#and. chrome. with admittedly less open. but it’s chrome so

[readingwriter92]

This whole weekend has been me having tons of work to do but not wanting to do any of it. So instead I’ve been steadily spending like. Ten/twenty mins working on each thing.

This however results in me having about a gazillion different things open all at once.

I have had about 9 different apps running all at once. Because that’s a good idea and I’m lucky I’m not longer using my old computer.

[mapis-putellas]

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒎𝒑𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝑳𝒆𝒂𝒈𝒖𝒆 // 𝑨.𝑷𝒖𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒔

Last one from me for a while folks. Take care of yourselves ❤️

Alexia doesn’t say a single word on the coach journey back to the hotel. She stares blankly out of the window, her jaw clenched. She hasn’t cried yet. In fact, she hadn’t shown any emotion at all. Not anger. Frustration. Nothing. She’d hugged her teammates when they’d come to her. She’d joined in with the congratulatory applause as Arsenal passed go collect their first place medals. But she hadn’t let herself feel. Hadn’t let herself break.

You know Alexia never did well with losing. If it wasn’t first place; if she didn’t win, whatever work she’d put in wasn’t good enough. And she’d put in a lot of work. The whole team had. Months of months of preparation had gone in to training for champions league, and all of you had admittedly gone in with the expectation of winning.

Maybe that’s why the harsh reality of second place had crushed you all so hard. Because Arsenal had been the underdogs. They weren’t supposed to win. But they had. And you were happy for them, really. To win for the first time in eighteen years was a feat worthwhile. But of course you were disappointed too. A little frustrated, as well. But it was all slowly fading into acceptance. You didn’t win this time, but there was always a next time.

Your arm rests over her leg, your hand resting against the inside of her thigh. Your thumb traces soft circles against the material of her sweatpants, but she doesn’t respond to your touch. You haven’t tried talking to her yet. There was no point, because she wouldn’t hear you. Wouldn’t acknowledge you. But you keep up with the gentle ministrations against her leg until the coach pulls in to the hotels parking lot anyway, just to let her know you were there.

It was almost silent as everyone grabs their things with the exception of soft sniffles and quiet shuffles of feet, and you keep your gaze firmly ahead of you as you lead Alexia out of the bus with a hand at the small of her back. Outside, the air feels a lot less suffocating, and you breathe a quiet sigh of relief as you follow the rest of the team into the hotel.

Room keys were given out briskly, and soon you were in your shared room with Alexia, sat perched on the end of the bed as you watch her rummage through her suitcase for her wash things and pyjamas. Once she has them, she makes her way through to the bathroom without a word, the door closing quietly behind her. She’d already showered at the stadium, so you knew this one wasn’t the case of getting clean. It was to let herself break without any eyes on her. Without your eyes on her.

The fact that after so many years together she still feels the need to hide when she cries all butt breaks you. This isn’t how it should be. She was your girlfriend. She should feel safe to cry in front of you. To break, to allow herself comfort…right?

You hear the shower turn on just as you stand to get your night things out too, and after just a moments hesitation, you abandon your partly open suitcase on the bed and make your way over to the bathroom door. Your hand hesitates on the handle for a second before you push down, the door opening with a quiet creak as you peek inside.

The shower was one of those oversized luxury ones designed to impress hotel guests, all glass and chrome with multiple showerheads and enough space for at least four people. You could see alexia’s silhouette behind the frosted glass, perfectly motionless as water cascaded over her shoulders and down her body.

She doesn’t seem to take note of your presence yet, and you take that as your sign to strip off too, slipping into the shower behind her. Without a word, you press yourself against her back, your chest molding perfectly against her shoulder blades, your arms wrapping around her waist from behind.

She goes rigid beneath your touch for just a second before leaning back against you, her trembling hands coming up to clutch your arms as they press against her stomach. You press your lips against her wet shoulder in a soft kiss, and you could feel more than hear the way her breath hitches as she tries futilely to hold herself together.

You release your hold on her, your hands coming to rest on either side of her waist to turn her around to face you. She doesn’t make eye contact with you until you gently tuck your fingers beneath her chin, guiding her face upwards. You notice then that her bottom lip was wobbling dangerously, her eyes shiny and full of unshed tears. Her hair was plastered to her face, and you push the saturated strands away with the tips of your fingers before cupping her cheeks. A single tear falls then, dripping down her cheek and merging with the shower water, and you feel your own throat tighten as you lean up on your tiptoes to press a tender kiss to her forehead.

She leans into your touch with a quiet whimper, and you slide your hand round to cup the back of her head, coaxing it to settle against the crook of your neck.

“It’s okay,” you whisper as her arms wrap tightly around your waist. “Just let go, baby. I’ve got you.”

“No.” She chokes out, shaking her head.

“Yes, baby. Please.”

Alexia’s breath hitches before a choked sob escapes her lips. And then another. And another, until she was sobbing softly against your shoulder. You could barely hear her over the water hitting the tiled floor, but you could feel the way her body jolts against your own, harsh breaths slipping from her lips and hitting your skin. You nuzzle your nose into her shoulder as you graze thr pad of your thumb over her scalp, your other hand pressed against the small of her back holding her to you.

“There we go,” you murmur, closing your eyes. “Good girl. Just let yourself feel. No one can see. I’ve got you.”

One of alexia’s trembling hands rises grasp the hair at the nape of your neck, clinging tightly as a loud, guttural sob escapes her lips. It was raw, jarring, unlike nothing you’ve ever heard escape her lips before. You tighten your hold around her further, if that was even possible, before deciding it would be best to get you both out of thr shower so you could hold her properly.

You reach over and turn off