

This long hallway seems to go on forever.

You can’t see what’s right in front of you. Taehyung’s form blocks the bulk of your vision, but you trust him to be your eyes. You focus on silencing your steps.

“Jun!”

When you pool into the foyer, Taehyung bolts forward like a bullet. “Jun! Shit!”

You see the puddle of blood first. Then you see Jun at the foot of the stairs, clutching at his leg. His top is stained dark crimson, his breathing too haggard. That sweet face is contorted in pain, as if living itself hurts him more than anything else.

Rushing to the wall, you smash the hidden switch for the secret cache. You’re not going for the weapons, but instead the first aid kit. You drag the whole bag to Jun’s side. Immediately, you inspect the wound. A deep slash scars his thigh. Your thoughts sharpen into hyperfocus: you have to stop the bleeding.

“What the hell happened?” Yoongi bursts into the room, eyes blazing. “Jun?!”

Jun automatically tries to push himself up a little further. He’s so earnest, always trying to impress Yoongi, even at a time like this. It almost makes you smile. “Foxes... Park J-Jimin...” Jun takes huge shuddering inhales. You try to shush him, to tell him to conserve his strength, but he shakes his head. “Client must’ve given them the same contract. I got in his way so...” He waves a hand over his wound. “Fuck, that really... hurts...”

“No shit, you got stabbed!” You spit out as you clean the wound. Your hands are trembling because the energy is draining from Jun’s usually bright eyes.

“Let me do it,” Hoseok says, taking over. You acquiesce.

“Fuck!” Yoongi slams his fist into a wall. When his hand comes away, his knuckles are scraped and bloody. He hardens his jaw, clamping down so aggressively on his lip you’re afraid you’ll have to treat him next. “Fuck...!” For a moment, just a flicker of a second, you think you see the brother you once knew. Fearful, uncertain, worried.

But Min Yoongi, head of the Nightingales, is back just as soon as he was gone. “You. And you.” He points at Taehyung, then, surprisingly, at you. “Tomorrow... Tomorrow, you two have a hit to do.”

“On who?” You’re bewildered that he’s still thinking about contracts at a time like this. “Can’t we talk about this later?”

“On that Park Jimin’s girlfriend. The one he thinks he’s kept hidden from all of us.”

“W-What?” You stutter in surprise, almost biting your tongue. “Why her?”

“You have to teach him a lesson. You have to teach him not to fuck with us. There are consequences for taking our hits. And hurting our men.”

If Jimin’s hiding his girlfriend, she has to be a civilian. An innocent. One who just happened to fall in love with the wrong man. “No, Yoongi, I’m not going to take his girlfriend out! There are other ways to send a message.”

“No, there aren’t. So just listen for once and do as I say.”

No, no, you’re not getting this go without a fight. Even if you have to resort to a low blow, a gutter punch. “Mom and dad would have never—”

“Mom and dad are gone!” Yoongi actually draws blood when his teeth sink into his lip this time. “They left the family to me. And I’ll be damned if I let it die in my hands!”

You fling yourself to your feet. “You’ve gone too far, Yoongi! Min Yoongi!”

“Just take a look at Jun and tell me if it’s too far.”

You don’t have to look. You don’t think you’ll ever forget Jun’s face, losing color by the second.

“Or what? Are you going to wait until they kill one of us next?”

Yoongi turns his back on the silence he’s created. You watch him stalk out, shoulders slightly hunched, cradling his bruised fist. It’s a sight you’ve become familiar with after all these years. But for the first time, it’s like staring at an utter stranger.

“I’m sorry you had to come.” Taehyung’s voice is doused in pity. “I could have done this alone.”

“No, you need backup just in case. And besides... Yoongi gave me the order.” In the darkness of your hiding spot, you offer Taehyung a tight smile. “I’m doing this for Jun.”

“I know.” Taehyung turns his attention back to the tiny, obscure café across the street, where Park Jimin’s girlfriend has the closing shift every Tuesday night. You had to travel quite a bit outside the city to get out here. He really tried to hide her well, though he should have known it could come to this one day.

The plan is straightforward. You are to approach when she is alone, and you are to activate the fast-acting poison that has none of the subtleties of the heart-attack mimic. No, this poison is one specially developed by the Nightingales. The traces of it left behind will let Jimin and the rest of the Foxes know exactly who carried out the hit. And they’ll ensure the police don’t catch a whiff of this, lest it be traced back to them.

You watch the girlfriend wave goodbye to her coworker with a sunny smile. “We’ll wait one more minute, then we’ll go,” you say. She’s already begun pulling the blinds down for the night.

“Okay.”

There are two exits to the café, which bodes well for escape. You and Taehyung, arm in arm, looking like a picturesque couple, take the one to the right when you enter. You pretend to be taking in the quaint décor, but you’re actually scoping out any potential hazards, any signs that the Foxes have put protective methods in place. You don’t see anything. Did Jimin hide her from his family too?

“Hello! Welcome!” She greets you both, grinning widely. “Sorry, we’re closing in a few minutes, but I can still help you until then.”

You force yourself not to look at the nametag pinned to her apron, because you don’t want to know. You don’t want to remember. Instead, you squeeze Taehyung’s arm twice before letting go. All clear. You hope he also gets the message to do this quickly.

“Thanks. Could you tell me about this cake here...this one in the display?” Taehyung chooses a dessert that’s not so easily seen from behind, forcing her to come around the other side. While she’s distracted, you flip the open sign to closed.

“Of course!” She leans down, bending to see what cake Taehyung’s referencing.

She never sees it coming, but you do. The quick flash of a silver needle.

“Ow!” A gasp. A squeal. Her doe eyes widen as she jerks back and stumbles.

You swallow guilt with a dry throat. “Let’s go,” you harshly whisper, grabbing Taehyung’s hand. You don’t want to stay here any longer than you have to. He nods.

You’re about to take the second exit when the door chime jingles again. Shit. A customer?

“Honey? Surprise!”

A voice that’s full of love rings out just as the woman crumples to her knees.

“What... What the hell?!”

The person that enters, you’ve only seen once before. Park Jimin. But you might as well be seeing him for the first time. Anger corrupts his face when he recognizes you. When he realizes who the hell you are.

“Nightingales!” He growls, his blade in his hand in an instant. You reach for your own knife, shifting into a defensive crouch. You’re sure he’s going to rush you. Certain he’s going to do whatever it takes to sink his own silver into your flesh in another twisted cycle of retribution. You wouldn’t blame him for it.

Jimin takes five steps and falls beside her. His weapon clatters to the ground.

He reaches for the woman with desperate hands, cradles her close against his chest with a rough fragility, a brutal elegance. “No,” he sobs. “No, no...” It’s a wail. A carnal howl that claws at your shattering soul.

“Please, stay with me.” He’s dropping desperate kisses against her forehead, against her cheeks, anywhere he can reach as if to capture the last remaining warmth in her veins. But her hazy eyes refuse to focus. Refuse to acknowledge his existence even with the tears he weeps on her paling skin. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Please...!”

“Let’s go!” Taehyung’s yell yanks you back. He forces you out the door. Even though Jimin makes no effort to give chase, you’re running as soon as you hit the cool night air, sprinting at full speed towards the hidden car. You need to get as far away from this place as possible. As if that could make you forget.

You shiver in the front seat as Taehyung speeds away. This. This is why you’re taught never to stay. Never to see the aftermath. Because ignorance is such sweet bliss and now even that’s been ripped from you. And it’s your own damn fault.

It is no wonder you cannot find comfort in sleep later that night.

You don't deserve it. You're haunted by the images imprinted in your mind, stubborn and too real. You can feel the weight of them crushing your heart but you're more afraid of who you'd be if it weren't there at all.

The hour has stretched past midnight, and you are no closer to relief. Sick of staring at the concrete of your ceiling, you turn to a side. Catch sight of the space where your plant usually sits, except you've forgotten it tonight in your haste to bolt into bed. But your communicator sits nice and handy bedside.

Before you can stop yourself, you're thumbing through the screen for a certain number saved beneath the sole symbol of a leaf. And by the next second, you're calling it.

Brrrrng.

You should probably hang up.

Brrrrng.

Your breath is coming quicker.

Brrrrng.

It's almost two in the morning, he's not going to--

Click.

"Hello?"

The comfort that floods you is instantaneous, palpable.

"It's me," you say, before realizing that's not helpful at all. "Dahlia. I'm sorry, I know it's late..."

"Dahlia." He breathes the word. It's not even your name, but there's such a fondness in his tone that you can't help but flush. "I said anytime. I meant it. What's up?"

"...Can I come over?" You end up asking. "You can say no."

"I'm unlocking my door right now."

"Thank you."

"Thank me when you get here, yeah?" You can hear the smile on his lips.

It takes your hasty steps and a short Skytrain ride to deposit you in front of the floral shop less than twenty minutes later. There's a strange sort of anticipation, a thrill humming beneath your skin that makes you more and more nervous with each step you climb, up the stairs that lead to Joon's front door. Just as he promised, you find it unlocked.

It still feels like you’re intruding, even though he gave you permission. But you forage ahead. You knock on the door after you close it behind you to announce your arrival. Then you turn to catch your first glimpse of Joon’s apartment amidst the dim, muted lights.

It’s a simple space, sparser than you would have imagined. But the warm, earthy colors of the wooden coffee table, the couch, come as no surprise. The only decorations that Joon seems to have are plants, in all shapes and sizes as they scatter across every open counter, flourishing and well-nourished with their crisp greens and exploding scarlets. And among them, he stands, tipping a mini watering can over a succulent.

“Dahlia.”

“Hi.”

The light casts shadows over his handsome face, over the full lips you force yourself not to stare at. The white shirt and grey sweatpants fit his lean frame nicely, though you’re not sure if the top is half-tucked out of fashion or carelessness. “Is it too dark?” He asks.

“No,” you murmur, “it’s perfect.”

Joon sets the can down. He washes his hands as you inspect a nearby purple bloom. Then he beckons to you with a hand like one would a stray cat as he pads to the sofa in his slippers. “Come, sit. I made tea, if you drink that.”

“Sure.” You peel off your shoes.

You’re not quite sure what you’re doing here, really. But when you join him on the couch, when take your first sip of hot tea surrounded by his scent, overwhelming normality hits you. A feeling that’s familiar yet so foreign all at once. Like some ancient crevice inside you is being filled.

“Dahlia.” He waits for the tea to spread its way through your veins, heating your chilled system before he calls your attention to him. To him and to the doleful eyes that always behold you with such care. “What happened?”

“It’s just... Family stuff again. I know, I’m a broken record.” You pull your legs up onto the couch and rest your cheek on your knees. “But I just had to get out of there. I couldn’t sleep.”

You take Joon’s silence as encouragement to go on.

“It’s not like they were trying to hurt me.” Yoongi’s face floats in your mind. How ashen he’d looked when he saw Jun. How the doctor said he’d visited the infirmary more than a handful of times over the course of a single day. “They try to do what’s right for everyone. I just... I don’t agree sometimes.”

“You don’t?”

“No. And I don’t think I ever will. Not with some things.” You let your eyes trace the lines of the floorboards. “But that doesn’t matter, in the end. What matters is that I do as they say. For the good of everyone. How I feel about it... That’s just my problem.”

“That doesn’t sound right.”

A small exhale that’s almost laughter escapes you. If only he knew. “No, to me, family... Family is who you die for.”

“But if they care for you, if they love you,” he whispers, “wouldn’t they want you to live?”

Your tongue finds naught but silence in response; you make no move to rectify that. The truth is, you don’t dare to search your mind for the answer. Like how a child fears what might lay beyond a closet door, beneath a four-frame bed. Not the monster itself, but the possibility.

“Dahlia.” You can’t bear to meet his eyes, to accept the intensity within their dark depths. “Are you okay?”

Maybe it’s the knowledge that you don’t have to lie for once, to say that you’re fine. Maybe it’s that Joon doesn’t need you to be strong or stoic. Or maybe you’re just tired of it all. But that question, so plain, so easy, is what breaks you.

You fight the sobs that surface, swallow them down with each stuttered breath. You have absolutely no right to let the tears fall, damn it. No right when they belong to Jimin as his grief, his sorrow. But still they choke you like hands wrapped tightly around your throat. Squeezing, squeezing until they’ve stolen every last vestige of oxygen from your exhausted lungs.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” you babble brokenly, closing in on yourself as if that would make you disappear.

You feel the weight of the sofa cushion next to you as Joon reaches for you, wraps his arms around you for the first time. Warmth. All-encompassing warmth that could rival the sun that you’ve spent so long hiding from. “Don’t be sorry. Never be sorry.”

Now you give yourself to the heat, let it melt away the fatigue that drips down your face as salty droplets of rain. You can’t recall the last time you let yourself cry, and in front of someone else, nonetheless. But now you can’t imagine why you’ve held yourself back, not when every tear you shed eviscerates another burden, at least until you’re made to leave this sanctuary. But for now, in this blessed now, you just let go. You memorize the rhythm of his breath against your skin, and you let go.

When you finally muster the courage to meet his eyes with your own, red-rimmed and watery, he just smiles. It’s a gentle smile to reassure you, and tell you that he can withstand anything. “I’m here for you,” he says without decorum, just a plain stating of fact as if anything else would be a ridiculous notion.

And before you can control yourself, you’re kissing him.

He’s so soft, lips tasting like oolong tea and promise as you drag him closer with hands carded through his hair. You shift. Your feet hit the floor in a bid to remove any obstacle between you. Why haven’t you done this before? Your mouths come together like miscolored puzzle pieces, never meant to belong but somehow sliding into place all the same for a perfect fit despite logical reasoning. He groans into the kiss, a delicious noise that stirs at your heart.

Here, you feel something different. Something so terrifyingly visceral that you can only describe it as being alive.

You want more.

But Joon is already pulling back, guilt in his expression. “No, Dahlia, you’re upset, we shouldn’t—”

“Please, Joon.”

He is the one secret that is yours, and only yours. That knowledge alone makes you want to be irrefutably selfish. Because you know damn well that he’ll let you. You know by fleet gallop of his heart and by the arms that hold you like precious blades of nightshade, blooming silently in this pensive dark. “You asked me what I want before,” you mumble against his lips, cupping his cheeks in your calloused palms. “It’s you.”

You can no longer register the tears that roll down your face for he whisks them away with his thumbs. All you want to focus on is the feel of him against you, his hands sliding down to find your waist. There’s a clumsiness to how he acquaints himself with your body, but you find it utterly charming. Nibbling on your bottom lip, he coaxes the first moan from your hoarse throat. You respond by tracing the outline of his mouth with the tip of your tongue, encouraging him to open and to let you in.

When he draws your hips towards him, you let yourself fall. Your back meets the plush couch, welcoming the weight of him on top. What you think is his cock presses fervently against your thigh, but he makes no move to seek his own relief. Instead, he trails his lips down your jaw, across the smooth column of your neck.

You pull him back to your mouth, seeking the warmth you’ve already become addicted to. Every kiss stokes the urgency in your veins further, turning it into an insatiable, impatient beast that cannot be reigned in. “More,” you exhale, afraid of what might come back if he stops. “Give me more, Joon.”

“More...?”

You guide his broad hand to the waistband of your terrycloth shorts. “Yes.”

“Are you sure?” He refuses to cross that barrier while he searches your eyes for hesitation. But he’ll find none. Only the desire to lose yourself in this moment and his touch.

“Completely.”

He swallows before he slides his hand inside for his first intimate contact. You arch into him when his fingers brush past your fabric-covered clit, testing the waters. That seems to give him confidence, as do the silken moans that drip from your tongue. He hungers for more, knowing every ounce of pressure he lavishes pushes you closer to the edge. Intentionally or not, the underwear becomes a kind of torture, dulling the friction of the fingertips you want against your bare skin.

“You’re so beautiful.” His voice has dipped lower, gathered a husky quality that stirs you, rouses like no other. What poetry could that tongue could pen against your clit? “I’ve thought so from the first time you walked into my shop.”

“What if I never returned? You didn’t have my number.”

He chuckles. “I knew.” He nudges aside the cotton to find you soaked. “I knew you would come back.” He collects arousal with upward swipes, parting and teasing the petals of your lower lips until you can’t stand it any longer. You moan into his ear, feeling his hot breath brush against your neck in return.

“Liar.”

“You tell me.” And he plunges in a finger. Before you can become accustomed to the stretch, he adds another, curling ruthlessly against your walls. His digits are much longer than you thought as they fill you so, so well. You can only dream of how his cock must feel, but there’s no time for fantasizing when his thumb finds your clit again.

Even your shorts cannot staunch the soaked squelch of your cunt, made thoroughly subservient to his agile fingers. You haven’t any idea how he manages to find your sweet spot in seconds, dancing around only to suddenly zero in on it again. You’ve never been one for whimpering but it’s a natural reaction when he scissors in tandem with the relentless strokes. Every pump forces you closer and closer. All the while, his mouth makes love to your tongue, sucking hard as if to claim it as his.

You know you’re not going to last long.

Clinging to him, you scrunch his shirt in a tight fist as climax sweeps you away in its fury. You don’t know how noisy you are with the moans that burst forth, but you can’t control them. Can’t hold anything back as he thrusts through the pulse to elongate the high. Even your legs are trembling in their strain, but god, you’re purring with pure pleasure and delight.

When the peak finally wanes, it’s a tiredness that settles in, renders you immobile while you just let everything melt away. All your worries and stress that have built up seem to go along with it, a welcome change even if it’s only temporary. You just breathe him in, let his scent wrap you in ease.

He doesn’t push you further.

Perhaps he can tell that you are exhausted, not only in your muscles but your mind, weary of this long night and of thinking. Despite his own need, he just holds you until your breathing calms. Until you are truly spent, shuddering against him while the last throbs of your core peter out, but leave you so satisfied.

He wipes his fingers on a tissue then drops a kiss to your forehead. “Will you stay?”

You sigh. “No. I can’t.” You have to be home for the morning, before they discover you’re gone. In fact, you’re already probably late. Still, you take your time re-doing the tie on your shorts. “Joon... I’ll see you again.” Another rule now utterly broken. But one you don’t think you can bear to uphold any more anyways.

“Okay.” You don’t know if he recognizes that this is the first time you’ve promised a future possibility, but he smiles all the same. “I’d really like that.”

You stand, the soon-to-rise sun marking the end of this tryst. He walks you to the door, watches as you pull on your shoes. “Goodnight, Joon. Thank you for listening to me, again.” Your heart flutters as you can’t resist turning back for one last swift kiss on his full mouth. “I’ll text you.”

“Goodnight.” He leans against the frame, arms crossed, expression content as you start down the steps. “Be safe.”

From that night on, Joon becomes your most cherished secret, a treasure of which you are fiercely protective. For him, you slip the confines of your headquarters, of your family, and become simply Dahlia for a handful of hours. Dahlia, who is ironically more yourself than you have ever been. It’s a mask that you’ve grown comfortable in over the past three weeks; it and he are the only things that keep you sane through the contracts Yoongi sends your way.

“No, no, look there! See it?”

Lying on a picnic blanket, shoulder to shoulder, you follow the arm Joon points up at the midnight sky. “Mmm, nope. Still don’t.” You turn, snuggling into his side. “Just looks like stars to me.”

Joon turns too, but to plant a kiss on your cheek. Then he captures your fingers, laces them together with his own. “Here.” Raising your linked hands, he walks you through the trail his sleepy eyes have found. “They look like flowers, don’t they?”

You squint. “I guess... Is that even a constellation?”

“No.” Joon grins, never letting go of your hand. “I just wanted to give you a bouquet tonight.”

“How very on brand of you.”

Joon pops a grape into his mouth. “I’m always consistent, huh? Or maybe you just know me too well.”

“Not well enough, I don’t think.” That’s the truth. With Joon, you’d gladly become an encyclopedia of information, voracious for every tidbit you can uncover about him, about the entire world that he seems to treat with such fascination. Just last week you listened to him describe the allure of crabs with rapt enthusiasm. You, in turn, gushed about the facets of language, how interesting it was the way a tongue wrestled with a foreign sound and structure. Conversations that could go on for days but must end when the first rays of sun peep over the horizon.

“We’ll get there.” He holds up a grape to your lips.

“I hope so.” You open, drop a flirty kiss on his fingertips before biting into the exploding sweetness. “Let’s start with you telling me why you chose to go stargazing. Besides the opportunity to feed me fruit, that is.”

“Heh. While that has its own charms… I like to come out here at least once a month.” He runs fingers through his dark hair. “It reminds me that my problems aren’t as big as they appear to be. There are just so many stars and so many universes out there. It seems like a miracle I was even born in the first place. So, shouldn’t I try to shine the brightest before my time is up?”

You didn’t expect a less eloquent answer from him. You swallow his poetics, imagine them settling in the cavity of your chest, right next to your thudding heart. With wide eyes, you stare at the twinkling lights that wink at the two of you, wind-cooled and half-drunk on life. “I think I’m glad I was born in this galaxy,” you softly confide. Something you never thought you could feel. “In this world, that is.” In this world that has brought you to him.

Joon squeezes your hand as if he’ll never let go again. “Me too.”

You creep inside headquarters just as the sunlight begins to filter through the windows above ground. You’ve made it two feet past the stairs when a hand slaps down on your wrist. You whip your head towards it. You have the good sense to clamp your lips shut before any noise can betray you. A low voice mutters your name.

“Where have you been?” Taehyung’s eyes come into view in the darkness. They’re not filled with anger, but worry instead.

“Tae. Uh, I was scouting,” you lie. You hate to do it, but the truth is far too caustic to reveal. “It took longer than I thought.”

Taehyung’s fingers release you from the hold as he sighs. “Okay. You weren’t answering your com. So. I just. I got scared. Especially after…” He trails off, but you know what he means. It’s only now that Jun has really started to heal; the stab had been immensely deep, the blood loss great. But he had escaped with his life.

“I know. But I don’t think the Foxes have made any moves against us. And they probably don’t plan to. Not if it’ll lead to more death on both of our sides.” You can still recall Jimin’s face with startling clarity. It still comes to you in the depths of particularly quiet nights, when you are alone with your all-too-active thoughts. “Maybe we’ll be okay.”

Taehyung looks off into the darkness aside your ear. The gauntness in his eyes suggests he hasn’t been able to forget either. Biting his lip, he utters, “…I’m not so sure.”

You are so accustomed to seeing (your friend? your lover?) your Joon beneath the cover of night that it is almost startling when you run into him by pure chance a week later on your quest to fetch coffee. And to gather intel on a future target.

“Joon?”

He turns at the sound of your voice, face brightening with surprise, then delight. “Dahlia! What’re you doing here?”

“Just getting some coffee,” you say, holding up the cup. The target has settled in to eat his scone, so you have a few minutes. He’s practically beaming at you, and you imagine you look the same. You can’t seem to control the smiles around him. “You?” It’s then that you look beyond Joon and realize he’s sat at a table for two. There’s a young, bright-looking man on the other end, staring curiously at you. “Oh, sorry, I’ve interrupted you!”

“No, no, don’t worry, you haven’t. This is my friend.”

The man stands politely to offer you his hand with a sweet smile. Hm, he’s handsome, in an effortless, boyish way. “I’m JK. Nice to meet you.”

You take the hand, find his grip strong. “Are you a florist too?”

“Nah.” He sits back, relaxes in his seat again. “Personal trainer.”

Considering the muscles that bulge from beneath his dark t-shirt, it most definitely suits him. Maybe Joon catches you slightly ogling, because he cuts back into your field of vision with a subtle tilt. Too cute. He’s always cute, today especially in his blue jeans, a casual button-up thrown over top that’s just a little dressier than his usual tees. Impossible to resist.

“What are you doing later tonight?” You surprise even yourself by asking, but you seem to be riding on the instinct that you want to see more of him; this small run-in just reminds you of how much you’ve missed him in the past few days. Headquarters feels so empty when his presence is only in your mind, for you’ve been too busy even for your whispered midnight calls. Your outburst makes JK’s eyebrows raise in cheeky amusement.

“Well...” Joon ignores JK as a smile stretches across his plush lips, flashing you those dimples that have become your greatest weakness. “I usually go to the gym on Thursday nights with JK but...” He gives his companion a look. “I’ll stay in for you.” Joon trails his fingers lightly down your bare arm. “Why don’t you come over and I’ll try to make us dinner? Or order us takeout when I mess up the cooking?”

You laugh. “Okay. I’ll be by around eight?” The target has now scarfed down the scone, and is pushing up from his seat. Time to go.

“Perfect.” Joon gives your arm a last squeeze. “See you then.”

“See you. And nice to meet you!” You wave to JK before quickly turning away, feeling actually giddy, like the schoolgirl you never were. It feels like your first ‘official’ date instead of a stolen moment here and there. It feels like you’ve taken one huge step towards the realm of normalcy, something you thought was something outside your grasp. And you wouldn’t give that or Joon up for the world.

It is half past seven that night that you slip from your room, a dark trench coat pulled over the dress that you finally settled on after much agonizing. Normally around this time, most of your siblings are in the training room or in their rooms, working on their skills. Jun is among them now, recovering slowly but well. Yoongi has the habit of locking himself in his room immediately following dinner (or sometimes without it), so it shouldn’t be difficult for you to slip out. You’ve never left this early before, but you hate making Joon stay up so ridiculously late every time. You owe him at least this.

You chose flats tonight for the ease of movement. You move through the familiar halls silently, hurrying along because you are just too damn excited. You wonder what he’s attempted to make. Then you wonder what he ended up ordering after he burnt his attempt. Just the image of him standing over a smoking, charred pot puts a silly grin on your face.

“You’re heading out?”

“Eep.” You skid to a stop, emitting a noise of surprise. You turn to find Hoseok advancing from a side corridor, head tilted to a side. “Sorry, what’d you say?”

“What’re you thinking so hard about?” Hoseok asks with a hint of a smile. “I just asked if you’re going out.”

“Oh. Yeah, I am. Just for a bit. Just… want to go for a walk and get some air. Clear my head.” Being with Joon does exactly that.

“Ah… Okay.” Hoseok doesn’t look too convinced, but that’s probably because you’ve never been one for walks. Usually, you prefer the sanctity of your room and the heaps of blankets. “I... won’t hold you any longer then.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you later.”

You hurry along, taking the steps up two at a time. You make sure to check on Moon before you leave. You give her a few ounces of water, watching with satisfaction as the soil eagerly accepts the liquid. “Grow up big and strong,” you say, eyes tender, full of hope.

You are unsurprised when a thin layer of smoke greets you from the cracks of Joon’s apartment when you get there almost right on the dot at eight. You snicker as you knock on the door, wondering just how much of a panic he must be in right now. Poor guy. He’s amazing at a lot of things, but anything in the kitchen sends him into a tailspin.

He opens it seconds later, sweating in a dark apron, his bangs falling down. “Hey! Dahlia!” He sniffs the air, watching as a small cloud of smoke billows out. “Oh god. Sorry about all of this. Come in.”

“What happened?”

“Turns out, making pasta is pretty hard.” Joon grimaces. “I managed to put out the fire though.”

“There was an actual fire?” That’s impressive, even for him.

“Uh… no? Nope. Definitely no fire at all…” He chuckles awkwardly, using a hand to break up the smoke. “I lit some candles to get rid of the smell.” He’s cracked open a window a few inches. And by ‘some’ candles, he means about fifteen, that all fill the space left by the plants he seems to have moved aside for the night. Joon clearly doesn’t do anything in moderation. “Good news is that we have takeout coming. So, we’ll still get Italian. Actually edible Italian.”

You giggle at how he flusters. Watching him run around, you leave your shoes by the door, then undo the knot of your coat to hang it up.

“How’s a glass of red wine sound?” He asks, rattling something in the cabinets.

“Sounds perfect.”

You make your way to the kitchen island. You slide into one of the barstools that faces the stove. Joon pops the cork, pouring crimson liquid into a tall-stemmed glass. It’s when he turns to give it to you that he gets his first good look at your outfit, at how you’ve dressed up for the evening. His hand jolts so much that he almost drops the glass entirely.

“O-Oh!” He (unusually) manages to catch himself at last minute. He sets the wine down on the table with a loud clatter. “Shit, sorry. I just. God.” He grabs a towel from the side to soak up the stray droplets that spilled. “Wow. You look amazing.”

You smile as you tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. “Thank you.”

“No, seriously, like… wow.” He takes in the tease of a neckline, purposefully curved over your chest. Subtlety has never been his strong suit but now he’s abandoned it entirely as he practically drinks you in like the wine in his hands. You don’t mind. Quite the opposite really. It bolsters your confidence when he reacts like this, as if he hasn’t been knuckle-deep inside you while you cried out in release.

You lean forward under pretext of reaching for the glass, giving him a bit more to dream about. Joon almost chokes on his sip of alcohol. You just grin in response.

“A-Anyway… Honestly, I’m surprised your evil stepmother and stepsisters let you out this early.” He turns and effortlessly throws the towel into the sink.

“Hehe. I did an extra good job of cleaning the house.”

“I’m sure even the floors are sparkling.” He’s about to take a seat when the doorbell rings. “Ah, that has to be food. Be right back.”

Minutes later, he returns with takeout boxes in hand. “Give me a sec. I’ll make it nice.” He moves swiftly, moving like he has much practice with plating the food. That amuses you too, as you wonder what other ‘special’ skills he has hidden away.

Joon adds one last sprinkle of parmesan. Then he sets it down in front of you with all the flourish of a gourmet. “Tada. Dinner is served.”

“Why, thank you.” You take up your chopsticks. “You have excellent taste.”

“Ah yes. I cooked it with my credit card.”

You can’t help laughing along with him. “Well, my compliments to the chef!”

Between bites of creamy linguine and a soon-depleted bottle of wine, the evening passes quickly. Too quickly for your liking as the hours slip by, counted by peals of laughter and flirty grins. The plates have long been emptied, sitting messily in front of you both. The conversation has winded down to a temporary lull as you both drain the last dregs of wine from your cups.

You’re fairly certain you haven’t drunken enough to be tipsy, not that you’d allow yourself to become so inebriated in front of him, so you decide it’s not just your imagination that he keeps looking aside your ear at something behind you. The first two times, you just figured he was searching for the next conversation topic. But now, you’re seriously convinced it’s either a ghost or you’re boring him.

“Joon... Why do you keep looking behind me?” You ask as you turn. Your eyes fall onto the couch you became quite familiar with just a few weeks ago. Oh. Oh…

“Um, sorry,” he mumbles when you look at him again. He puts both hands over his lips, as if that could hide the slow blush creeping across his cheeks. “I, uh, can’t seem to stop thinking about what happened the last time you were here…” You decide he’s probably too honest for his own good. You stay silent, and he seems to take that in the worst way possible. “Is that awful? Oh god. I don’t want to make this night about that or anything. That’s not why I invited you over for dinner. Seriously. You don’t have to—”

“Joon.” You push your seat back and let your feet hit the floor. “It’s not weird. It’s not awful.” You feel more nervous than you have in ages with each step you take towards him. “I’ve been thinking about it too.” His hands drop at your words. You seize this chance and press your mouth to his.

He tastes like cream sauce and the dizzying sweetness of wine. By now, you’re no stranger to his lips, to the chaste kisses he drops like butterflies during your brief pockets of time together. But these kisses are more, much more as you push yourself up on your toes. Every cell in your body seems to be tingling, sparking to life to urge you closer to those plush lips.

You try to deepen the kiss but can’t shake the feeling there’s some hesitation on his part; he’s merely responding to you, not taking any initiative when you want the opposite. “Come on, Joon.” You rest your forehead against his, let your tone dip around his name. “What’re you afraid of?”

He knows he’s been caught. His large palm comes up to cup your cheek. “Sorry... It’s just, last time things were so strained and—”

“This isn’t the same. This time, I’m here because I want you.” You lick your bottom lip, torturously slow so he has to watch. ���And I’m not as delicate as you seem to think.”

“...Fuck.”

That’s all the warning you get before he’s finally, really kissing you. He’s half-falling out of his chair but it doesn’t matter when your tongues are moving in tandem, matched in desire. One hand finds itself in your hair, threading through the locks while the other stays on your cheek like reassurance that he isn’t going anywhere. That there is no place in heaven or hell he would prefer.

He moans when you coax his tongue between your lips, when you hollow your cheeks to suck. “Let’s move this to the bedroom,” he mumbles, “please.” The obvious bulge in his pants is convincing enough on its own, but you appreciate the need in his tone all the same.

“We should blow out the candles first. We don’t want to cause another fire, right?” You laugh, pulling away with all the grace of a fairy as you flit around the room, dousing flame after flame. He helps you out, too eager to feel you against him again not to.

When you blow out the last flickering candle, he scoops you into his arms. You take it a step further, daring to wrap both legs around his waist, trusting him to hold you aloft. He cups your butt securely as he maneuvers the familiar darkness to his room. All the while he can’t keep his mouth off your skin, tasting anywhere and everywhere.

Once inside, he kicks the door closed behind you with a little too much force; it slams closed before he’s pushing you against it. Neither of you bother with the lights, too enraptured in the feeling of the other, using touch to understand instead of sight. What soft moonlight drifts in the half-open blinds is enough to cast a glow upon your bodies, tangled in heat. You both seem to acknowledge that some things are better left to be experienced, like the lush of his lips against the crook of your neck, the need in every nuzzle ineffable.

When the hands beneath your ass squeeze with the excuse of finding a better grip, you grin. Then you grind against the clothed bulge you didn’t get to sample before. It makes him chuckle right back – a rich, delicious sound. “Like what you feel?”

“Very much.”

You squeal in delighted surprise when he spins around to make you both fall onto the softness of his bed. His weight on you feels so natural, so effortless that you could just cuddle here for a lifetime and be content. But the wetness between your legs longs to be slathered over his shaft.

“Mm, I want to feel more of you,” you whisper, pushing your hips up to meet his bulge.

“Patience, baby.” He gives you one more kiss before he shifts down to the edge of the bed, settling right between your thighs. “Let me have a taste first.”

“You’re still hungry after all that pasta?”

Joon flicks his gaze up and you instinctually swallow at the darkened lust in his eyes, lit by beams of moonlight slashed across his face.

“Starving.”

His nose indents your thigh as he breathes in your scent. You silently pray he won’t take his time nibbling his way up your legs, because you’ll be even more of a mess by the time he reaches your sex. Thankfully, he seems every bit as impatient as you. Too eager to even deal with your dress as he scrunches the fabric up. He exposes the dark lace that clings to your core, sticky with viscous arousal. He pauses at the sight, fingers stuttering to a complete stop.

That makes you nervous. You’ve only worn this set once before though it’s your favorite; you didn’t want to taint it with the hands of your targets, didn’t want guilt staining the delicate stitching. The sole other time had been for a hookup, just a quickie to sate bodily needs before you realized it didn’t matter what you wore because it wasn’t about you. It was only about what your body could offer. But Joon’s touch replaces your memories of that man with every stroke.

“…Is something wrong?” You whisper.

Joon shakes his head. “No. Of course not. You… You’re so damn beautiful.” He traces the fabric stretched across your mound. “You just keep drawing me in more and more.” He slips a finger into the waistband, crushes the elastic as if he’ll rip it off. “It makes me want to say things I shouldn’t.”

You can feel his breath swirling over your skin, making you whine in anticipation. “Like what?”

“Like how much I’ve been missing your pussy.” The word sounds almost too dirty for him but god, what it does to you is undeniable. Especially when he eases the underwear down, removes it entirely and you barely notice in the process because you’re too distracted by the infuriatingly gentle kisses he plants around your clit.

“Joon…”

“Mmm, like how I’ve been dreaming about you so slick, dripping around my fingers.” Perhaps it’s the wine that’s so loosened the tongue that hovers above where you need him most. You’re already drunk on the honey it produces. “You sang so prettily when you came. I want to hear it again.”

You obey with a heady moan when he finally dips his mouth enough to swirl the tip of his tongue around your clit. You scrunch his bedsheets in tight fists, pushing the back of your head against the firm pillow as he follows up with long, reverent strokes, splayed like his calloused fingers across your quivering thigh. He smears your wetness across his mouth without care, only focused on the hitch of your breath, the guttural song wrenched from your parted lips.

Your legs jerk, tense around him when he drags the flat of his tongue against you again and again, sliding along down the folds to tease your cunt with a shallow dip. Then he’s right back at your clit, suddenly sucking so hard you whine. You automatically buck into him as the need for something to fill you eviscerates everything else.

“God,” you gasp when he releases with a noisy pop, leaving you breathless and wanting.

His eyes slide up the gorgeous canvas of your body, finding your gaze. He holds it with a certain, thrilling confidence as he gathers wetness on his finger, coating himself thoroughly. “God can’t help you here,” he teases. “So just cum for me, baby.”

You wait for the delicious stretch, but he turns those slick fingers on your needy clit instead. You’re still sensitive from his mouth but he walks the fine tightrope, instinctively knowing what’s too much by your spilled whimpers. His tongue teases what’s to come next as it plunges inside your cunt, lapping at the walls that contract so tightly around. His fingers just keep circling, the pressure building in relentless crescendo with the blinding pleasure between your thighs. You know you’re no match for him. Him and that mouth, those hands, fuck...! You let yourself fall with hands fisting his hair.

A sharp expletive and the sudden cinch of your walls mark your peak as everything skids to a standstill. You’re vaguely aware that he’s watching you cum but you haven’t the mind to care, not when you’re grinding into his mouth, deliriously needing his heat. Sweat pricks your skin, proof of the bliss that is white hot through your veins: merciless.

Finally, you drop back onto the sheets on a tremulous exhale.

Joon extracts himself lazily, a trail of saliva clings to his lip before he licks it off. “Just as incredible as I remember,” he groans, grinding his bulge into the bed as he indulges in the scent of your lost control. “Hope you don’t mind. I plan on giving you more.”

“Not without you inside me,” you say, still finding it hard to speak properly but you pull you up to kiss. You taste yourself on the tongue that tangles with yours.

“Your wish, my command. Let me get this dress off you first.” He rocks back on his haunches after a nibble on your bottom lip. “It’s gorgeous, but right now, it’s in the way.”

Gladly. He could ruin it for all you care. Still, you spin around to expose the zipper holding the outfit together. You stretch out upon the sheets that are drenched in his scent, fleetingly wishing you could stay here forever. Then you’re distracted by the broad hand that finds the steel clasp and starts to pull. His bangs tickle your skin as he leans down, kisses every inch of skin he exposes in a languid, mesmerizing trail down your spine.

You feel the cool air fan across your body when the last of the dress falls away. His broad hands cup, then part your ass cheeks, admiring the bounce, the glisten of your soaked cunt. “Do you even know how wet you are?” He mutters. “So ready to be taken.”

“Mmm... Fill me, Joon.”

You hear the thump of his clothes landing on the floor, then a rustle, a hurried rip of a package. Then his weight advances, knees on either side of your legs as he slides his hands down your waist. His thick cock presses against your cunt with such firm urgency you moan at the expectation alone. He drops one kiss on your back and plunges his cock inside.

“Oh, fuck, you’re so damn tight,” he groans the second your walls accept him, squeeze him for all he’s worth. You sink deeper into his pillow, but it can’t staunch your moans from the stretch. Incomparable to anything you’ve ever had before, you can only tremble with pleasure as need builds in your stomach again.

“Fuck,” he swears again, unable to even form words with how good you feel around his cock. He feeds you well, sinking in deeper with every thrust until his crotch presses firmly against your ass. Length translates to him nestled right against your cervix, nudging against your deepest core. And his first full thrust makes you cry out, not expecting the jolt of pain when the head smacks roughly against the tight nerves. He pauses. “Are you okay? Does it hurt?”

“No, no, never.” You feel him shift, the friction tantalizing. “Joon, I don’t think it’s ever been this good.”

“For me too.” You can hear the smile in his voice. “Never.”

There’s no more time for speaking, only fervent moans when he falls into the pattern of brutal pumps, drawing your wetness every time he slams into you to the sound of a fresh slap. His hands can’t keep off you; they caress the slope of your back, the curve of your waist, finally finding home over your breasts while his breathy groans define the nape of your neck. You’re addicted to him in this form, unrestrained and desperate like you’ve never seen him before.

Every stroke of his cock is devastating to your cunt, carving the shape of his cock into your walls as you spur him on for more. You want him to ruin you until you can never forget the feeling of him even if it’s deep, too deep it hurts, because that’s the ache of being so fiercely alive. You throw your hips back, forcing him further still.

“Mm, I really want to see your face.” That’s all the warning you get before the pressure disappears, and he rears back to give you space to flip. You’ve barely been on your back for a second before he’s between your thighs again, grinding the entire length of himself against your sodden slit.

“Are you teasing me?” You laugh, knowing he’s torturing himself in the process too. You reach down, capture the swollen cock head between your fingers and pressure his frenulum enough to wrench a heady gasp.

“Not half as much as you tease me with those little moans.” He lets you guide him back to your cunt, dips himself in your ambrosia.  “So,” a thrust, “fucking,” a delicious stretch, “hot.” He palms a breast while his mouth finds the other, tongue toying with your taut nipple while his hips work ceaselessly.

He’s forced to let go when his pumps become too rough, too frenzied in their lust for him to stay bent. He’s slamming himself into you, hooked his arms beneath one of your knees to give himself the space to fuck against your core. The bed is practically vibrating beneath you from the sheer strength of every plunge. He drags over your upper wall every time, ensuring you haven’t a second’s rest. Not that you’d want it.

You are reduced to mewls by the time his rude fingers find your clit to rub. “Too... Fast... Joon...!” You can already feel your undoing rising but he doesn’t slow even though you want this to last. Thank god he lives alone as your voice climbs in volume, feet curling, back arching—everything is heat and everything is him.

“Let go, baby.”

He forces you into climax before you know it, cock battering against the sweetest, most wanton spot as the ultimate thrill rushes through you. His fingers never relent upon your clit because he’s high on how you sing for him, how your throbbing cunt accepts him whole for a perfect, damning fit.

Your orgasm drags him into his own, one so blinding he hardly recognizes his own voice as he drops down over your body. He gives you his deepest thrusts yet, shoving himself as far as you’ll allow and then some more. His groans come out choked as he empties his cum inside your walls, wishing there wasn’t this flimsy plastic in the way so you could truly feel him. But you squeeze him all the same, clutching him close so your heartbeats match and his mouth never leaves yours, not even for air.

“Joon, god, Joon,” you mumble, palming his cheeks and returning every kiss until the crest has ebbed into lazy waves of bliss that lap at your shores. You are exhausted and sated, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

He flashes the dimples at you as he straightens, wipes a few droplets of sweat from his brow with the back of his head. He disposes of the condom with haste, so he can collapse at your side seconds later, breathing deeply to quell his thrumming heart. You smile deliriously as you turn to face him, to slip yourself into his embrace again despite the sweltering heat. Satisfaction and fatigue pull at your eyelids, but you fight their siren call. You need to savor every last moment you have in this space where you are naked—wholly, completely so in every sense of the word.

“Hey. Stay with me tonight,” he whispers, tracing your cheekbone with the backs of his fingers as if he knows what he’s asking for is too much. “I think... I think I need you by my side.” They are words like glass, so fragile it is as if they’ll disappear if he dares to utter them any louder.

“Joon, I...”

The arms that shelter you tighten, longing in every flex. “Forget your family. Your curfew, the rules. Just—everything. Please. Forget it all, at least until morning comes.” Intimate kisses brush across your forehead. “Then... I promise, I’ll let you go.”

You can find no argument. You never could against those sombre eyes, their darkness alight with the moon, betraying just how deep his affection runs. Though you’ve never said it aloud, you are certain your gaze reflects the same. Something you’ve been afraid of feeling all your life, but now you can’t imagine why, when it’s so precious.

“Okay. I’ll stay.” For tonight, one single night, you’ll pretend that the rest of the world has disappeared.

He grins, the dimples making their appearance as if to reassure you that you made the right choice. He presses one last kiss on the tip of your nose. Consequences are a problem for tomorrow. You watch his eyelids droop and his breathing slow. Smiling, you lay your palm over his chest to feel the strong beats of his heart. Your own vision blurs, slumber finally coming easily against his steady rhythm.

The next thing you register is a clatter.

Instantly, you’re alert.

You didn’t hear the front door open, but that could have just been a symptom of the sleep working its way through your body. You quiet your breathing and listen. The walls shake almost imperceptibly in time with silent, foreign footfalls, undetectable to anyone else. It’s an intruder. And they’re a professional.

You need to get to your dress. A hidden pocket sewn inside contains your knife. It’s not the best, but it’s better than no weapon at all. Thank god the candles are out. It has to be the Foxes. You were a fool, really, to think they wouldn’t try something. You just... never thought they’d find Joon.

But that’s what Jimin had thought too.

You untangle yourself from his arms as subtly as you can, but he stirs the second you move off the bed. Damn it. “Dahlia? What’s wrong?” Joon’s voice is hushed, sending goosebumps up your spine.

You swallow with a dry mouth. “I heard something.”

“A noise...? Let me go check it out.” He rubs at his sleepy eyes.

“No!” You snap it, a harsh whisper that makes his eyes widen. “No, I mean, I’m sure it’s just the wind...”

Joon’s already moved the blankets off, dropping to a crouch like you are. “Well, if it’s just the wind, then I’ll just close the window. I am taller than you.”

You roll your eyes in mock amusement. “That means nothing to me.” You pull the dress on, then fumble through its fabric. You slip the switchblade into your hand, one finger on the trigger.

“Just stay back, Dahlia.”

Damn him and his heroics. Still, there’s no use fighting him. Not when that increases your chance of being heard. He creeps towards the door. You shadow him; he doesn’t have to know you’re ready to fling yourself in front of him at moment’s notice.

You hold your breath when he reaches for the doorknob.

He knows how to turn it silently. The wood doesn’t betray him as he eases it open a sliver. You can hear the footsteps clearer now. They’re roaming through the kitchen. What the hell are they searching for? Is this not a hit but a heist instead? You stay carefully out of view.

Before you get any answers, Joon suddenly straightens. He whips the door open. It slams into the wall with a thundering crash. “Whoever the hell you are, get out!”

Your heart stops. What the fuck—

You catch the glint of steel in Joon’s hands.

A shot rings out before you can react. Is it coming or going? All you know is there’s an enormous clatter, like all the pots tumbled to the ground in the intruder’s unfamiliar haste. What the fuck is Joon doing with a gun? He holds it with practiced fingers, a proper grip.

Another shot. Definitely going. You recognize the telltale muted snip of a modified pistol; one with an excellent silencer. The kind those in your business routinely use. The kind Joon has pointed right at your uninvited guest.

“Get out!” Joon roars. He turns, using the doorframe as leverage. He uses practiced point swivels to keep his advantage. One more shot. This time, it results in a strangled choke of a noise. The shadow hurtles towards the front door in the moonlight. The door is yanked with so much desperate ferocity it almost rips off its hinges. Seconds later, the shadow is gone, disappeared into the darkness of the night.

When Joon looks back towards you, he finds himself on the business end of your knife.

“Dahlia, I—”

“Save it.” You’re trembling. Your legs are shaking harder than they’ve ever been. You despise the worry on his face. You hate the fact you still feel the ache he left between your thighs. “Don’t fucking say a word to me.” You don’t know who the hell that person was, and apparently you don’t know Joon either. Assassin that he is. The Fox has been by your side all along.

“Why didn’t you just kill me when we first met?” You circle the room. Blood pumps hot through your veins. “Why? You wanted intel on our family? Is that it? Is that why you asked all those questions?” You’re moving towards the door like a caged beast. Were you the one that lead to the stolen contracts? Has it been your fault all along?

“I’m not trying to kill—”

“Bullshit! That’s bullshit! You just shot at whoever the fuck that was, and you...” You blink away a hot tear, wishing it’s from fury, not grief. “You just...” Even now. Even now you can’t understand why the hell he doesn’t just shoot you where you are.

You’ve reached the bedroom door.

One quick sprint and you’ll find the freedom from him you never thought you would need. You take one last eyeful of his frame, frozen solid like ice. You can’t bear to look into the false constellations in his eyes. “I hope you got what you wanted.”

You turn.

You run.

You burst through the doors of home like a mess, hair wind-blown and feet blistered, jacket pulled tight around your body. You’re afraid you’ll definitely be caught this time. Excuse after excuse pop in your head, none of them sticking or coherent as you rush down the stairs. When you reach the bottom, you realize that didn’t matter at all.

Headquarters is in an uproar.

“What’s going on?!” You ask one of your sisters, who seems to be rushing from the infirmary.

“Hoseok. Hoseok was shot!”

“Badly?” You ask, but the look in her eyes is answer enough. “Got it.” You head right towards the storm.

First thing you see: Hoseok lying prone on a white bed, blood staining his stomach and sheets. They didn’t even bother to undo the harness strapped across his chest. His black turtleneck is yanked up to give your in-house doctor space to work. Hoseok groans, sweat dripping from his pale forehead and matted bangs.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Yoongi’s eyes blaze as they take in your dishevelled appearance.

You ignore him. Your shoes clatter on the tile as you speed to Hoseok’s side. “What happened? Where were you? What did you send him into?” You glare at Yoongi, certain he took another unnecessary risk. Another gamble with someone else’s life.

“Not his fault...” Hoseok breathes out. “A scout. Supposed to be... empty...”

“You got shot scouting? Where?”

“Stop talking if you want to live through this, Hoseok. Save your energy.” The doctor holds up forceps. “We have to take it out. It’s a modified bullet. Can’t leave it in, you’ll get poisoning.”

“Fuck.” Hoseok leans back, squeezes his eyes shut.

You look away, not wanting to watch the doctor work. “Where, Yoongi? Where did you send him?”

Yoongi grits his teeth. “Where else? To find one of those NIS dogs that’ve been on our ass.”

“NIS?” You repeat. Your brow furrows. Not the Foxes?

Hoseok fights for strength. “Asshole had... pistol. Nice one. With a silencer.”

“Hoseok, shut up!” The doctor is terrifying in his own right, and Hoseok finally falls silent.

You, on the other hand, want to scream.

Because this is too much of a coincidence.

Because you just saw the dull light of a silenced pistol thirty minutes ago.

No. Your mind instantly rejects your next thought as you stumble, reaching behind you to grasp desperately at anything to support your falling weight. Joon... There’s no way. He has to be a Fox. Or someone from another family. Not a NIS agent. Anything but. No. No. No—

“What’re you doing?” Yoongi snaps.

You whip your eyes up, then bolt in lieu of answer out the door. The room is too suffocating despite your aching feet. You need time to think. You need to figure out what the hell is happening. You need to know the truth, god damn it, and not just the twisted mess your mind is making of every little piece of evidence that just seems to lead to the worst conclusion.

“Hey!” Taehyung calls, but you blow past him.

You finally find safety in the form of your room and a slammed door. You slide down against it, cradling your drooping head in your arms. Don’t be stupid. Think! You force yourself to focus on the evidence, on the knowledge that you know for a certainty, not the way he smiled into your kisses with lips lethally sweet. Or how he held you close as if he could be your safety, your world instead of the very knife that slices across your heart. You close your eyes.

One fact remains absolute.

He has betrayed you. No amount of feelings, regardless of how complicated and intense, changes that. He is your enemy. He has always been your enemy, even if you only feel alive, truly alive in his arms.

“...I have to tell Yoongi,” you whisper to yourself, but you can’t bring yourself to move, unknown whether from sorrow or fatigue. Your breathing slows. “He needs to know.” But sleep is heavy on your body, refusing to release its hold. You don’t fight it. You let your head fall another few inches. You’ll tell Yoongi in the morning, in a couple of hours. The settling darkness decides this for you.

This is the last shred of kindness you’ll give to Joon.

You wake to cold steel pressed against your forehead.

It is crammed with enough strength to leave a pink indent, a painful swell that you instinctively shift away from. You are still disoriented from slumber, blinking, trying to gather yourself. But the tapered end chases you down like a relentless hound.

Something shoves your arm. You wince when you hit the floor, forced from the door. Your instincts finally kick in, and you propel yourself away, as far away as you can. Who the hell... You let out a strangled noise when you see.

Yoongi stares down at you, ice in his eyes, a gun pointed squarely at your head.

“Yoongi, wh—”

“You betrayed us.”

You immediately shake your head. “No. No, I haven’t!”

“You think I haven’t noticed you sneaking out?” Yoongi takes a step, bringing his gun closer. “Creeping around like a rat.”

He... knew? You made sure you weren’t being followed each and every time. But did you slip up in your haste?

“I let you go. I know you’ve been having issues. But tell me, is it fun to spill all our secrets to your friends at the NIS?” A delirious grin is stretched across Yoongi’s lips. Your quivering eyes shift between that and the barrel of the gun. “Is it fun to watch the rest of us flounder in the dark? You hate what’s been left to us so much?”

“No, Yoongi, please, you have to believe me, I didn’t—”

“Then how did the NIS know Hoseok was coming?!” Yoongi shakes the pistol, tilting it on its side. “Every Thursday, they have a meeting. A mandatory meeting. Yet there he was, waiting for OUR MAN to appear.”

Your tongue is fat in your mouth. He said he was free. He said he was going to the gym. He— Oh god, it’s your fault. It’s your fault Hoseok was shot.

“No answer, huh? Just as I fucking thought.” Yoongi snorts. “Maybe you should be more careful the next time you talk to ‘Joon’.”

“H-How...”

He holds up your com, the triple lock utterly bypassed. “Or should I say Kim Namjoon. Agent of the NIS.” Your stomach lurches. “I told you not to trust anyone outside of the family, and look what you’ve done! You’ve compromised all of us. You’re out, sis.” Yoongi raises his hand and he cocks the gun.

Do you knock it out of his hands? Do you run? Or do you just take the punishment you deserve?

You suck in a breath that could very well be your last one.

“Get down!”

A scream hurtles through your open door. “Get the fuck down!” Explosions like fireworks blast from far away, sounding like they’re coming from the foyer.

A body dashes past your room. “What’s going on?” Yoongi yells as he turns, his hand faltering. “What’s happening?”

You see your chance. You lunge forward and wrestle the gun from his grip. “Hey!” You twist your body to avoid a shot but none goes off as you shove Yoongi to the floor.

“I’m sorry!” You gulp as you speed past him in bare feet. “I’ll explain everything later, I promise!” You can’t die yet. You can’t die here. You know Yoongi has other weapons on him. He’ll be fine if it comes to that.

You run towards the source of noise, staying in the shadows of corners, of tiny hideaways. The shots just keep firing, peppered with yells and cries so muddled you can’t recognize any of them. You are a turn away when you spot Jun in the foyer.

“Ju—”

“Aaagh!” Jun crashes to the ground, skids. A suit has one knee on his back, yanking his arms behind him to slap steel handcuffs on. NIS. So clearly NIS with that uniform. How did they find you? How did they get here?! You’re rooted, your face half hidden in the dark, half lit with the bleary, unchanging light. You desperately want to save him, but you only have one gun.

The agent on Jun suddenly whips his head up. His eyes connect with yours, and you recognize him. JK. Joon, no, Namjoon’s ‘friend’. They really played you for a fool and you ate it all up. But now JK’s arm is coming up, about to betray your location.

“Get out!” Jun screams at you before his cheek is forced to the concrete again.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, knowing your voice is too quiet to reach him. Then you go.

The agents swarm your headquarters, spreading like flies across the space. You spot them down the corridor leading to the infirmary. Hoseok must be compromised too. You keep running.

There is one exit deep within that is bound to be safe. There’s no way they’ve penetrated so deeply. Not yet. It’s hidden in the office that used to belong to your parents: a tiny tunnel. You just have to get past the dining hall first. A wide open space.

“Get the fuck back!”

Yoongi’s voice cuts across the hall as soon as you reach the doors. You duck, taking shelter behind a wall. Yoongi is locked in a stalemate, staring down an agent with his lazer pistol. They’re taking steps back, slowly moving closer to where you are. He’s trying to get a vantage point, knowing this space much better than the NIS.

Then you see the agent coming from his blindside.

No! You leap out, instantly aiming your gun at the agent’s arm. You pull the trigger.

No shot comes out. You desperately pull it again, but it’s too late.

“Fuck!” Yoongi finally spots the suit but by the time he spins, an electric shock pulses through the air from the agent’s immobilizer. It smacks Yoongi right in the side, coursing through his system as he shakes uncontrollably before collapsing. And he stays down.

You blink away the tears as you rip yourself from the scene. The breaths come up in great shuddering gulps as you try to keep calm but your hands just keep shaking. They shake so badly you can barely pull the bullet chamber out. It’s empty. God damn it. God damn your brother and his bleeding heart.

You claw at your coat collar, trying to loosen what feels too tight around your constricting throat. Adrenaline makes your head pound, and you know you have no more time to spare. You have to go. You have to leave Yoongi behind.

The dining hall is out, but there’s one more pathway to the office. It’ll take longer, but you have no other choice. You change directions, tucking the gun into your pocket like a safety charm.

A handful of excruciating minutes later, you find yourself in front of the office door. You haven’t been here in years, unable to bear the emotions that surface but you’re already so frazzled it doesn’t matter anymore. You slip inside.

The entrance is only accessible via fingerprint, built into the wooden desk that looks so ancient no one would suspect the technology it holds. You approach, instantly swept with relief. Thank god. On the desk, you see a tiny V drawn in red. Taehyung was here. Taehyung is safe. Three dots are haphazardly smeared next to it. Three others made it out with him. You’re going to be the fourth.

You flip the cover and press your thumb to the scanner.

Then someone calls your full name. Your real name. The voice is a rich baritone, one you could never forget. “Please. Wait.” The door shuts again with a click.

You face him, hoping every line of fury is carved in your expression. “Kim Namjoon.” Your hands curl into fists. “NIS agent.”

“...Yeah. That’s me.”

Namjoon stands before you in one of those tapered black suits that look so odd on him when you’re used to the slacks, the baggy tees. His hair is slicked back, and he holds that same pistol you saw in the darkness of his apartment.

You scoff. “I have nothing to say to you, Namjoon.”

“What about to Joon?”

“He doesn’t exist.”

“Neither does Dahlia.”

You press your lips together into a thin line. “What do you want with me? I’m useless to you now, aren’t I?”

“No. Never.”

You rake an exasperated hand through your sweaty hair. “I don’t know what you want me to say, really.” You want to scream at him, to let out every ounce of frustration but you just feel exhausted. “I fucking slept with you, Namjoon. Meanwhile you and all your buddies were probably laughing your asses off at how stupid I was. I broke every rule to be with you and you were just lying to me. About everything.”

“Well, I broke protocol too! It’s not like I went in there trying to sleep with you. I would never use you like that.”

You scoff. “Forgive me for finding it hard to believe you right now.”

“Please.” He tries to step closer, but you shake your head, glare at him to keep his distance. “Tonight and every night we’ve spent together. It meant something to me.”

“It meant you were getting the info you wanted.”

“No. My duties as agent ended the second I kissed you tonight. What came next was all me. It’s always been me with you on the drives. The picnics. Watching the stars.” You have to give him credit, he actually looks apologetic. Maybe ‘actor’ should be on his resume too. “Please.” He repeats your real name, and it sounds so foreign in his mouth you almost want to recoil. “You felt something tonight too. You can’t deny it.”

“Don’t talk like you know me.”

He shakes his head. “But I do know you. I know how your eyes sparkle when you talk about all the things you want to see, all the world you still want to explore. I know that you laugh at stupid puns and that you love the smell of stale movie popcorn like a weirdo. And I want to know so much more. I always do.”

You swallow the emotion that you can’t make entirely disappear, hating that he’s so goddamn right. “Look, Joon, Namjoon, whatever. None of that matters anymore. I... I have to go.” The trapdoor in the floor is still open, standing by. And the longer you wait, the more agents infiltrate your family, corrupt this space.

“Okay.” Namjoon sighs, and you think he’s going to arrest you. But instead, he just looses his grip on his gun. “You can leave. I’ll let you. I’ll pretend I didn’t see you, that I was too late.” He lets the pistol fall. It hits the floor with a dull thud. “But just know that you’ll be running forever.”

He suddenly extends his arm to you, palm up. “Or you can come with me. And you’ll have to face the consequences, but I’ll fight for you. I promise, I’ll fight damn hard. And at the end of it all... It might take months, it might take years, but you’ll be free.”

You stare at the pitch black of the tunnel.

Taehyung is waiting for you on the other side with your family. The people you’ve grown up with, the people responsible for giving you life. Or at least, the façade of life you’ve lived up until now. How much do you still owe them? When will it be enough?

On your exhale, you find Namjoon’s eyes. See the flicker of light reflected in their depths.

Trembling, you place your hand in his.

a/n: thank you for reading. truly. this is my first time writing something so ambitious. i wanted to present a world where things are all various shades of grey, where there is never a right answer. some characters were so difficult to write, but i hope their reasons for their actions were clear enough in the end. i would love to hear your thoughts on the piece & any feedback is always greatly appreciated! 

special shout out to @jeonshome who fed my insanity throughout the writing & kept me from imploding. please send her tons of love. i would give her all the star flower bouquets in the sky if i could ✨

p.s. you can find extra drabbles for this AU on my masterlist!

#bloom #namjoon x reader #bts smut #namjoon smut #bts imagines #bts reactions #kim namjoon #bts assassin #assassin au #criminal au #bts angst #under fire collab #bscproject #thanks for reading everyone!! #this one is so dear to me #i really hope you enjoy it #rain writes

[another-sonic-blog]

By Accident Ch.2

Part one: https://another-sonic-blog.tumblr.com/post/618876056624054272/how-about-one-where-amy-discovers-shadow-in-stasis 

This chapter's synopsis: After waking up Shadow from stasis, Amy and the black hedgehog spend some time together before going to see the Federal Reservation Bank, home to a Chaos Emerald. However, the longer Shadow spends time with Amy the more he realizes that he is having conflicted feelings about destroying Earth. This leads him to a final resolution.

ShadAmy (Platonic/Romantic it's up to you)

5K

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  The sun began to rise as it helped the sky decorate its blue canvas with soft pastel colors. Flowers bloomed as they began to be touched by sunlight, they detached a sweet aroma that could even be smelled by the unskilled nose.

Shadow the Hedgehog looked outside the window from Amy's apartment where he could see people coming out of their houses, ready to start a new day. There was a new unknown feeling that was taking over his body. He wasn't tense, his body completely relaxed and although he didn't sleep he didn't feel tired ... He was at a complete state of tranquility. Something that he wasn't used to since leaving in the Space Colony ARK. Constant test, needles coming in and out of him, Xrays, and overexerting his body in every possible way was an everyday item to him. Although there were very loving and caring scientists at the ARK, not everyone was. Must of them saw Shadow for the living weapon that he was, nothing more and nothing less. Even Professor Gerald Robotnik saw him as such but instead of a weapon, he saw Shadow as a cure. The Ultimate Life Form, his body was perfect in every sense of the world. Undefeatable.

All the power in the world and he couldn't save the only person he truly cared for.

The black hedgehog looked at the people walking underneath him. So small and fragile but still a smile plastered on their faces. How could they be happy when their race only seeks for destruction? How can they be happy when they can only feel hate towards each other? Humanity was rotten from the very pinnacle of its core and Shadow wanted nothing more but its demise.

How can they be happy when they took away the person he loved the most?

Even with the pain, hate, and suffering inside of him ... Shadow didn't want to do it. He didn't want to destroy this pathetic planet but ...

He will do it.

The promise he made to Maria is more important than Shadow's conflicted feelings. Maria wanted revenge and for all that's sacred, Shadow was going to give it to her.

"Shadow?"

His moment of rage was broken as Shadow heard the sleepy voice of the pink hedgehog who opened the doors of her house to him. Shadow reminded himself that he shouldn't get attached to anyone, especially Amy who seemed to have her way into people's hearts ... quiet easily. However, Shadow couldn't deny that the pink hedgehog has come in handy to him. She cooks for him, gives him a roof and-

"Are you alright? Did you sleep?"'

She gives him company.

Something he didn't need nor want but it was greatly appreciated. It was going to be complicated to destroy the world she seemed to love so much, Amy will probably hate him when she finds out ... if she ever does. Shadow will try to keep the destruction of the world a secret for as long as he can. At least until he makes sure Amy is safe at the ARK and that's if she wants to come along with him.

"You know that I don't need to sleep," Shadow said still looking outside the window. A heavy sigh left Shadow's lips as if he was letting out all the anger that built up inside of him just a few moments ago. Once again he felt tranquil. "I'll be fine ... soon enough."

There were a lot of moments in which Amy questioned Shadow and if she was being completely honest there was doubt within her. The pink one knew that Shadow was hiding something. However, she decided to let the feeling go. He was just a mysterious hedgehog who wanted to go home, nothing wrong with that. Amy could trust him and she will.

"I'll cook something and then we can go to the Federal Reserve Bank of Capital City." Amy walked towards the black hedgehog. Again, she could notice that same sad look. Full of anger,  pain ... If there was a way Amy could console him, she would. But how? There was a wall around him, one where there was no way she could climb up nor go underneath. Nonetheless, she was stubborn as well. It didn't matter how long nor how many hits it took, she was going to break down Shadow's wall. 

Federal Reserve Bank?" Shadow asked this time he was facing the pink hedgehog.

"That's where the Chaos Emerald is."

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.

.

Shadow thought that it was just a matter of eating breakfast and getting to the place where the Chaos Emerald is located. However, it seemed like the pink hedgehog had other things in mind. She took him to places that he only had seen in magazines and books back at the ARK. Places that Maria always wanted to visit.

"When I get better we definitely need to go to a shopping center! I wanna buy cute clothes and ice cream!"

"Shadow, once we go down to Earth we should go to a park! It would be nice to race against you!"  

Something was screaming in Shadow's mind, telling him to tell the pink lady to stop playing around. What surprised him the most was his level of patience, he was supposed to be completing his plan to destroy the world but instead here he was. Following a pink girl around to sightsee.

It was late afternoon now, the sun once again helps paint the blue sky with pastel colors. The only difference was this time the color palette was darker. Purples and blues showed up and Shadow mentally smacked his forehead already disappointed that he might lose this day.

Maybe he could sneak outside during the night while Amy is asleep. But what if she wakes up and doesn't find him? Will she suspect him?

And what if she does? What does that matter to him? Shadow needed to continue his plan to destroy the world, that was the only thing that mattered to him now.

"Are you enjoying yourself Shadow?" Amy asked as she looked over at the black hedgehog with a smile on herself.

"No."

"Oh ..."

Chaos gracious, Shadow doesn't even know where to start with this one. He regretted being so upfront with her even if he was speaking up his real feelings.

"My apologies, it's just that I am desperate to get a Chaos Emeralds."

Although Shadow wasn't looking directly at the people, he felt the presence of humans passing by them. Some looked, some didn't care and to be fully honest Shadow never thought he would be walking around with humans as normal as this. On the vast streets that were filled with cars, cafes, restaurants, lights, and all of these mechanical things he quite didn't understand ... yet. He was never fond of the loud sounds but this was quite amusing to him.

"No, I am sorry," Amy said. "I know you want to get home and to do that you need the Chaos Emerald but ... I don't know I just thought that maybe you would like to sightsee before you go? I also wanted to spend some time with you before we parted ways ..."

When Amy says things like this, it becomes more complicated for him to think of the destruction of the Earth. His need to protect her increased to levels that even worried him. Now it wasn't a matter of Amy wanting to come along with him to the ARK. It was as if Shadow needed her to come with him.

No, he can't let those feelings take over him. He can't get attached and he shouldn't. Not after what the world has already taken from him.

"Yes, I need to go home but that doesn't mean my journey with you ends once I get the Chaos Emerald." Shadow looked over to Amy who was walking next to him, a bit too close for his comfort but at the moment he didn't mind. "I still need to help you find your friend, remember?"

"Oh, you are right!" Amy said, a bit surprised. "Thank you Shadow, most of the time I am left behind ... So, I thought that maybe you would do the same."

This time a sad smile was placed on her face. As if Amy was remembering a nostalgic memory, maybe someone who she was found off mixed with a sad memory. Anger suddenly began to rise within the black hedgehog. Whoever dared to leave behind such a kind-hearted person like Amy was an awful creature.

However, the rosette hedgehog was back to her bubbly self. She smiled the brightest that she could and looked at Shadow with her Emerald eyes.

"But I know you won't do that to me right, Shadow?" Amy asked.

This was becoming difficult. Way too difficult. Shadow was once again conflicted with his feelings, he shouldn't care much about this girl but still he does.

"No, I won't," Shadow said and really meant it ...

So then, why did Shadow felt like he was lying?

.

.

.

The Federal Reserve Bank was one of the most secure places in Capital City, may even in the whole world. A great facility, robots, guns, lasers, soldiers, nothing that Shadow couldn't handle.

Amy and Shadow were a few meters away from it as to Shadow's request. Although the facility was on the outskirts of the city, it was still very concurred by people, especially G.U.N. agents. Shadow knew that it was better to keep his distance now.

"I have a friend who works for the government, I think we can ask her to help us convince them to lend us the Chaos Emerald-"

Amy's voice was cut off as an explosion was heard on the Federal Reserve Bank. The gates that were surrounding the facility were no longer there and Amy immediately recognized the person behind this.

"That's Dr. Eggman!" Amy said to Shadow. "I have to stop him! He must be after the Chaos Emerald."

They were hiding behind some bushes where there was not a possibility of them being detected. Amy looked at the facility once again, determination on her eyes. Maybe this time she could prove to Sonic that she could be useful.

"Who is this Dr. Eggman?" Shadow asked, trying to get Amy's attention so her mindset would move away from entering the facility.

"He is a villain. Dr. Eggman is always trying to conquer the world and he is always after the Chaos Emeralds." Amy said. "I wonder what does he need them for now."

"This information can come in handy later on."

A quick thought crossed his mind. This was it, the means as to how to start his plans. But first he needed to do something.

"I need you to go back home, I got this. I'll stop him by myself-"

"No."

Shadow quickly interrupted, Amy had such a determination on her face that could intimidate anyone ... but him.

"I don't like being left behind Shadow and I won't leave you alone either," Amy said. "He can hurt you, what if you need me to protect you?"

"From what I remember I was the one who protected you from that guard of robots a few days ago."

"And? I still helped you get out! I can take care of myself."

.

"I can take care of myself!" Maria caught the red ball with her hands, an angry look placed on her face. "I want to play too!"

"Dear, even if you feel good that doesn't mean that you are." One of the scientists approached the blond one, trying to provide her with some comfort. "But your health is very delicate, one small agitation and may end up in the infirmary again ... You don't want that do you?"

"But I want to play with Shadow!" Maria said.

"Shadow is very strong, he may even hurt you if he were to throw that ball."

The black hedgehog watched from afar, a bit sad that his best friend wasn't able to play with him the activities that he enjoyed.

"Don't worry Maria," Shadow approached her, a delicate and comforting voice coming from him. "We can read a book or do a puzzle if you want."

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Even when Shadow tried not to compare Amy to Maria, there was an evident share of personalities within the two. This brought back a faint memory, one that he wished he could relive again.

"I know you can take care of your self," Shadow's voice changed and this took the pink one by surprise. "I don't want you to come with me ... because I don't want you to get hurt."

Shadow the Hedgehog was the Ultimate Life Form but even he had failed to protect the one he cared for the most. His failure was something that will always hunt him in the form of insecurity. He was the Ultimate Life Form and he failed to protect a little girl. Who is he to say that the same thing won't happen to Amy? What if he can't protect her? What if he can't be there when she needs him?  

"It's not like I don't trust your abilities ..." Shadow made a pause as he took a moment to appreciate Amy's emerald eyes. "It's more like I don't trust myself to protect you if need me to."

There it was again, that sadness, that painful look. There was a reason behind his insecurity and although Amy wanted to know why she knew she couldn't do that at the moment. Just what had happed to Shadow that made him be this insecure about himself? Heck, Amy was utterly impressed when she saw him destroy that guard of robots back at Prison Island. He had unique and amazing abilities ... but even he had his insecurities.

"Will you be back by dinner?"

Maybe, she was finally understanding the black hedgehog. Amy now knew that she wouldn't be able to break down the wall that Shadow had built up around him no matter how much she tried to destroy it. It was a matter of giving Shadow time, space, and understanding ... And that way maybe ... He would be the one to destroy his wall.

The dark hedgehog gave Amy a small smirk, one that pierced through the pink hedgehog's heart. Hopefully, she would be there to see more of that enchanting smile.

"I'll try my best," Shadow replied.

"You will come back, right?"

Almost like plead, Shadow's heart begged him to not stay away from the pink hedgehog. To forget everything and to not destroy the planet that Amy seemed to love so much.

But he couldn't. Shadow had made a promise to the most important person in the universe, to Maria ... and he always keeps his promises.

"I promise."

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Obtaining the Chaos Emerald was too easy. The black and red striped hedgehog even felt a little bit guilty that he took down every single agent and robot at the facility. In his hands now was a green Chaos Emerald.

"It all starts with this ... A jewel containing the ultimate power," For a moment, Shadow was lost in the beauty of the green Chaos Emerald. How could something so small be so beautiful yet powerful? In a sense, the Chaos Emerald reminded him of someone he knew.

"You rat! What do you think you are doing with my Chaos Emerald?"

Although Shadow didn't recognize the voice, he wasn't scared of it much less intimidated by it. There was complete silence between them. The only thing surrounding them was the metal room in which Shadow had stolen the Chaos Emerald. Slowly, he turned around coming face to face with the so-called Dr. Eggman.

"My name is Shadow, I am one of Gerald Robotnik's greatest creation ... The Ultimate Life Form." Shadow said. "It's an honor to finally meet you, Doctor."

Although Dr. Eggman was surprised that this black hedgehog knew his grandfather's name, thanks to his great thinking abilities he was putting all the pieces together.

"You are the military's top-secret weapon! The one that the military shut down the research because they feared it!" Eggman said on top of his robot. Shadow had to admit the whole scene was comical even. He could tell why Amy called him Eggman but if the black hedgehog wanted the human to do as he pleases, it was better to not say that nickname.

"A few days ago I found my grandfather's old research files and dairy. He wrote about the greatest weapon he has ever created ... Project Shadow," Eggman was still keeping his distance, not knowing how dangerous could this hedgehog be. "I was looking for you in Prison Island, just to find that you were no longer there ... How did you even escape?"

That was something that Shadow didn't dare to say. He didn't want to involve Amy in any way into his devilish plans. He decided to ignore his question and instead focused on the information that was given to him.

"Because you are the grandchild of my creator, I'll grant you one wish," Shadow said. "Bring more Chaos Emeralds."

"Shadow wait!"

"I'll be waiting for you in the central control room on the space colony, ARK."

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Shadow was enjoying this too much. The police, soldiers, agents, everyone was after him. Although he could easily use Chaos Control, a part of him wanted himself to be known to the world. Shadow wanted this planet to know that he was here, that they should start to feel despair, pain, and suffering just like he felt it. Just like he was feeling it.

Destroying the Federal Reserve Bank brought him a certain pleasure, was this what revenge felt like? If he was being completely honest, it was quite lovely.

Standing proud of at the tallest bridge of Capital City, Shadow the Hedgehog looked down on the humans. So small, so weak and pathetic and they still managed to outsmart the ultimate life form 50 years ago in the ARK.

The sounds of police sirens and helicopters around him made Shadow smile, did they really think their machines are good enough to stop him?

"Hmf ... How pathetic ..." The words left his mouth but as soon as they did, he remembered what had happened on the ARK. Yes, he was the Ultimate Life Form. However, he shouldn't let that fact make him underestimate the humans. They were more deadly than they looked.

.

"Find them before they escape!"

Shadow did everything he could so Maria's small hand didn't slip away from his. Her breathing was becoming more agitated, and Shadow feared that her weak lungs would explode at any moment.

Gunshots were heard and without noticing Maria had been shot right in front of him. Everything happened so fast that Shadow didn't know how to react, what to do. He had been trained to be many things, a weapon, a cure ... but Shadow had never learned how to be a savior ... A hero.

"Maria!"

In the next moment, he was trapped. A crystal capsule surrounded him and Shadow was again lost. He couldn't do anything. The black hedgehog only stood there, watching his only family bleeding to death. Maria sacrificed herself to save him, to put him to safety. Shadow was supposed to be the one to save her. After all, he was her hope all along for a happy and normal life on Earth.

"Shadow, I beg of you ... Please do it for me."

"Maria!"

"For all the people ... on that planet ..."

No matter how much Shadow screamed her name, she wouldn't listen. The Ultimate Life Form was reduced to helplessness. To nothing, he just wanted this nightmare to end. For Chaos, for everything sacred in this universe ... He swore to never sleep again if that meant he will never have this nightmare.

"Sayonara ... Shadow the Hedgehog."

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He couldn't do anything back then. But now, Shadow was going to do anything in his power to get revenge. Nothing else crossed his mind, although the memory of the pink hedgehog wanted to make its way trough. He suppressed the thought, knowing that if he let his mind go to Amy the sudden rage of destroying everything will disappear. The black hedgehog didn't need that right now, all he needed at the moment, was anger, rage, and determination.

Starting right this moment, he didn't care about anyone or anything. He will seek destruction, he will full fill his promise. Shadow will make everyone feel the pain, the suffering, the no-ending nightmare that was his life.

Just how dare they? How dare these humans walk away as if nothing happened? Like they just didn't destroy his whole universe? His purpose to live?

These were the same thoughts he was having early this morning until a sweet voice interrupted him.

Amy made him have second thoughts and doubts about destroying the world.

But she wasn't here now to remind him of that.

"Maria, I still remember what I promised you, for the people of this planet ... I promise you ... Revenge!"

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The dark hedgehog had already finished defeating the guars of the military that was after him. It didn't take him long and his satisfaction was short-lived, therefore he decided to go downtown where he could cause a little more of despair within the population. He looked around the city, sightly enjoying the lights and how perfectly they illuminated the city.

Suddenly, something caught his attention. It wasn't the tall buildings, nor restaurants nor how there were no people at the moment.

It was a blue hedgehog, who was fighting a G.U.N robot. It was pretty big and Shadow would have liked to take down that robot as well but seeing that the blue hedgehog was almost done with, he decided to not interfere. Shadow had to admit that the blue hedgehog had good skills for the regular Mobian. Watching from the rooftop of a close-by building, Shadow thought that maybe this could turn out to be an interesting fight.

The black hedgehog landed on top of G.U.N's robot as he threw the Chaos Emerald up and down, playing with it to get the blue hedgehog's attention.

"Now, I know what's going on!" the blue hedgehog said as he approached Shadow, looking directly up at him. "The military has mistaken me for the likes of you!"

Shadow reminds quiet, it was amusing to see that the blue one had the guts to face him. The black hedgehog wanted a fight but he didn't think it was going to be that easy.

"So, where do you think you're going with that Emerald?!" The blue hedgehog raised his voice, tired that Shadow wasn't saying a word. He began to run this time. "Say something! You fake hedgehog!"

"Well, let's play."

Throwing up the Chaos Emerald and then catching it, Shadow only said two words.

"Chaos Control!"

Greenlight eradiated from the Chaos Emerald and Shadow felt his whole body go through an energy shock. It was a sensation that was long forgotten but it wasn't uncomfortable. In the next moment, there he was up close to the blue hedgehog.

For a moment, everything went in slow motion. Blue met black as they crossed next to each other, Shadow finally took a good look on Sonic's features. He was just a regular blue hedgehog, but his green eyes remind him of someone.

Amy's emerald eyes.

"Damn it, I forgot! I promised her I was going to be back!"

Shadow mentally face palmed himself, he felt so stupid for letting his uncontrolled emotions take over him so easily.

"And tragically, I didn't make it for dinner either."

Shadow decided to teleport back to the top of the building where he could see again the blue hedgehog. Why did he even think this was a good idea? He was just wasting time.

"Wow ... he's fast!" The blue one said. "But wait ... Its not speed! He must be using the Chaos Emerald to warp!"

Oh, well at least the blue one offered him some type of entertainment. The least he could do was to introduce himself before he goes off to Amy's apartment.

"My name is Shadow, I'm the world's ultimate life form." The black hedgehog was once again playing with the green Chaos Emerald, mocking the inability of the blue hedgehog. "There's no time for games ... Farewell."

Shadow used the Chaos Emerald to create a great amount of energy, it was so bright that it blinded Sonic for the moment.

"Shadow ... What is he?"

And then he was gone.

"I better investigate this ... Just after months of not seeing Amy and Tails ... I come back to the city to see them and this happens-"

"Don't move! Stay where you are! Keep your hands up in the air!"

Sonic's thoughts were interrupted as in few seconds, the blue blur was surrounded by G.U.N's trucks, soldiers, and helicopters.

"Huh? Not again!"

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Like a teenager coming back from a party that he wasn't supposed to go, Shadow entered Amy's apartment through the living room's window.

He tried to be quiet but of course the pink hedgehog was waiting for him. Amy was wearing her pink pajamas, messy hair, and tired eyes. She was sitting on the couch, in front of a small table. On top of it, a plate of food was wrapped with plastic paper, Shadow could tell the food was long cold.

But his heart wasn't.

Far from it, actually.

"My apologies, were you waiting for me?"

Shadow was finally inside the apartment, his voice was soft. For a small moment, he looked over to the lamp that lightly illuminated the room, giving him enough light to see Amy. "Have you eaten?"

"Yes."

Growl

As if destiny wanted to prove Amy wrong, her stomach let out a loud growl, showing that she hasn't eaten anything since she last saw Shadow.

"I wanted to eat with you," Amy defended herself. A bit shy and embarrassed that Shadow watched her being this vulnerable. "How did it go? Did you defeat Eggman?"

Shadow nodded, he watched Amy stand up from the couch. The pink lady slowly walked towards him where she could see him better thanks to the moonlight coming from outside the window. Shadow's vermillion eyes glowed even brighter. The first time Amy saw his eyes, they were a bit terrifying. But now, she found a strange sense of comfort within them. Red pools that wanted to say so much, but couldn't.

"Did you get the Chaos Emerald?"

"Yes,"

"Are you going home now?"

"...Yes."

Amy's heart shrunk a little when he accepted it. They had been together for a couple of days but they had built a special bond. She knew this won't be the last time she would see him ... So, why does she feels like this?

"I need to go home but I'll come back to you when the time is right."

Even for Shadow, it was hard to say those words. But why? His heart stopped beating as he watched Amy's face change.

It was as if she knew everything, about his past. About his plan to destroy the Earth, about his dark thoughts.

But her face showed such calmness, such softness ... It wasn't pitying, it was compassion.

She was giving him comfort, without Amy knowing it.

"I'll be here whenever you need me,"

This time, Amy smiled. She knew that Shadow needed to follow his journey and to discover himself on his own. However, if there was any way she could help, then she would make it clear that she would be here for him. No matter what.

"Would you ... Would you really be here?"

Amy couldn't tell all too well, but she knew that his voice had cracked. His voice was filled with such grief that Amy herself felt like crying. That insecurity was showing up again in Shadow and this time it was breaking him. His voice was a quiet plead. He was like a sinner seeking forgiveness, like a vagabond seeking a home.  

"Yes, I'll be here ... I promise."

The rosette hedgehog was something or rather say someone who Shadow has been looking for since the day Maria died. Something that he thought he lost forever. He had only known the pink hedgehog for a couple of days but she had shown him so much. She offered him such unconditional sentiment and comfort that made his heart feel at peace.

But was that enough to forget a promise?

No.

"When I come back, I'll help you find your friend. How does this individual look like?"

"No need. Honestly, he must be traveling somewhere. I have my ways of finding him, so don't worry about that," the pink lady was getting closer to Shadow but now he didn't mind the closeness of it at all. "Besides, something tells me that you have more important things to do that to help me find Sonic."

The black hedgehog still wonders who was this person who seemed to be so important to the pink one. Why would anyone want to be away from her? When all that Shadow wanted to do was to be close to her?  

"I'll come back soon enough, don't get in any trouble alright?" Shadow took one last good look at Amy, fully appreciating her soft features. Nonetheless, his eyes landed on hers. How come he didn't notice earlier? Amy's green emerald eyes were even more beautiful than the Chaos Emerald he was hiding.

"No promises!" Amy said playfully as Shadow walked towards the window, ready to disappear into the distance.

Although his heart was begging him to not leave, he knew that this was for the better. He needed to figure out things by himself and hopefully, he could get rid of the strange feeling that was starting to make its way into his heart.

"I'll come back," Shadow said. What the black hedgehog didn't know was that he would see Amy soon enough, in a circumstance he wished Amy wouldn't see him in.

"I know," Amy gives him a reassuring smile, one that made his heart and soul feel ... tranquil.

"You promised me."

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A/N: The hardest part of this chapter was the ending. It took me a very long time to figure out how this conversation. Shadow, a lost, suffering soul ... and Amy, an idealist who sees the best in everyone. I guess I really wanted to show Shadow's mains traits in this chapter. His determination, insecurity, and caring side. No matter how much he tries to not let 'superficial' feelings get to him, he always ends up caring for others. He does not want to destroy the planet earth, but he is still going to do it because he 'promised' it to Maria. I wanted to show Shadow's inner conflict and how much that affects him. He is going to have his lows on this story but you all know how it's gonna end. I am really trying to stay 'in character' for these two. This won't be your super 'mushy lovey-dovey fanfiction story.' This story is going to be more like 'the reasons why Shadow and Amy have such great potential as a couple, romantic and non-romantic'. I want to highlight both characters' traits, weaknesses, and strengths as I give a new approach to this iconic story.

Also, I just realized that Sonic never introduces himself to Shadow but after they are at the ARK racing each other. So, if I can I'll have Shadow at the end be like 'Oh, so you are the hedgehog Amy is looking for!"

On the side note, I am already preparing for the big ANGST moment. Well, two main angst moments, I am sure you can figure the two moments out. I honestly can't wait for all of you to read it.

I want this story to be around 10 chapters long. But, it may be more or less. It all really depends on how much I can make out of the SA2 story. I'll be pulling out things from the hero and dark stories to finish this.

Anyways, that's all I have to say for now. I think, lol.

See you next time on Prison Island!

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#shadamy #shadamy fanfiction #shadamyau #shadamy fanf #shadow and amy #shadamy comic #shadow x amy #shadowxamy #shadowandamy #amy rose #sonic fanfic #sonic fanfiction #sa2

[soulairee]

Woman of Medicine

SasuSaku Castlevania AU. Dracula!Sasuke. I’ve been wanting to write this for ages now. While the dialogue is very much the same between Sasuke and Sakura as it is between Dracula and Lisa in the Netflix series, it was still so much fun to put their meeting into writing. If you haven’t checked out Castlevania, I highly recommend it. It’s a wonderful show.

Haruno Sakura makes her way across a vast plain of land littered with bones—the dirt beneath her boots ashen and lifeless, the air reeking of death and decay. A blood-red sun sets on the horizon, tainting the sky in hazy washes of orange and crimson.

Surrounding her, reminding her that she may very well be heading to her certain doom, is an endless forest of skeletons, hoisted upon giant spikes pierced through their skulls. 

Sakura is careful not to get too close to any. With their jaws hanging open and their limbs hanging limply at their sides, they make a horrific picture: thousands upon thousands of skeletons screaming into nothing, with no one around to hear their cries. 

Her fingers tighten around the hilt of her dagger, and she jerks back when a flurry of bats appears as if from thin air, screeching, the sound of their leathery wings a rough staccato in her ears. Sakura glares at them, swiping her dagger at one that gets too close and driving the blade of it through the bat’s small body. She shakes the corpse from her blade, allowing herself to feel just a small amount of remorse for it as she wipes its blood on her handkerchief.

Thankfully the others now give her a wide berth, and so Sakura grits her teeth and trudges forward, head high. The hood of her black cloak falls to drape about her shoulders, long pink braid swinging behind her. 

She walks through the forest of the dead—heart thundering in her chest, anticipation thrumming in her veins—until she sees a sharp pillar of grey stone rising from the earth. With each step a castle manifests before her very eyes, and she gasps when the entirety of it becomes clear to her. 

It’s massive, climbing thousands of feet in the air above her, carved of great slabs of stone and pillars of obsidian. The architecture alone steals the air from her lungs. She can’t even begin to count the amount of levels within; can’t even begin to imagine how the castle balances itself with so many uneven towers branching from its center. It’s designed to emanate cruelty and menace, the inanimate counterpart to its lone master (or so she hears). But for all its harsh lines and severe edges, the castle appears elegant to Sakura. Beautiful, even. Then again she’s always been able to find beauty in the darkest of places—this time, evidently, is no different.

Shaking the awe from her face, Sakura breathes deeply before climbing the large set of stairs leading up to the castle’s monstrous twin front doors. She places her palm flat against one, the stone cool and hard beneath her skin. She shivers, feeling its iciness in her very bones, and nearly pulls her hand away before she senses movement against her fingertips. 

A gasp escapes her lips, and she steps forward to lean her body flush against the door. Indeed there’s movement within the castle—reverberations from a great beast walking about, she thinks, or perhaps from the castle’s master himself. She closes her eyes, listening. 

No, she thinks, eyes flashing open once more. Not a beast. The pulses of movement are too rhythmic, too steady. And that’s steam she hears, pumping out between heated metal.

Machines. It has to be.

Sakura can barely check her excitement. She smoothes down the sides of her cloak, willing her smile into a diffident line. 

Then she raises the hilt of her dagger and knocks it against the door. Once, twice, almost three times—

The doors creak open, heavy and slow. 

Sakura steps inside.

If she’s to be honest with herself, she expected to be afraid. To turn tail at the last moment, sprinting back to her homeland, all her dreams and efforts laid to waste as a result of her own fear and trepidation. 

But as Sakura enters the castle and takes in her surroundings, knowing she could die at any moment, she feels only curiosity. Curiosity and wonder as she turns in a circle, gazing upon the hundreds of metal candelabras hanging from the walls, casting the great hall in warm, flickering light. 

She blinks, once again having to bring herself back to reality—she’s here for a reason, after all. There’s someone she has to meet, even if it’s the last thing she does. So Sakura continues forward, dagger clutched in her hand, eyes darting left and right, searching for any sign of him. 

She inhales sharply at the sound of the stone doors slamming shut behind her, but she refuses to look back. Instead she lifts her head and gazes upon the top of the double grand staircase before her, where a dark figure now stands, silent and foreboding.

Sakura tries to make out his features but he’s too far above her, shrouded in shadows. She clears her throat and sheathes her dagger. 

Then, mustering all the confidence and bravery her small body can manage, she calls in a voice steadfast enough to make her proud, “My name is Haruno Sakura. I am from Konohagakure, the Village Hidden in the Leaves.” A deep breath. “I want to be a doctor.” 

Within the blink of an eye the figure is gone. There’s the sound of fabric rustling behind the pillars lining the hallway beside her, but when she turns to follow the noise, he’s moved out of her sight.

Then he speaks. “You bang on my front door,” he says, his voice echoing all around her, deep and calm yet with a subtle, threatening edge that stiffens her spine, “because you want to daub chicken blood on peasants.”

This irritates her. “Don’t mistake me for a witch,” Sakura replies, indignant. “Everyone out there already does.”

Another rustle of fabric from beyond the pillars, this time on the second floor. 

“I believe in science,” she says, nerves causing her to take a hesitant step backward. “But I need to know more. I’ve exhausted all my other options, and all the stories say the man who lives here has secret knowledge unknown to the world.”

“I do not get many visitors,” a soft voice says from directly behind her. 

It takes everything within her not to show her shock—how was he able to sneak up on her so quietly, so stealthily? Indeed she feels his looming presence at her back, his words spoken into her ear so she could feel his warm breath against her skin. 

Sakura remains still, staring straight ahead as he continues in that deceptively soft tone, “What have you to trade for my knowledge, Haruno Sakura of Konohagakure?”

Finally she’s had enough. Sakura’s eyes narrow and she steps away from him with confidence. Turning to face him now, she lifts her head and says, “Perhaps I could help you relearn some manners. I’ve crossed the threshold of your home and you haven’t offered me a drink or even to take my coat.”

All this said while Sakura gazes upon the face of the most handsome man she’s ever seen. With hair so black it appears almost blue and eyes the color of onyx, he’s the very epitome of darkness and the worst of nightmares. He stands a full head taller than her, his broad shoulders made even broader by the heavy black cloak he dons. Above the cloak’s high collar and peeking from strands of black hair she sees his ears, elongated and pointed. A vampire, through and through.

Sakura refuses to be cowed by the sheer intimidation his very aura exudes. She stands proud, meeting his gaze fearlessly, and takes great joy in the small flicker of surprise that flashes in his dark eyes. 

Those eyes narrow to slits. “And what if I took a drink from you?” he asks fiercely, fangs gleaming in the candlelight. “Or have you loaded yourself with silver, crosses and garlic in superstitious fear?”

Sakura taps her index finger against her lips, thinking. “I might have eaten some roasted garlic earlier,” she admits. “Was that rude? It was all I had left.”

He begins to pace around her in circles, hands laced behind his back. “I’m not interested in superstition,” he snaps, “or assisting some muttering wise woman working tricks of entrails and pine needles.” 

“I want to heal people, with real medicine.” Sakura tries to put all the passion and ardor she feels into her words, desperate. “I want to learn. Will you help me?”

He stops his pacing and stands still in front of her. He tilts his head to the side, examining her as if she were an exotic animal. 

“You are certainly more... unusual than most humans I have met in recent times,” he finally says. “And much less afraid of me.”

Sakura grins. “You only seem a little frightening, truly. Maybe I can teach you to like people again. Or to at least tolerate them.” She pauses, thinking of her journey here. “Or to stop putting them on sticks.” 

He chuckles, husky and low. “I gave that up a long time ago.”

He turns and begins walking away from her, deeper into the castle. Disappointment begins to weigh in her gut, and for a moment she accepts the fact that she’s failed, but then he gestures with his hand for her to follow.

Sakura hurries to join him, all previous doubts melting away. 

“Where is the Village Hidden in the Leaves?” he asks inquisitively. 

Fresh courage flows through her in waves. “You don’t seem to travel much,” she teases.

He shoots her an amused look. “I can travel. This entire structure is a traveling machine.”

This little piece of knowledge he’s shared with her thrills her to no end. A traveling machine?

“But you don’t travel, do you, ...?” She trails off, raising her brows at him. 

“My name is Uchiha Sasuke. You may call me Sasuke. And no, I don’t travel.”

Sakura nods, pleased to finally have a name for this centuries-old vampire that is mysterious as can be. She can’t wait to know him better. Can’t wait to see what he has to show her. She’s been waiting for this moment for years.

“Well, maybe you should. The world is changing, Sasuke.” She meets his gaze, smiling. “Travel, like people do. You might even like it.”

Sasuke lifts a brow. She continues to look at him expectantly, and he eventually turns away.

Clearing his throat, he says with a hint of disgust in his tone, “I’ve known you for all of two minutes, and you offer for me to walk the earth like an ordinary peasant while I give you the knowledge of immortals.” He sweeps a hand before him, and a pair of doors swing open in response. “The true science.”

Sakura walks past the doors and into the room. Her mouth parts as she turns in a slow circle, taking in the room easily five stories high with books lining every wall and all sorts of golden contraptions unknown to her filling its center. Most of them move on their own, powered by some source she’s starving to know more about. Glass beakers are organized neatly on a wooden table to her right, some empty and some filled with gurgling golden liquid. To her left she’s shocked to see what appears to be a glass ball filled with lightning, the white light zapping around inside.

There’s no word grand enough to describe what she’s feeling. Awe, reverence, astonishment—all too cheap to put her experience into words. She is quite literally viewing the future right now, and she nearly forgets how to speak as a result.

Sakura finally twists around to find Sasuke standing to the side, watching her with an expression she can’t place. She’s too wonderfully dazed to care. 

“You realize,” she says, nearly vibrating with excitement, “that those humans won’t be peasants anymore if you teach them. If you show them what you’ve shown me.” She walks toward him, hands splayed before her. “And they won’t live such short, scared lives if they have real medicine.”

“Why should I do that?” he questions, genuinely curious. 

“To make the world better,” Sakura breathes, clasping her hands to her chest. “Start with me.” She gives him her brightest, widest smile, full of optimism and promises for the future. Oh, the changes they’ll set in motion. “And I’ll start with you, Sasuke.”

Sasuke stares down at her, quiet. She sees loneliness flash in those black, endless eyes, and wonders when the last time was that someone—vampire, human, anyone—treated him as something other than the monster he’s painted himself to be. She wonders how long it’s been since someone smiled at him; wonders how desolate indeed it must’ve been in this great, massive castle, alone for so many years. 

Then, finally, like the sun breaking over the horizon for the first time in centuries, showering light over a land of eternal darkness, she sees it: hope. Hope, newfound and unpolished, but there nonetheless. His eyes nearly glow with it, and he gives her a small, barely-there smile in return.

“Very well,” Sasuke says, almost in disbelief, as if he can’t quite come to terms with how she managed to persuade him but satisfied with their agreement regardless. He bows deeply, arm outstretched, gesturing to the wealth of knowledge surrounding them. “I think I might like you, Haruno Sakura of Konohagakure.”

Sakura beams.

For the future is theirs, and she cannot wait to discover all it has to offer.

#Castlevania #naruto #sasusaku #Sasuke Uchiha #Sakura Haruno #fanfiction #soulaire fiction

[cherry-moonlight]

Life Could Be A Dream - Chapter Four

{NOS4A2 - Charlie Manx x Reader}

{A/N} He’s hereeeeeeeeeeeeee! I hope you guys enjoy this chapter and what's to come! Thank you for being so supportive <3

Warnings: A bout of depressive thoughts.

Chapter Four - Christmasland

“Did they ask for me?” Vic’s voice was low and rough as I put the phone back in its place.

If looks could kill, I might’ve died right there in my shoes. Still, I nodded reluctantly. Before I had time speak again, she spun around on her heel and stormed out, grabbing her helmet once more.

“Wayne?” She called out.

Silence.

“Wayne!” She shouted then, fear gripping the tone of her voice in a way that almost frightened me.

I watched as Lou followed her out, looking exasperated the moment she’d gotten on her bike in a huff. He threw his hands up in the air and she was gone.

Approaching him carefully, I kept a polite enough distance. Having no idea as to what was going on, I tried not to make anything worse. Was a random phone call really that menacing? Pushing away the fact that the cord was still dangling from the pole, usually rendering any other phone useless, was proving to be harder than I expected.

“Where’s she going?” I asked gently.

He took a moment to respond, his gaze seemingly stuck down the road as he stared after her, but Victoria wasn’t anywhere in sight anymore. His face was clearly pained when he finally turned to face me.

“She just.. went to go look for Wayne,” he sighed, padding to the shop again and grabbing his keys off of a caddy on the wall. “I’ll be back.”

And with that, he was gone, too. I guessed they’d trusted me enough to leave me alone with the shop, even if it was supposed to be closed a few moments ago. Sitting alone, it didn’t take long before I felt absolutely gutted that Wayne was missing and I hadn’t even noticed that he wandered off. A strong urge to help them in their search for him plagued me. They’d been so kind and welcoming to me, and I owed it to them.

The garage door closed with a bang when I locked it. I had no car or really any means of transportation, but I noticed keys to a truck that had been dangling on the wall as well. While I had no idea who they belonged to, I didn’t care. Before I locked the shop up, I’d swiped them from their spot. The air was crisp as I ran over to the vehicle, helping myself and hoping the owner would never figure out I used it.

Not having a car had been the bane of my existence as a teenager. I couldn’t go anywhere or do anything. The only reason I was even able to get my license was because my mother wanted me to run errands for her. The engine roared to a start and the radio kicked on, the haunting song from the shop and my dream suddenly playing through it. This struck a slight pang of uneasiness within me. The song sounded just as sorrowful as it had in my dream. With a hard swallow, I reached for the knob and pushed the power button carelessly as I began to drive off the lot.

The song still played.

I pushed again, then again and again.

The radio was off, but the song still played. I could’ve killed the engine in the middle of the road, just to be sure, but I decided against it.

“Must be broken..” I tried to convince myself aloud instead, as though it might go away if it heard me.

Something was clearly wrong with me, I thought.

Hearing songs that don’t exist when no one else could hear them.. Lovely. I’d always heard trauma did strange things to the brain. Maybe it was something like th—

It was then that something large behind the treeline beside me caught my eye. I wasn’t too far from Carmody’s yet, making me even more compelled to examine it.

From what I could see it was large and wooden and resembled something of a tunnel or a bridge. There was no peeling my thoughts from the sight, forcing me to keep glancing over at it. I couldn’t not investigate what I was seeing, and a part of me wondered if it was truly there thanks to the incidents with the ghostly song I kept having.

But I couldn’t resist. I pulled over immediately and stared at it from the car, blinking a few times just to be sure.

It was definitely there..

Maybe I’d just overlooked it like I had overlooked Carmody’s all of this time.

Shrugging into the jacket I wore, I hopped out of the truck and closed the door before standing still for a moment-- just listening.

Nope. No song.

But it had already gotten stuck in my head.

Not wanting to work on that crisis before figuring out what was hiding behind the trees, I decided there was no harm in humming it to myself. The sensation of mystery ran thick while I made my way down into the wooded area, pushing my way through dry branches and prickly pine needles. The air grew even chillier and the gray sky turned just a bit darker the further I went, making me wonder if going into the woods was a good idea at all. But I owed it to Vic and Lou to help them look for their son, who had been nothing but sweet to me since I’d met him.

“Wayne…!” I called, though not as loudly as I probably should have as I approached the large structure.

My brow knit together. That tunnel was not there before, of that I was certain. It seemed to lead to nowhere, which was intriguing and eerie at the same time. The lyricless song in my head seemed to swell with passion, making me sing along to the notes that hung in the air just like it had in my dream.

My dream.

Maybe the tunnel had something to do with the dream I had, I thought, walking towards the entrance. My feet continued to carry me forward, still not close enough to see inside. It almost seemed as though no matter how far I walked, I could never get close enough to even begin to close the distance. Snow began to fall from the sky then, something the weather forecast hadn’t called for at all in the week, and as I continued on, the colorless flurry grew heavier and heavier— the melody in my head and on my lips almost taking the place of any other noise I might’ve heard.

“Wayne?” I cried out in between singing, huddling into myself from what was turning into bitter coldness.

I ducked as a few black bats that stood out against the vastness of white flew out from the slowly disappearing structure and towards me. The snow had picked up so much I wasn’t sure I would even be able to get close enough to it to take cover. The sudden whiteout was disorienting, not only because of the blankets of snow clouding my vision, but because it just didn’t feel possible to happen all at once. It came out of thin air, making me feel as though I were detached from reality.

My better judgement told me I had to get back to the truck as I was surely losing sight of my surroundings with every moment passed. I knew I hadn’t wandered far, yet I felt as though I were isolated from everyone and everything I’d ever known in the place I stood, the feeling hanging heavily around me, pulling me down until it was a chore just to breathe.

The air whipped around my trembling frame, stinging my cheeks and chilling my bones as I continued my singing, trying to keep myself from a full blown panic attack. Singing had always soothed me. Even though my voice was weak from competing with the sound and force of the wind, it kept me from losing my mind despite the fear that filled my heart and seeped into every fiber of my being.

The song continued on strong through what felt like chaos surrounding me, causing me to feel it on a level much deeper than before. A stark realization settled in that I was truly alone in the world, and it was being shown all around me in some kind of sick, wintery metaphor. I couldn’t carry on anymore. I felt my body go limp and my mind go blank, the lack of control in my life revealing itself to me. My voice fell silent as I stopped singing and fell forward into the freezing abyss that consumed me, a soft sob escaping my cherry red lips as I came to terms with my situation more than I ever thought I would.

My heart screamed, pumping beat after beat with nothing but pain.

My blood boiled, burning my insides through the numbing cold.

All I’d ever wanted was to be loved.

Appreciated.

All I’d ever wanted my whole life was to be cared about.

Why wasn’t I deserving of that?

And it was in that moment of silence that everything else in the world came to an unforeseen halt as well.

A beat passed, maybe two, and I opened my eyes from being squeezed shut in anger and hurt. Mascara-filled tears left streaks down my cheeks as I kept my gaze down at the shining white ground, tiny black droplets melting the patches of snow beneath my face where each drop fell like blood. It was considerably darker than it had been before the storm, but the light was different, too. Almost scared to lift my head, my eyes trailed from their spot on the ground cautiously, my {H/C} hair falling in front of my face.

The sudden silence was utterly deafening as I tried to listen for any sign of life. No sounds of nature; no song. But it was then that I noticed each and every delicate snowflake hanging in its place in the air like crystal droplets hanging from a chandelier. It was as though time and space had stopped around me.

Am I dead?

My eyes widened in astonishment, taking in my new environment as I scanned the small area I found myself in.

Where am I?

I exhaled, a small white cloud hanging off my lips. I’d been holding my breath without my knowing. All around me were tall walls of white and blue ice, casting glacial shadows across what looked like hallways within their confines. The snowflakes that hung around me began to disappear like fireflies into the night while I stumbled to my feet again.

Ice.

It was all ice surrounding me, and the song that haunted me everywhere I went had not returned. Shuddering gently, the cold touched me here, but it didn’t chill me the way it had in the woods. In fact, despite the snow, there was a sense of warmth that radiated from every corner. I didn’t feel as hopeless and alone as I had on the ground just minutes before, the grave shift in emotions so quickly almost throwing me into a mild form of shock as I found my bearings again.

The familiarity of the place hit me like a ton of bricks as I began to walk. It was like my feet knew exactly where to take me; running my fingers along the ice that stood tall enough to keep anything that might’ve come across the place out — or in. Parts of the enclosure arched over me with large icicles that made everything feel like a dreamscape; the cold of the crystalline walls on my sensitive fingertips began to hurt. But in the moment, there was no care to be had about the pain.

The grin that tugged slowly at my snow kissed lips couldn’t be helped as I began to run, letting my heart carry me through what I quickly remembered to be a maze. Sure, I couldn’t remember how I knew, but somehow, I knew exactly where I was going. Something in my mind told me I was going to be the victor if I reached the entrance, keeping my focus on nothing but chasing my own intuition through the labyrinth’s twisting and turning glacial halls.

From my head to my toes I was awash with giddiness, a giggle escaping from my lips at every new turn, a childlike wonderment becoming me, replacing the sorrow that I was sure wouldn’t leave me alone only moments before. The snow kicked up around my feet, and I could see the light in the distance, indicating the entrance I was so after. Shifting into a sprint, it was as though I knew I had something to get to at the end, but couldn’t place exactly what.

But when I finally reached my destination, I was met with a world of fragmented memories that came flooding into my mind all at once, the familiarity delving deeper than just a passing wonder. I could’ve sworn there was an impact on me physically as I caught myself, leaning back against the large wall that made up the entrance with strength I didn’t know I would need to keep myself up as I sorted through my thoughts.

Sprawled out before my curious eyes was the most wondrous thing I’d ever seen. Christmas trees and houses that looked like life sized gingerbread cottages. Blinking lights were everywhere, complete with a large Ferris Wheel and a rollercoaster that wound its way around the entire parameter. There wasn’t a patch of ground that snow didn’t cover, and I could hear laughter in the distance. My heart suddenly ached with fervor, and I clutched at my chest as though that might stop the gnawing that radiated deeper than I would’ve liked. I was thrilled and pained all at the same time. But how could I feel as though I so deeply missed something I couldn’t even remember properly?

There was a certain romance to everything I set my eyes on as it shined in the lights, casting technicolor shadows over my face. I didn’t want to look away, in fact, I was sure I couldn’t as I let myself linger on the sights before me. I wanted to explore, to find myself in every nook and cranny this place of wonder offered.

Emotions began to overwhelm me as I finally came to the conclusion that I’d been here before long ago. It wasn’t something I’d simply made up or only dreamt about. The lights in my dream, they were leading to this. My brow furrowed as I tried to remember; tried to search the depths of my mind for any memory that would give me more than just a fuzzy clue.

My feet pounded against the ground as I ran again.

I ran and ran and ran; through the carnival games and rides that offered more flashes of hazy memories and past the houses that did just the same. When I reached the edge of what looked like a Christmassy plaza, I saw two people standing across from each other, both in defensive stances as though they were in the middle of an intense row. As I peered in for a closer look, I gasped.

What was Vic doing here?

She was in a stand-off with a tall man in a navy blue jacket and a deep red cravat. His dark brown hair matched the darkness of his trousers and shoes, and I noticed all too quickly that he had a face no one should ever forget.

When my eyes set on him, I was terribly wounded that I had forgotten his face at all when I immediately recognized him-- even if I couldn’t remember how, exactly.

Charlie Manx.

Father Christmas.

Whatever anyone called him, that was who my entire being was being pulled towards through the maze and down the snowy pathways. I knew it when my gaze found him, the ache in my chest dulling, but not completely gone.

But why? Who is he to me? There were more questions than I had words.

No one noticed my appearance as I made my way towards them with reckless abandon, interrupting whatever was happening before me. My heart pounded in my chest as I opened my mouth to speak, but when they both turned to look at me, I couldn’t say a word.

Their facial expressions were that of shock. But Charlie looked at me with a hint of surprise and wonderment that made every nerve ending in my body sizzle with fear and tension.

Everyone fell silent, words escaping us at the strange situation we found ourselves in until Charlie finally stood a bit taller, speaking loudly into the open air.

“Well… If it isn’t little {Y/N}.. Not so little anymore, are we?”

Wait...

“You know each other?” Vic questioned, anger and adrenaline thick in her vocal chords, her face turning to stone as though I’d committed treason in the highest degree.

I recognized him, but how did he know me? I wanted to ask what was going on, to explain myself to Vic - or what I could figure out of myself - and ask why I was back here again, or what I had done here in the first place. I wanted to scream at my splintered memories that only let me remember where I was and that I’d been here before, but not much of what happened or for how long. They were all a hazy blur of lights and games, children and sweets.

Everyday was Christmas Day.

Every night was Christmas Eve.

But I couldn’t— I physically couldn’t make a sound.

My hand clutched my neck as I realized my voice was completely missing from my throat like some Brothers' Grimm tale in a Disney-esque wonderland.

Charlie made a noise, as though delighting in the fact that I couldn’t speak.

“I see your voice has brought you here once again,” he continued, his velvet voice dripping with honey tones. “Rightfully so.. As you find yourself, technically orphaned, don’t you, {Y/N}?”

My focus was on Charlie Manx, and his focus was on nothing but me as my line of sight drifted towards the deep night sky, peppered with stars and a moon that seemed to welcome me warmly. My gaze met his again, and for a moment, it was as though no one else and nothing else existed but the two of us. His chocolate eyes pierced through me with an intensity that made me feel as though he could pull my soul from my body and do what he wanted with what remained. The spectral sensation forced me to avert my eyes towards the sparkling lights that hung from every object one could perceive instead.

Children began to poke their heads out from behind snow covered trees and bushes then, holding large things like scissors and knives in their hands with menacing, but apprehensive expressions that rested on their features. It looked all too familiar to me.

“Do you remember me? All of your brothers and sisters here at Christmasland?” he asked, a gloved hand reaching out to gesture towards the hiding children.

But all that rang through my mind was:

Christmasland.

A flash of large candy cane and iron gates topped with a sign that read “Christmasland” stood out in my mind, but I shook my head a bit, an attempt at shaking the thought and bringing myself back to his brief line of questioning. To nod would have been a lie, so I gave it my best shrug, lifting my shoulders and teetering my faintly trembling hand from side to side.

“Pity” was all he said with a solemn expression, his deep register soothing and unnerving all at once.

He then turned to face Vic, who was now missing from her place on the other end of the odd triangle positioning we’d all been a part of.

His countenance turned to a scowl, clearly vexed by the fact that she’d disappeared, and then frustrated by his own careless mistake of letting it happen. I watched as his hands balled into tightly knit fists, frightening me on the inside as I tried to keep myself together. I couldn’t remember much, but from what I saw, there was a darkness about the entire situation. Between Charlie Manx and Christmasland, to the children with weapons and the ominous atmosphere that seemed to linger in the air, I wasn’t sure what would become of me if I made a sudden movement to run.

Charlie immediately ordered the children to begin a game through gritted teeth, one that I couldn’t recall, but felt as though I should. They all scattered at the shouted command, leaving us both truly alone in the wintery plaza. All that could be heard were the sounds of faint sinister giggles and crunchy footsteps as they drifted further into the distance until I began to hear my heart beat in my own ears thanks to adrenaline laced with dread.

It seemed as though he pushed away his anger for my sake, causing me to wonder why I was suddenly so important. His entire demeanor changed as soon as his smoldering eyes set on mine again, and he approached me slowly, every footfall cautious, as though he felt like if he came too close too quickly, I’d disappear.

Staying in place before him, the closer he drew to me, the more I felt as though I just might.

“Never mind her,” he assured me as he caught me glancing around for Vic in a slight panic.

What were they going to do to her?

He seemed to relax, as if this was going to make me feel any better. His features softened, like when one recalled fond memories before he lifted a leather clad finger into the air for just a second.

“You were such a fantastic addition to the family, {Y/N} Manx.”

The name caught me off guard. He must’ve been able to tell.

“Oh..” he drawled. “Now, you should remember that. You signed it in my book yourself.”

And then he smiled.

Oh god— did he smile.

There was nothing like it. When he smiled, it was as though the whole world around me lit up with the same delight. The act was infectious, and I felt myself smiling right back at him in a vague stupor. That was, until I wiped it off my face the moment I caught my lips curving, which proved to be more complicated than I would’ve liked.

What was wrong with me?

I had to remember that Vic was here too somehow, clearly in the middle of a scuffle with this man. No matter what kind of spell it seemed like he could put anyone under with his undeniable charm, there had to be a reason for Vic’s visit. Moreover, he’d sent children who carried objects that could be used as weapons after her.

Being disarmed so easily wasn’t like me at all, especially in such a strange place with such a strange person that I really barely knew. I had to get out. There was more at work than I could’ve even begun to wrap my head around.

Everything was so new to me— there were no answers, only more things to question, including how either Vic or myself got to Christmasland. But I couldn’t conceal the fact that I was worried for her and if only a little, myself. I was unsure if he would take the same approach with me should I fight him or try to run, and I felt far too weak from what I was sure could only be the past several minutes that felt like a whirlwind. Up to this point, I’d barely had reason to fear him myself anyway, and all I wanted to do was find out why I remembered the man, but nothing about him or how we were connected.

I tried to speak again but couldn’t. His expression turned quizzical before the damned smile eased its way back onto his lips. Albeit briefly, I had to look away if I didn’t want to be caught up in it again.

“I didn’t realize you hadn’t used your gift since we last found you here..” he voiced in realization. “It comes at a cost, my dear. Once you use your voice, you lose it for a while. But that’s nothing a hot cup of peppermint tea with lobs of sugar can’t fix, can it?”

His smile this time was small, but still enough to disarm me all over again.

Peppermint tea -overly sweetened- was my favorite. My brow furrowed as I tried to pull the memories from my brain. How long had I been here before? He’d sure made it sound like a while between dubbing me an addition to whatever “family” this was with his last name and knowing the way I liked my tea.

There were still a multitude of questions bouncing around in my mind. But without a voice, I had no other option than to go along with what he was saying. It wasn’t only that I couldn’t remember how to leave, but I was also deeply intrigued by everything I saw— from Christmasland to Father Christmas himself. It surely couldn’t hurt to spend a little time, and while I did, maybe I’d get my voice back enough to finally figure out what was going on. If my voice brought me here, surely it’d be able to take me out. I just had to discover how.

And besides, maybe he was onto something with the tea. It had been a while since I’d indulged in a simple pleasure like that for myself. The feeling of being out of touch with reality drifted through my body and in my thoughts again. It was like I was slipping into a kind of contentment I’d never felt before. Not wanting to give into that, I fought the feeling off. I didn’t deserve it, I thought.

Slightly defeated by not being able to counter his offer, I nodded meekly, stepping closer to him. He hastily stepped backwards, keeping the same distance as his intense stare held mine for - to anyone else - what might’ve been a little too long. Deep down, I wondered if I should’ve figured out how to get away to find Vic instead.

“Come,” was all he said then, turning around and leading me to a house just behind him, the outside decorated just as to the nines as the rest of the area and the small cottages that resided within it.

A warm yellow light flowed out across the snow as he opened the door, enticing me even more to follow before he disappeared inside. The door swung closed behind him, and as I approached it myself, my inner dialogue was still fixated on just how I knew Christmasland, and why Victoria was here being what seemed like taunted by Charlie. It wasn’t until my fingertips grazed the icy doorknob that I was being pulled backwards, a hand -I assumed instinctively- being cupped over my mouth to keep my already silenced voice even quieter. Trying to fight back proved to be useless as I tried to dig in my heels into the snow to no avail. I was being dragged backwards against my will as I tried to wriggle free, quickly giving up the fight once I heard my captor speak.

“Don’t say a word, I’m gonna get you out of here,” Vic whispered in my ear gruffly.  

#nos4a2 #charlie manx #zachary quinto #charlie manx fanfiction #nos4a2 fanfiction #charlie manx x reader #fanfiction #vic mcqueen

[st-just]

Some writing form a game

So in a rather ridiculous online game I was in, my city of heretics and demonologists was inexplicably allowed to summon their patron, and then complete the massive doomsday ‘utterly destroy the main Good faction so we can win the game’ ritual. And since I wrote a thousand words of high fantasy purple prose to describe it, figured I might as well post it here. 

Deicide

In the very centre of Khasal, directly below the False Sun, there is a spire, needle-thin, sustained only through the City’s thorough subjugation of all the earth and sky within its borders.

And as the sun set over Hanrui, it unfurled, the four vast and sprawling chambers that had been folded within it at last free under the open sky. Each was led by a different grand celebrant, and each glowed with a different light. But as they orbited the False Sun, casting truly frightful lights and shadows across the night sky, the flows of power between them were obvious.

The first and furthest vista was Life, as red as old Balam. Seven times seven sacrifices hung suspended above intricately carved patterns, their bodies healing too fast to ever die as they were endlessly bled. As the blood filled in the mystic runes they began to glow a ruddy and sullen light. Above and between the sanguine lines, what had once been bare granite teemed with life, carpeted with flowers of a thousand different varieties, each a brilliant and unnatural hue. Five troops of dancers leapt and revelled amidst the crimson chaos, tearing free of each skin as they died a carnal death and donning a new face-freely taken, through force or fraud-in perfect time for each new verse. Three covens sat at three cauldrons, mixing reagents and all the curses of frail mortality in boiling concoctions, overflowing freely into the bloody streams of power. And at the centre stood the masterwork of the Architect’s beloved, conductor and chorus both, singing with a dozen mouths and cutting with a hundred hands.

And off the edges the ruddy, glowing rivers of lifesblood poured, imbued with all the glorious, fervent strength of a dying and desperate beast. No matter gravity’s opinion, they fell unerringly towards the Sun.

Next was Fire, many coloured and painful to behold. The platform was glass, stained and warped to give the smallest spark the reflection of an inferno. There stood upon it a great multitude- warpriests and lantern-bearers, devotees of a dozen different cults, and all the addicts of the pyre. They chanted ceaselessly as they worked, tending the pits and alcoves onto which they poured incense and alchemy, ten thousand smokeless lights billowing up and dancing across the sky. The heat was intense beyond all reason, scorching flesh and burning cloth and feathers both. More than one unfortunate grew overwhelmed and entranced, and threw themselves on the pyre-a painless death, at least, spared from their gods opinion of suicide by the same incinerating heat that left no flesh or bone. The greatest was in the centre, of course, attended by orcai clerics and mystics, pouring all their devotion and fervour into the invocations of their saviour, their plumage growing more glossy and vibrant with each endless and torturous hour spent attending the Pyre, as their Arch-Cleric sanctified sacrifice after sacrifice, each purified to colourless ash in less than a heartbeat, blessing the countless pyres with all the heat of Heaven and Hell.

And as the smokeless fire danced into the night sky, it rose unerring towards the Muse of Glory, no matter which direction more pedestrian minds might have expected.

The penultimate vista was Space, all the vast and endless distance which attenuates the bond between Heaven and Earth. Its original design was forgotten as it revealed itself, unfolding into labyrinth and impossible spirals and rings around the False Sun, through which fire and blood could easily slip. Companies of spell-eaters and warmages marches tirelessly down those roads, freed from all other demands from their first step, their every stride an incantation, every bead of sweat a sacrifice.  From a distance the roads seem unerringly straight and flat, but in person there are cliffs and mountains to spare, the many-faceted crystal from which they are cut changing shape to match every traveller’s perception. But every spell-eater, and every pilgrim, knew their duty-and they chanted and evoked as they walked, empowering the zephyr which flowed boundlessly around them, pushing out the road ahead of them, stretching and moulding it into ever more impossible designs. And surrounded and entombed by that crystal, sculpting it and swimming within it, was a serpent, cutting the world even finer behind her as she drew the newest ring ever closer to the radiant Unbinder.

And innermost of all, there was the Divine. Song and light made manifest by nine choirs of the chosen, as sacred and close the Voice as any space could be. On it were seven thrones, and on each of them an honoured and senior Voice of the Church, plucked form their pulpits or beds by changelings and shades. Each was cleansed and consecrated, anointed in holy oils, their soul reinforced and opened by the greatest psychics and astral scholars Hanrui had to offer, happy to be aiding an ally instead of disreputable mercenary work.

This last vista was within the False Sun, and as these seven finally awoke, their minds mercifully refused to perceive it. Instead they saw themselves as an oasis of light and song amidst oblivion, textured only by the constant rain of stars from the firmament.

And then the whispers began, sharp enough to make them bleed, in every voice they knew, whispering doom and terror, breathlessly listing all the tortures they could inflict, denouncing them for not being there to protect or comfort, begging for the mercy of death-

They prayed, of course they did, they invoked their Goddess, and the world leapt to assist them, and welcome her. Calling upon miracles to tear their prison asunder, and set the creation aright.

And then blood lanced through the sky, into their eyes and ears. And fire down their throat. And inches became miles became eternities.

And Vetali the Unbinder, Muse of Glory, Unbinder of Days, Demon of Hubris, spoke. And mirrors suffused with her light, carefully scattered throughout the dominions of the Voice, burst forth into their full radiance, her sibilant tones echoing through them.

I Love the Flame for its Heat And Life for its Passions And the World for its Vastness Your Voice is a Plague A Hollow Soul and a Slavish Tongue And a Dead and Sterile World I am the Chorus of Falling Stars And I deny You Let your every tongue boil And your every letter burn I bar Your passage from the Sky Let every Soul you have Ruined Be a Lance in Your flesh And a Brand upon Your eyes Your words will be drowned by the rush of Blood Your commandments lost to the Pyre Your holy places desolate in the Vastness of Creation If You may not die Then for an Age Be silent And learn the language of pain

And then, throughout the world, those who had heard the voice fell to the ground, as their souls began to burn.

#writing #high fantasy #glorious melodrama #abhari #well not especially really #but I recycled the demons #rise of kingdoms #this is theoretically a writing blog

[tss-grimmverse]

Chapter 3: Lilac

i wish you out of the woods

and into a picture with me

The Youngstown Grimms had made it sound like Logan possessed arcane knowledge, and would cast some sort of protective spell over Virgil. He wasn’t sure how he felt about this whole protection business being based on proximity.

Had those Grimms warned Logan that they’d signed Virgil up for college classes? Did they even know how Logan’s “protection” worked? It took Virgil nearly the entire allotted thirty “digestion” minutes to muster the courage to bring it up again.

Honestly, with his track record, that wasn’t so bad.

“So…” he drawled, as the two were slipping on their shoes to leave. “How is this gonna work, anyway?”

“This?” Logan pocketed his phone.

“Me, staying here, with you.” Virgil gestured between them. “Like, do I have to stay within a certain distance for your protection mojo to work?”

“For the time being, yes,” Logan explained as they exited the apartment and started down the stairs. “My long term plan, however, is to make a charm that will shield you in my stead.”

That didn’t sound so bad.

“But I will be able to leave?” Virgil clarified. “Like, during the day or whatever?”

As much as he didn’t mind sharing space with an absurdly gorgeous…if a bit standoffish…guy, being trapped inside day after day would drive him up the wall.

Logan made a noise of assent.

“The charm I intend to make will ensure that our arrangement does not overly restrict your freedom. Shelley has informed me of your intention to attend fall classes at Stetson University.”

‘My’ intention, sure.

Truthfully, art school had simply been the cover story to explain why Virgil would suddenly abandon Ohio and his Faire family. The Youngstown Grimms warned him that the whole Ren Faire circuit wasn’t safe for him anymore, not even as far away as Florida, not when his master had already tracked him down once. He still couldn’t imagine what strings the Grimms had had to pull to get him into a fancy, expensive-as-fuck university on such short notice, with only a GED to his name and no other transcripts…but they had, and they’d told him all his expenses would be covered besides.

Virgil was smart enough to recognize an opportunity when he saw it…and too selfish to turn it down.

“Oh, I suppose I should ask.” Logan paused before they left the stairwell. “How sensitive are you to iron?”

Virgil rubbed the back of his neck.

“Cars don’t bother me, if that’s what you’re implying. Most metal doesn’t if it’s refined enough.”

“You are fortunate.” Logan absently thumbed one of his pointed ear tips. “I hypothesize that my sensitivity lies somewhere between that of a true faery and an older changeling. My disguise glamour protects me somewhat, so driving around town is not a problem, but a cross country trip would be…taxing.”

Virgil winced. “That still sucks.”

Logan hummed, adjusted his glasses, and they left the stairwell for the overly bright, bleached parking lot.

Florida, ugh. Virgil squinted in the unrelenting sunlight. No wonder Logan’s house brownie wears sunglasses. He would need to buy a pair of his own, and soon.

Logan unlocked a nearby blue Honda Fit and they climbed in. Virgil observed how Logan’s dark, graceful hands did not linger on either the door handle or the metal seatbelt buckle.

“I can eat stuff cooked in ordinary pots,“ Virgil added as they pulled out of the parking lot. “But cast iron skillets, man…” He shuddered.

“An iron skillet would outright poison me.” Logan grimaced. “Even heavily refined steel is distasteful to cook in.”

That’s why he owns a copper kettle, Virgil realized. Probably all his cooking utensils are copper or aluminum.

“I was shoved into a wrought iron gate once at a Faire,” Virgil went on. “Burned like a bitch, and I only touched it for a few seconds. I haven’t really tested my sensitivities beyond that.”

“I recommend against it.” Logan answered Virgil’s raised eyebrow with a sharp look. “The enmity between iron and Fae is an ancient one. You won’t develop a tolerance.”

Something in the tone spoke of past experience to Virgil. Another little interesting tidbit about the man he’d moved in with.

His charged iPod and headphones lay nestled in his hoodie pocket, but for once, Virgil chose not to tune out the world. Instead he observed Logan’s long fingers on the faux-leather steering wheel, the flex of muscle in his forearms, the crease between his eyebrows as he navigated downtown Deland’s narrow Main Street.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Logan said after a long silence, as though weighing the words. Which of course made Virgil’s anxiety skyrocket.

“What fae abilities do you possess?”

Virgil’s mouth twisted; he’d been dreading that question.

His own hands, caressing bits of straw, color and softness bursting from the hollow shafts. Sewing needles and the dark, metallic scent of blood. Mocking words and cruel fae lips and under it all his power, flowing from his chest into waiting bodies…

Dolls. Abominations.

“I make flowers,” he answered at last.

Logan glanced at him and arched an eyebrow.

Virgil sighed and patted his pockets, finally plucking a loose thread from his hoodie sleeve when nothing else turned up. He laid the tiny string across his palm, and mentally pulled. Warmth blossomed in his chest, like unfolding flower petals, racing down his arm, rippling under his skin, seeping into the thread he held.

It quivered, and expanded, buds bubbling along its length before silently exploding into leaves, the end growing bulbous and green and peeling into delicate violet petals and a yellow center.

He stuck the newly created forget-me-not, stem barely as long as his pinky finger, behind his ear.

“Go on, you can say it,” he challenged, chancing a look at Logan, whose expression hadn’t changed. “Sixteen fucking years in Arcadia, and I end up with the most useless changeling power in existence.”

It was safer, disparaging his magic like it really was nothing but flower-making. Those Grimms in Ohio would never have helped me if they knew what I was, and why my master wanted me back.

The half-faery’s eyes were a mystery behind his glasses. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

But then they were pulling up to an ordinary suburban house and Logan was parking the car, and Virgil had a whole different, slightly more ordinary situation to fret over.

Interacting with people.

“Come,” Logan said, getting out. “Time to meet Nicodemus.”

Virgil dearly hoped ’Nicodemus’ wasn’t another brownie, or a pixie or a hobgoblin, or…

To Virgil’s vast relief, Nicodemus turned out to be a brown Labrador that barked joyously at Logan’s arrival and spent the next five minutes on its hind legs, eagerly licking the half-faery’s face.

Logan rubbed the dog’s head, heedless of the spit bath, and exchanged words and money with the gray-haired woman of the house. Virgil gathered that she often watched Logan’s dog when he was away. The two of them, dog bouncing between, carried a crate full of hairy blankets, some dishes, and several toys out to Logan’s car.

Virgil hung back in the doorway, hands stuffed in his pockets, hoping he wouldn’t be called over to socialize. He stiffened when woman gestured towards him, and Logan said something at length. Virgil shoved his hands deeper into his hoodie pockets, wondering what excuses Logan gave to people for his changeling houseguests over the years.

Nicodemus trotted over, eyeing Virgil with curious black eyes.

“Hey…boy.” Virgil gingerly held out a hand. The dog sniffed it, sneezed, and gave his fingers a few licks. (Virgil grimaced and wiped them on his hoodie).

“I was hoping he would like you.”

Virgil startled, having not heard Logan approach. “Is that…what the licking means?”

The half-faery’s mouth twitched in a tiny smile.

“Thank you again, Stephanie!” he called, waving as the woman went inside. “Nic, come!”

Nic leaped obediently into the car’s back seat and settled with his snout just above Virgil’s shoulder.

“I suppose it is a bit late to inquire whether you are amenable to sharing a living space with an animal,” Logan commented in an uncharacteristically wry voice.

Virgil shrugged, reaching back to pet Nic’s neck.

“Dogs are okay, I guess. I’ve never had a pet, so…I don’t know much about taking care of them or whatever.”

Logan waved a hand. “I would expect no such thing. Nic is my responsibility.”

“Um, speaking of responsibility.” Virgil rubbed at the back of his neck. “I was thinking I should probably start looking for a job? So I can, you know, help out with rent and stuff?”

“Why?”

There was no judgement in Logan’s tone; only curiosity.

“I dunno, I just don’t want to be a freeloader.” Virgil shrugged, his shoulders hunched. “The Youngstown Grimms are already paying for all my school stuff and honestly I feel kinda bad about that.”

“I wouldn’t.” Logan raised an eyebrow at Virgil shocked face. “Do you truly think that an organization run by changelings, some of whom can literally transform physical objects into other objects, would have issues obtaining something as mundane as money?”

Virgil’s mouth twisted and he touched the flower still stuck in his ear…the forget-me-not he’d grown from magic and a bit of loose thread. Maybe making random objects bloom wasn’t terribly useful…but sometimes he forgot that such power was still extraordinary from a normal perspective.

Knowing that didn’t make his insecurities go away.

“Look, I dunno what they told you about me, but I was on the road with a Renaissance Faire for nearly two years before De…” Virgil swallowed, unwilling to say even the made-up name aloud. “Before my faery master found me. We didn’t have a lot and we never stayed in one place for long, but it was a good life, you know? They were the closest people I’d had to a family on the outside. And we all worked hard; you had to, to keep the Faire running. Everyone earned their keep.”

Logan hummed, rubbing a finger absently on the steering wheel. “Do you fear letting others pay your way will give them too much control over your life?”

Virgil picked at a rip in his skinny jeans. Logan was not as oblivious as his stilted language would suggest.

“I…yeah. I guess?”

“I am financially solvent enough to support myself and anyone the Grimms send to me, for however long that individual needs to stay.” Logan shot Virgil a look, his stormy eyes softening slightly. “However, I will not be offended if you wish to obtain employment and ‘earn your keep’, as you put it.”

Virgil leaned his head against the window glass, his lungs tight with memories, with fears, with feeling like any joy he scratched out of the barren soil of this existence would always be one faery whim away from being crushed.

Again.

“It’s just, last week I had a life,” he admitted softly. “Now suddenly it’s gone, and I feel a little…lost, I guess.”

Logan drummed thoughtful fingers on the steering wheel.

“Where were you initially rescued?” he asked. “Not four days ago, but when you first left Arcadia?”

Virgil didn’t quite suppress a shudder at the word Arcadia.

“Somewhere in Pennsylvania, I think,” he answered lowly. “Some Grimms…not Youngstown; a different chapter…shut down an illegal trade between two minor Courts. My master was…”

He swallowed, unwilling to admit his faery master had been a fetch-dealer, that the operation those Grimms shut down that day had been a fetch trade. Trafficking in human dolls was the only Unseelie vice specifically forbidden by the Accords themselves. Faeries caught using them in their kidnappings earned an immediate price on their heads. And human thralls forced by said faeries to make those dolls…well.

The usually went mad.

The whole mess carried a well-deserved stigma.

“Let’s just say he was involved in a lot of shady Unseelie shit,” Virgil muttered, looking out the window again.

Logan’s fingers traced the wheel again, his gaze on the road but somehow also miles away.

“You escaped in the confusion?” he prompted.

Virgil shrugged. “Yeah. I hitchhiked to upstate New York and met old Betsy in a bar.” He smiled at the memory. “She introduced me to her Faire buddies and the rest was history.”

“And you were with them for two years?”

Virgil frowned.

“Yeah. What’s with the twenty questions?”

They’d reached the apartment lot; Logan turned off the car.

“Shelley and the Youngstown Grimms were wise to send you to me,” he said cryptically as they got out and opened the back hatch. It felt like the half-faery was changing the subject, though Virgil couldn’t say why.

“You know, before I left, Shelley told me that you asked for me.” Virgil narrowed his eyes. “When they told you my situation, they said you wanted me to come.”

Logan wore an unidentifiable expression as he hefted Nic’s crate from the back. Virgil moved to help. The shared burden made it easy for the half-faery to not meet Virgil’s gaze as they moved upstairs, Nic following placidly at their heels.

“I wanted you to come because I am in a unique position to keep you safe,” Logan allowed at last, adjusting his glasses with one hand. “Both because of my heritage, and because Florida is such a long distance from your previous life.”

Virgil liked to think he had an excellent trollshit detector, mostly because his Fae master had been, among other things, a master liar. Body language, tics, tone of voice. Everyone had tells, even stoic half-faeries with extraordinary control over their facial expressions.

Logan was not lying…but he was definitely fae-dancing around something.

“If we are able to keep you out of sight long enough,” Logan went on, “it is possible that he will give up looking. As much as faeries love the chase, a single human thrall is, for better or for worse, simply not worth their time in the end.”

Unless that thrall was a fetch-maker.

Virgil swallowed hard. Well, if Logan wasn’t going to share his secret, Virgil sure as hell wasn’t revealing his own.

“So you’re saying I’m not worth their time?” he quipped instead, attempting to lighten the mood as they reached the top of the stairs. “Now I’m not sure whether to be relieved or insulted.”

Logan cocked his head. “I…had meant the words to be comforting. Did they not come across as such?”

Virgil rolled his eyes.

“How are you that literal? I was kidding.”

“Oh.” Logan frowned, shifting the crate to adjust his glasses again. “My colleagues tell me I am, in their words, ‘spectacularly’ inept at detecting sarcasm.”

Virgil swallowed a smirk. No shit, Sherlock.

“You’re gonna have a hard time with me, then.”

“Well, surely with sufficient communication we will…” Logan trailed off, and narrowed his eyes. “Ah. That was another joke.”

“You’re learning.” Virgil made a finger gun with one hand, prompting an answering eye roll.

Logan fished out his keys and the two guided the crate into the apartment. Nic bounded down the hallway and into Logan’s room; a smiling, irate Logan on his heels, grumbling that he’d better stay off the bed.

For a moment, Virgil breathed in the pleasant scent of the apartment, and listened to the soft sounds of Remy snoring in his cabinet, and allowed something like hope to lighten his heart.

He missed Ohio, but…this really wasn’t so bad.

“Oh for goodness sakes, really Nic?” Logan’s irritated voice drifted into the living room, followed by the man himself, holding a mangled stuffed animal. “That dog, I swear. Every time I have to leave him in another’s care, he destroys at least one of his toys.”

He made to toss the toy in the garbage, but Virgil scurried forward to stop him.

“Hang on, let me see,” he murmured, taking the toy and turning it over in his hands. It was a stuffed lion, chubby and smiling, with a squeaker in its belly. Stuffing was poking out of several messy rips, and the head was dangling by a mere thread.

“Yeah, I can definitely fix this. Do you have needle and thread?”

Logan nodded and went back into his bedroom, which Virgil barely noticed as he pressed fluff back inside and located all the busted stitches with practiced fingers. Logan reappeared with a sewing kit.

Virgil settled on the couch with the toy.

For a time the world faded; there was only cotton, yielding under his fingers; ragged edges folded and hidden; slick metal needle parting cloth and perfect stitches pulled tight. The satisfaction of tying the last knot and examining the body, ready to breathe life into its flowery heart and flaccid limbs, hear its first cries…

Virgil pulled out of the memory with a gasp, hand closing reflexively around the repaired lion, making it squeak. Slowly his surroundings filtered back in, easing the panicky tightness in his chest: couch, counter, front door, Remy’s cabinet. He was safe and out of Arcadia, out of Arcadia, and Deceit does not know where I am.

Logan sat in the chair opposite the couch, eating a sandwich and watching Virgil. A plate piled with more sandwiches sat on the coffee table between them.

How did he have time to make all those? How…how long has he been watching me?

Virgil flexed his sore right hand, trying to look casual but borderline freaking out on the inside.

He could have seen everything, I was seconds away from bringing that stuffed animal to life because it’s been so long and I got caught up, he’s gonna know what my power really is…

“Um, I think I’m done,” he muttered, gripping the lion and making it squeak again. An answering bark from the back bedroom made Virgil startle.

“May I?” Logan asked, holding his hand out for the toy.

Virgil held his breath as Logan pulled at the stitching, tugged at the head, waiting for the half-faery to call out how weird he’d just acted. But Logan only nodded.

“Excellent. This is one of Nic’s favorites; I know he will appreciate having it back in one piece.”

He stood and flashed Virgil a half smile, one that made his pulse race.

“Eat, I made plenty,” Logan added, gesturing at the plate and then disappearing into his bedroom.

Virgil let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and ran shaking hands through his hair. The fading tightness in his lungs shifted into dull, stabbing pinpricks, making him hiss softly. It felt like thorns, choking his heart, brushing his ribcage with every movement.

The needle he still held in his fingers swelled and burst into flower: a single bunch of tiny purple blossoms framed by soft emerald leaves. Virgil bit his lip hard, tasting blood.

Lilac.

No, no, no, I had my power under control, I swore never again…he clenched his fists hard, crushing the delicate flower stalk, nails imprinting on his palms. Virgil focused on that pain, determined to push the dangerous feelings down, focused on his breathing, in for four, hold for seven, out for eight, come on, Virgil…

The stabbing ebbed and he drew a deep, unsteady breath.

I’m safe here.

I’m safe.

And I can’t ever tell Logan what I was.

Purple lilac: first emotions of love

#sanders sides fanfiction #ts fanfic #virgil sanders #ts virgil #fae #logan sanders #ts logan #sanders sides #mahoganyandteakwood

[inscrutable-shadow]

Hornet

For @flashfictionfridayofficial​, my second piece. This is Hollow Knight fanfiction (a 2D, hand-drawn metroidvania that is excellent in terms of writing and worldbuilding and I recommend everyone play) and is some serious spoilers for the game, so maybe skip if you care about the story! In italics are actual dialogue from the game.

Word Count: 774

Content Warnings: Major Hollow Knight Spoilers.

The Gendered Child dropped down gently from the opening in the roof, weeds crunching gently under her feet. This place was hers, now, she supposed. Every winding path, every monster, every hollow shell of her father's subjects, the full extent of what was now ruins. She kept her senses open for danger as she walked the halls, now devoid of anything but danger and the vestiges of civilization. If only he hadn't been a fool...

She ran her hands down the length of her needle to ground herself. It did her no good to dwell on the past- what was that? She heard the sounds of battle, a nail cutting down the monsters. Who had come all of the way down here? Who had survived all of the way down here?

There. Oh... it had returned. The second one. Perhaps... it could complete the work? No. It was without memory, as empty as the day it had been made. It was foolish. It would seek to wreak destruction again. (Destruction was already occurring.) She threw her needle out ahead of her and moved on into the depths.

It followed her. Why was it doing that? She moved faster and faster, the creature always a few steps behind. Finally she lay in wait for it. Did it remember? Did it think that it could complete what those before it could not?

Matching steel with it was exhilarating. It was not yet anywhere near her level, but she sensed potential. The way it evaded her, knew when to pause, the right moment to strike... It was certainly well crafted. (Too weak, little ghost... No shadow will haunt me... Only pity for your cursed kind...) She looked into its face, devoid of all expression except... confusion? It did not remember. Well. It would be seen what would come of knowledge.

She watched it as it delved further, deeper into the ruins. (It had seen beyond this land, gained a new strength.) What would it make of the sacrifice, of the truth behind this land? Of the first? She challenged it to learn. If it would seek her again, she would know it was ready.

When she next faced it in combat it had certainly improved. It was hardier, more competent. She had to use all of her skill to hold it at bay. Strike after strike, parry after parry, it tested her, until she was forced to concede. (From where does it draw this strength? Can it succeed? Is it strong enough?) It was much stronger than her, if not more skilled. If it continued to improve at this rate... She pushed hope away. She charged it with learning the truth about itself, about the first. (If it could do what he could not, perhaps something could be changed.)

As it left her presence she fingered the thread on the end of her needle. Perhaps one day she would no longer need to wield it. What would she do then? The ground shook beneath her. The Grave. It was collapsing. The ghost... She snatched it from the cave-in and left it, safe. She would wait for it where it began.

As it returned from the abyss, knowledge of its past shining in its eyes, she felt hope rise within her again. It could either prolong this long dark or face something much more terrible. (...It faced the void, and ascends unscathed... Could it unite such vast darkness?...)

She watched it, as it slew her mother.

She felt... she didn't know how she felt. It hurt, definitely, somewhere inside her. She couldn't place it, couldn't understand it. She was not hollow, like the ghost. She did feel. But she did not know what. It had to be done, yes, if there was any chance at a brighter (nay, a darker?) future. (...Mother... Forgive my inaction... but another path may be possible...) It would be worth it. It would be.

It did complete the task, the ghost. It was truly empty, pure. She saw no confusion, no knowledge in its eyes this time. It could break the seals. She waited. Would it?

The seals were broken. This was the end. What would it choose? (...Could it achieve that impossible thing? Should it?) She could not enter the temple. It would suck her life away... She watched it enter, waited. She could wait no longer. She threw herself into the fray. It must choose.

When she woke, only the ghost's shattered mask lay at her feet. The temple was gone. The task complete. She looked up into the rain, around at the weeds and ruins. What new world was this?

#flash fiction #flash fic friday #my writing #hollow knight #hk hornet #fanfic #coy writes

[morbid-n-macabre]

Fayetteville, Georgia-

40 year old Chris Benoit was a famous WWE wrestler and family annihilator. The "Canadian Crippler", as he was known in the wrestling world, murdered his wife, Nancy, their 7 year old son, Daniel, then committed suicide during the 3 day weekend of June 22nd through the 25th of 2007.

On Friday Nancy lost her life. She was killed in a second story room; her limbs had been bound, a cord wrapped around her throat, and she was strangled. There were bruises on her stomach and back where Chris had presumably pressed his knee into her, and at some point she suffered a blow to the head. When she was deceased, Nancy was covered with a towel and a Bible was place near her body. Toxicology later proved that Vicodin and Xanax were in her system, but sources claim that these were her everyday medications.

It's believed that someone during Saturday night little Daniel was murdered in his bed. It's thought that Chris drugged his son with Xanax ahead of time, then suffocated him; many believe that Chris used his famous signature wrestling move, the Crippler Crossface, to end his child's life. As with his mother, a Bible was discovered in very close proximity to Daniel's corpse.

Throughout this weekend Chris had been in contact with his close friend and fellow wrestler, Chavo Guerrero. Chris had missed a show, which was very much out of character for him; Chris explained that both Nancy and Daniel both had a nasty case of food poisoning and he may need to take them to the hospital.

On Sunday, Chavo and a a few other wrestlers received text messages from Chris's phone. These messages named the Benoit family's full street address, stated that the garage door was open, and the dogs were chained up in the back yard.

Since I try to be as factually correct as humanly possible, I'm not real sure as to who initially discovered the bodies. Most sources state that the police were called to conduct a wellness check, but others say that the Benoit's neighbor, Holly Schrepfer, was sent to the home to check on the dogs thereby stumbling upon the crime scene. Chris had passed away from apparent suicide just after he sent those texts to his buddies. He'd gone into his workout room, stacked on 240 pounds, and rigged the weight machine to hang himself; the wrestler's neck had been broken. The home computer's search history showed that someone had recently researched "the quickest and easiest way to break a neck".

As for Chris's motive, some think that Chris murdered Daniel because he suffered from "Fragile X Syndrome", but doctors say that the boy did not have this condition. It's said that Daniel had needle track marks on his arms at the time of his death, that Chris had deemed Daniel small for his age so he was treating the 7 year old with growth hormone injections. It's also said that Daniel had been having a hard time in school, and was being held back a grade; it must be mentioned that the boy's teachers say this is absolutely not true. As for Nancy, it's rumored that there had been some recent problems in the Benoit marriage. The relationship had been a passionate one; at one time the couple had separated and Nancy had filed for divorce, but according to friends those troubled times had seemed to be behind them. Furthermore, the shape of Chris's brain definitely needs mentioning. The man had been a superb wrestler, willing to perform stunts in which few others would dare attempt. Due to this, Chris's brain had been severely damaged; he'd suffered multiple untreated concussions, a broken neck in '01, and the steroid abuse certainly hadn't helped his condition. During autopsy the athlete had ten times the level of testosterone in his system, and his brain was comparable to that of an 85 year old Alzheimer's patient. Matter of fact, had this tragedy not occurred, doctors say that Chris would've had maybe 10 months left to live.

Those close to the wrestler say that Chris had been acting increasingly strange before that tragic weekend. He'd been quoting scripture and seen with a rosary around his neck. The wrestler had not been a religious man, yet Bibles were found next to all 3 corpse; a note which read, "I'm preparing to leave this Earth" was discovered inside one Bible. He'd been having strange nightmares, and kept a diary in which he wrote to his recently deceased best friend, Eddie Guerrero. Chris had become paranoid, thought people were following him, he wouldn't even take his trash out to the curb for fear that someone would rifle through it. Chris wouldn't allow his son to play in the yard, he had began taking detours on his way home, and was adamant that Nancy not stay out late after dark. The man had been terrified that someone was watching him, planning something sinister against him.

For many, these are little signs that all was not well in Chris's mind; for others, it's proof that he truly had been in trouble. Maybe someone really had been following him, meant to do him harm. Some believe that Chris and his family were murdered, and yes it does sound preposterous, but there is some evidence which points towards it.

The most popular theory is that fellow wrestler Kevin Sullivan murdered the family, and he did have some pretty serious motive! Back in the day Kevin and Chris were very close friends who played adversaries in the ring; during this time, Kevin and Nancy had been married. You know how the wrestlers have their storylines? Well, the Chris/Kevin story eventually lead to Nancy, who played a character known simply as "Woman" in the wrestling industry, had been having an affair with Chris. Kevin, Nancy's then husband, was not only cool with this fantasy, but he helped to write the story! In order to make it more realistic, Nancy and Chris were seen hanging out alone, they were often purposely discovered out in public on romantic dates, etc. Well, eventually this pretend affair turned into the real deal; the pair fell in love. Nancy divorced Kevin and married Chris, understandably creating a rift between the three. Kevin always blamed his former friend for the disillusion of his marriage. So, knowing this, there are some things which do not sit right.

First, and this is chalked up to coincidence, but at 12:01 am on Sunday morning, before anyone was aware of the murders, Nancy's death was announced on a wiki page. This has been explained away as a silly fan prank, but it's still odd. More worrisome are the statements from Chavo, which have made many people question the whole thing. We've already discussed that he had been in contact with Chris throughout the weekend. He's stated that during an early weekend call with Chris, someone came to the door; Chavo listened to what he would later describe as a scuffle, then the call disconnected. A few hours later Chris contacted his good buddy to say that all was well, and he ended the conversation with "I love you Chavo". This unnerved Chavo; he said that Chris sounded tired, and he was concerned for his friend. Again, Chavo and Chris had been very close, they hung out all the time. One of Chris's final texts to Chavo read, "My physical address is 130 Green Meadow Lane, Fayetteville Georgia. 30215". Why would Chris send his best buddy his address when Chavo knew exactly where he lived? Though I can not confirm this, it is reported that some of these texts were sent after Chris was already dead. Another bothersome fact, there were empty beer cans found near Chris's corpse, but autopsy concluded that the wrestler had not been drinking. So, who drank all of that beer? And do you remember the neighbor lady, Holly Schrepfer? She claims to have seen another wrestler near the Benoit home during this weekend, a wrestler who had absolutely no reason to be there. If all of this weren't enough, these murders took place on the 10th anniversary of Kevin and Nancy's divorce!

Now I'm not giving my opinion on this case, just telling you what I found during my research. That said, one thing is for sure: it doesn't appear that police conducted a thorough investigation of the case. It was automatically deemed a family annihilator situation, and that was that; Nancy's family claims that the police had left behind suitcases of steroids; these definitely should've been seized during the a search of the home. If they missed illegal substances, what else didn't they pick up on?

http://www.ign.com/boards/threads/24-reasons-that-will-prove-that-chris-benoit-is-innocent.453787849/

Out of this entire case, one fact chilled me to the bone when researching this case. You'll find very little mention of it, but young Daniel had a large kitchen knife tucked under his pillow at the time of his death. Why would a 7 year old boy be sleeping with a knife? Was he afraid, and if he was, of who? What did that child know, what had he witnessed during this weekend of hell? Had he been aware of his mama's murder, was he aware that he was next?

*There's much, much more to this, I could be here writing for a few more days but I wanna go ahead and post this. If you'd like to jump down this vast rabbit hole with me, here's a link to get you started. You gotta check the facts with links like these, but this one will get you started. Let me know what you think!

#true crime #triple murder #homicide #crime story #wrestler #wwf #wcw #wwe #wwe smackdown #women of wwe #Chris Benoit #family anhialator

[vcsecretgifts]

Gift for amelthebravennian

From: @cygnaut 

To: @amelthebravennian

Mekare was deep in the forest on the night of a quarter moon when he returned to her. 

The trees outside her sister’s home were unfamiliar but comforting in their primitive vastness. She felt held inside of them, protected by the straight trunks and the quiet stillness of the space beneath their canopy. It was so peaceful here. Every step was hushed by the carpet of needles coating the ground. The only noise was the soft rustling of ferns and the occasional wild call of an owl. 

She sat with her back against the trunk an ancient tree that was thousands of years younger than she was. Mekare had already walked the jungles of the new world for centuries before this tree had fallen as a seed from its mother. It was a child compared to her lifetime and to the great unfolding of their family. 

The family. That was still new to her, as these tall trees were new. In the years since she and Maharet had been separated, the branches of their family had grown and spread for over two hundred generations. Mekare had seen the great representation of it, the multitude of twisting black vines and the endless names painted on Maharet’s walls, but she did not truly comprehend what it meant. 

It had been cloudy earlier, but now the sky was clear and stars peeked out from openings in the canopy. She might find a clearing later and look at the sky. She wanted to look for the Seven Sisters, but she was unsure when they would rise or if they would even be visible at all here. She had traveled so far that the night sky was out of joint. 

She looked down at her hands where they rested on her thighs, white as stone against the dark fabric of her dress, her fingernails stained with earth. Locks of her hair hung over her shoulders, pine needles caught in the waves. Where the dappled moonlight touched it, her hair glowed red in the dark. 

In the emptiness he floated, knowing only desire and darkness, blood and death. Sometimes he surfaced to fever visions of the world, snatched images of glowing lights and strange music, people and machines. Most often he saw scenes of violence and death, glimpses of the hunt, of stalking and chasing and killing. These were sweet moments and yet he was overwhelmed by the confusion and excitement, the pounding of hearts and the taste of salt and copper. Always he turned away, turned back to the darkness and the silence of the void. 

Now, rising from the darkness, he saw trees, forest, stars. There was something familiar here, although he did not know this place. White hands, red hair, red like… like the women, the pair of them, twins, witches. Yes! The phrase bubbled up inside of him, words he knew he’d spoken before, although he did not remember when.

The silence was as a held breath and into it came a voice, familiar and strange: “You are fools to bear this, witches.”

The words didn’t surprise Mekare. She could tell they hadn’t been spoken out loud. They were only an empty echo in her head without strong feeling or will attached to them. Perhaps it was a wisp of thought overheard from the others. She could sense their minds buzzing in the distance, inside the great house of her sister. She knew that Maharet had told them the whole sordid tale just as Mekare had shared pieces of it in projected images. 

“The strong one” Maharet used to call her. Mekare, the strong one, the brave twin. Mekare who spoke truth when it might have been better to be silent. She had learned the dangers of truth when they were taken to the court of Kemet. How terrible the savage punishment dealt by the foreign Queen and her consort. But now the Queen of the Damned was dead and Mekare reigned in her place. Not that she had wanted to rule; she had only wanted revenge. 

She had no more truth to share now except for the sad tragedy of her own history. 

After they had been separated, Mekare had floated in darkness inside of the coffin for what felt like years. She had been too tired to lift her hands and break out of the stone box. Tired despite the thirst that raged in her. It was the fierce thirst of Amel transformed into flesh. She had taken some comfort in that. It was as if Amel, the braggart spirit. was still with her in some way, even if all of her good, familiar spirits were lost to her.

At the end of uncountable nights, her journey across the waters had ended. There had been a scraping sound as the coffin dragged over something and Mekare had been thrown end-over-end as the box flipped, churning and crashing in the waves. The great stone coffin had been dashed open and water rushed in. Mekare had been thrown flailing into shallow waters and found herself on an unfamiliar shore. 

She had walked for a very long time, searching for anything she recognized that might suggest a way home. But she was lost beyond finding. 

Every night she walked a bit farther. Her thirst was great as there were no people along these shores and all she had to eat were the animals of the forests. Her hunger drove her onward in search of sustenance each night until the sun drove her back down into the earth. 

Amel swam through the images, memories of nights spent as an empty walking husk in search of blood. Had he seen these before? Had he lived this? 

Beyond the shoreline there had been jungles full of strange trees and stranger creatures. She came across humans again. Inland, there were settlements all along the rivers that wound through the jungle, some humble and others vast, but the thoughts of the people felt strange to her and their emotions confusing. She had been alone for too long and the blood of Amel had been working in her, transforming her mind into an alien thing as it did her body. She took a victim if any unfortunate person crossed her path, but otherwise she avoided humans and any signs of their habitation. 

Gradually, over many, many nights, the ground became hilly and then rocky and then mountainous. As the mountains grew taller and the air thinner, her pace slowed. She spent many nights on the high peaks where she could watch the clouds drifting below and feel safe and separate from the world. 

Eventually, Mekare stopped. She made no conscious choice about it; one night instead of walking she simply stayed, and the next night, and the next. Her resting place was a lonely mountain that had deep caves winding through its heart, secret places where she found refuge if not comfort. 

By this time, Mekare had learned that she could send out words with her mind and make herself understood in that manner. But the only messages she sent were warnings to drive away anyone who came too close to her lair: waves of foreboding, fear, and awe that kept the local people at a distance. The herders who passed nearby soon learned to avoid her mountain and spread the word among the farmers who cultivated the terraced plots on the fertile hills below.

She hadn’t meant to become a myth. She had wanted to be left alone. Yet the people who lived below spoke of the peak where she dwelled in hushed tones. They thought of it as a sacred site, too holy to be walked upon, and warned their children to avoid the grassy slopes at its feet. They said that the spirit that lived there watched over the nearby people, but its protection came with a harsh toll. The spirit might come down from the hills without warning to take a sacrifice, striking among them like lightning in the dark, sudden and terrible. 

The Watchful Mountain they had called her. Mothers warned children to be quiet and respectful when they walked in the sight of the mountain least they provoked its wrath and brought down its merciless retribution. 

So the people kept their distance, and Mekare stayed. The nights blended into one another and she did not track the years that passed. 

Once, armed men came to the mountain during the day, invaders in shining armor with weapons that sent death from a distance. When Mekare awoke, she felt their presence camping on the hills like a wound in her side. That night, she fell upon them and every whispered warning about the mountain and its dangers had been proven true. The dead had been left to rot where they lay as none of the nearby villagers dared to approach even to loot the bodies.

The Queen of the Damned was what they had called her now. It had been in the heads of the others when she came to wreak her vengeance that was six thousand years in the making. It wasn’t a title that Mekare wanted. She had never sought to be the mother of the orphaned children of Amel. She wasn’t a maternal person or a mentor figure, that was Maharet. Mekare had hidden when any blood drinker strayed too closely to her refuge in the mountain. She had sent out her warnings and always they had fled from her, not wanting to risk provoking the powerful anger that simmered there.

The anger was familiar, yes, this he remembered, the burning strength of it, as sharp and sweet as the thirst for blood. 

“Tell the Queen that if she does you any harm I will hurl at her every object she has ever desired, every jewel, wine cup, looking glass, comb, or other such item that she ever so much as asked for, or imagined, or remembered, or wished for!”

The second time she heard him, the words were so clear and distinct that she jumped up in surprise. She turned in a circle, but there was no sign of anyone hiding in the trees. She continued turning, searching for the source of the voice, but in her heart she knew who had spoken. But it was impossible. Amel has the flesh. But Amel is no more.

She searched the forest, but of course there was nothing. If Amel still lived, she would not find him walking as a man or floating as a great spirit spread across the sky. If he lived, he was inside of her now.

She was so disturbed that she went inside and spent the remainder of the evening with her sister and the others who dwelled in her house. Previously, Mekare had found their presence irritating, they were so noisy and their speech so strange, but now it was a comfort to hear them even if she couldn’t understand their words.

Later, as the sun rose, Mekare lay beside Maharet on the stone slab in her underground crypt and it was just as they had lain together in times past, two children sharing a single sleeping pelt, red hair entwined, two bodies with one soul.  

He came to the surface more often now, not at random as he had before, but with a purpose, seeking for red hair and green eyes, that familiar face, she who he had loved and defended. 

Mekare liked to wander the deep tunnels that sank down into the earth beneath her sister’s house.

There were many winding passageways to explore, corridors lined with comfortable rooms like animal burrows tucked into the earth. The furnishings were simple in these underground rooms, wooden tables low to the ground and thick rugs and cushions piled on the ground. The walls were decorated with murals, sometimes familiar designs like those painted on the tents of their tribe, and other times strange patterns that Mekare had never seen before. 

Tonight, she turned a corner and thought for a moment that she saw her sister at the end of a long hall. Mekare took a step toward her and then realized her mistake. It was a tall mirror in a heavy wooden frame, a mirror so highly polished and faultless that it was like looking through a doorway rather than at a reflection. 

Mekare walked towards it, fascinated by her own appearance, how like and yet unlike Maharet she looked. Like her sister, Mekare’s skin had the same unnatural sheen as the inside of an oyster shell and her hair had the same fiery red as the last moments of sunset, but Mekare’s eyes were different. 

Her sister wore the stolen eyes of her victims, dull with pain and slowly dying, but Mekare still had the eyes they had been born with, green eyes that shimmered like the iridescent feathers of a bird. As she walked toward the mirror, she saw flecks of gold and veins of amber in the green field of her eyes. Circling the dark hollow of her pupils was a ring of copper. 

Had her eyes always been so beautiful? Or had the Blood made them so? She could no longer remember. The only reflection of herself that Mekare had ever known was her own sister until they were abducted to Kemet. Akasha and Enkil had mirrors of polished bronze in their great palace, but none were as perfect or as large as this one.

Green eyes, red hair. Her eyes, her hair. So familiar, so comforting to look into them.  Green as–green like—like his own eyes. Red like his own hair. As they had made him, a creature of fear and awe.

“It is I!” the voice crowed, so loud Mekare clapped her hands over her ears, but it was not a physical voice and it could not be silenced. It was the blood inside her crying out as a boastful spirit had once called out in the dark. 

“I, Amel the Great! Amel the Powerful! Many have sought my favor but few received it. Only my most beloved, my favorites, my witches.”

Mekare wanted to ask if he remembered her, but she could not. She could only stare at her own wide eyes as a film of red covered them and tears began to run down her cheeks. 

“Do not cry, witch!” The voice wavered as if it felt her distress. “Amel the Invincible will avenge you! Amel, the most powerful of all spirits knows what is in your heart and fulfills your desires! Already I have bedeviled the Queen’s servant, the one who desecrated you. I have harassed him with strong winds and thrown objects! Many times has he wept and begged for relief from Amel the Terrible, the one who pierces! Even the King and Queen themselves came to demand my silence, but Amel the Great obeys no living authority. So terrible was my vengeance and so pathetic their whimpering cries. Witch, why do you weep? Are you not grateful for my protection?

“Mekare, beloved among witches, didn’t I obey you as you bid me to? Didn’t I wait for the moment as you asked? You said—you promised, all men will know of my power! When the time is right, when—” 

She wept for it was true. He had obeyed her and only done what she had asked in her heart. 

“Why do you weep, woman?” His words became scattered and trailed in confusion as his voice grew weaker. It was as if he was already losing coherence and fading back into the blood. “I will help you, Amel the–Amel who–I am the one who… I, Amel… do you see them? The towers…. there, on the horizon? How tall they are, but—why are they burning…?”

With this last cryptic comment, the voice faded entirely and she was left alone. But not truly alone, no, she would never be alone again. She would have her sister beside her and the spirit of Amel within. Always. 

#2019 VC Secret Santa #VC #Vampire Chronicles #submission #cygnaut #amelthebravennian

[goodeye-cyborg]

The Sigma angst nobody asked for under the cut!

    There were many parts of solitary that he hated. It was lonely, for starters. Not that he wanted to talk to his fellow patients, nor could he. Keeping focus like that was rather difficult at time and he found his mind wandering miles away from the conversation. It was rude, and he really did hate to be rude. Before the incident and his incarceration here, he had been polite and composed. He’d been well respected and now… Well, now nobody would call him any of those things. 

    The one thing he hated more than the loneliness was the silence. The silence allowed the melody to settle over him, to echo around the walls of his mind. The whispers that accompanied the melody came too. They were persistent and violent, and urged him only further away from decency. Always he told them no. Always he begged for silence. Silence was too merciful though, he’d flown too close to the sun on wings of pride and determination and this was his torment. A constant refrain of his own failures accompanied by only his darkest thoughts. He wished that whisper was not his own voice, yet it was. Like the Fates, it sang at the back of his mind, harmonizing with the melody he had once desperately longed to hear. An overwhelming orchestra he could never silence. It would grow unbearably loud at times. He would clap his hands over his ears and scream until he thought his throat might bleed. It didn’t help. The song played on. 

    Like the band playing still as the Titanic sank into the sea. 

    Above all else though, he hated the dark. The dark played tricks. He would lie on his back and wonder when the pitch blackness above him would swallow him whole. When gravity would completely relent its hold on him and return him to the stars. That was his home now, wasn’t it? Where he truly belonged. Among the stars and the melody. Drifting useless and cold out in the abyss. Would the universe even want him back? He wondered if it regretted the stardust spent on him. He would return some day, but between now and then would be painfully long. 

      Was there another home to long for? He wasn’t sure. There was no reason for his loved ones to think he was alive. The incident on the space station had been bad. Even in the plainest of layman’s terms it had been catastrophic. Besides that, how long had he been here? He’d been disappeared and now there was nowhere for him to go. There was nothing for him to hope for. This was the only place he belonged. He often found himself wondering if they mourned for him. It was a path he didn’t dare go down. 

       His hands clenched and released again and again. 

       Home. Home was a dream. Unreachable to him. 

       He was a failed experiment and failed experiments got discarded.

       Perhaps once he was gone they would take him apart and marvel at how he’d even survived. Perhaps in being disassembled he could still be of use. 

      Perhaps. 

      Everything was just perhaps. 

      His mind wandered to what day it was. It felt like a Wednesday. It didn’t matter, it was all dark. It was dark and he was never going to leave. The darkness was his new home. Within it, he had nothing but his own mind to keep him company. He had long since lost track of the days. They had once been measured the same as anyone else. Now though, now there was nothing. The occasional comings and goings of the orderlies were his only indication that it was a new day. They’d come in, twitchy and cautious. 

    “Subject Sigma, place your hands on your head please.” They always said. Their hands always rested on the weaponry they’d been allotted for dealing with him. As if something as primitive as a stun baton would be enough to stop him if he truly wanted to hurt them. He would always do as they said and often tried to make conversation. They never reciprocated. He didn’t blame them. He was dangerous. He was the worst kind of monster, they kind that didn’t even know the full extent of his capabilities. 

    He hadn’t meant to. 

    His eyes squeezed shut against the darkness around him.

    God he really hadn’t meant to!

    The orderly’s shattered ribs poked out of their flesh like a shark’s teeth. The sound that left their throat as gravity crushed every bone in their chest was somewhere between a scream and a wheeze. They’d collapsed to the ground, dead before they’d begun to fall. 

    It took a moment before anyone realized what had happened. 

    It was a mistake!

    He didn’t mean to!

    He would never! Tears streamed from his eyes as he tried to urge his legs forward. It wasn’t real. Right? It couldn’t be real. 

    Then someone started screaming. His eyes left the mangled mess that was once a human. The patient who had been standing beside them shook violently. Their mouth hung open in a wordless shriek.

    He hadn’t meant to do it. He hadn’t! He would never. That’s all he could say. Again and again. They restrained him with practiced ease. Apologies flowed like a river, tumbling clumsily from his lips. He didn’t even know what he’d done. How to make sure it never happened again. He didn’t know! 

    Later. Days, weeks, hours, he didn’t know. Time had passed. Someone had come to him, heavily armed and armored. His dazed eyes fell on them. He’d spent so much time crying and couldn’t possibly say what he was crying about. The murder? The loss of himself? The idea of dying alone in the dark? Perhaps it had been all three. They looked like a medieval knight standing before him. A needle was jabbed unceremoniously into his neck. When he woke, he was free of his straight jacket.

    He didn’t know how much time had passed since then. It had to have been at least a week. Sigma pulled his knees to his chest and curled his arms around them. He just wanted to leave. There was no point in being here. He wasn’t going to get better. He just wasn’t. The least they could do was let him leave. He would do the decent thing, of course. He wouldn’t hurt anyone else. Never again. He swore that to himself. He would never hurt another person with the powers he’d been cursed with. 

    A deep breath. Maybe he still could do something good. Another deep breath. The pounding of his pulse beat in time with the melody. Should he write something? A warning? An apology? Who would even read it? No. No it was best to do this quietly. Not a word. Nobody cared. He was already dead, right? He pulled one hand away and pressed his palm to his temple.

    He only needed to will it, right? Only needed to focus. Just for a moment. His fingers trembled. Just do it. Its the easiest thing in the world. His jaw clenched. What awaited him after? Bliss? Torment? Mere silence? He prayed for the silence. The whispers urged him on as the melody grew more frantic. 

    “Come on…. Come on.” He growled to himself. Urging his powers to work, begging them to let him do this. Just this one thing. Let him return what he’d misused to the universe. Let him atone. Just a second and it would be over. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to ignore the hot tears on his cheeks. The sensation of it grounded him for a second. Just long enough to truly realize the vastness of the unknown which laid before him. 

    Fear welled up inside him and choked him. His hand fell away from his head and laid limply at his side. The melody of the abyss always called and yet he could never answer. Death would have offered the quiet he craved. Would have silenced the voice. His mind would have spattered like an inkblot and never again would he need to worry that it had been lost. The frustration that only came from wanting to die and not being able to forced a sob from his throat. It was a course, near feral, sound. He hardly recognized it as his own voice. 

    More days would pass. Most were uneventful. His mind would wander, would tell him that he’d missed his chance. That he should have put himself out of everyone else’s misery when he had the chance. He would grit his teeth and tell himself no. He had made the right choice.

   He thought to compose the melody. He tried, and, like so many other things he'd once held dear, he had forgotten how to notate the music. He tried to focus. Tried for days to recall the way notes looked. The graceful way they sloped along the bars. Each measure calculated and mathematically perfect. He could remember a shade of them. Like the memory of a drunken night. It was fuzzy around the edges. The harder he tried, the further the memories got from him. The melody would only ever live within his own mind. It made his heart ache to realize that nobody else would ever hear it.

    Some days, he would be taken to another room. There would be bright lights and leather straps. They scanned his brain and injected him with god only knows what, all while he was restrained in the only straight jacket that would fit him. Sometimes what they gave him hurt. Other times, what they did to him hurt. Until now, he had thought that electroshock was supposed to help, but all it did was hurt. Every time he went for that particular treatment, something would lift off the ground and the doctor would write that down. That was its purpose. They weren’t helping. They were trying to find a way to use him. The worst part was that there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

    He hated this turn of events. Hated the way they talked about him like he couldn’t understand them. His mind had been dulled by the sheer volume of drugs pumped into him at any given moment. That didn't make him any less of a scientist. They kept him docile and quiet, kept him from remembering much. How he had ever wanted to leave solitary was beyond him. Of course they were doing this to him. These sorts of places had always been used for experiments that could only ever be called morally abhorrent. Used for the advancement of a science that hadn’t changed since its inception. He didn’t speak. Why should anyone listen? He couldn’t remember his own name. He was simply, Subject Sigma.

    Eventually they were testing him every day. Restful sleep was a thing of the past. Time became even more of a blurr. It was divided by when he was hurting and when the pain ebbed away. When the drugs kicked in and when they waned away.

    Every day he lost a little more of who he was. 

    Subject Sigma. 

    His name. His only name. 

    He wasn’t a person any more. He was merely an experiment. 

    No longer failed. Now ongoing. 

    Perhaps he could be himself again. 

    It wasn’t likely. He wanted to leave. He wanted to go home. To space to- where was he from again? 

    The whispers grew louder by the day. They begged to be released. 

    Some day they would be. Some day. 

    He laid back, his hands behind his head. He wondered why the blackness above him wasn't littered with stars. Why he was being kept from returning to them. Perhaps returning to the melody would silence it.

            Not yet. He couldn't go back quite yet. 

#sigma #hey this is kinda dark #just a heads up #goodeye writes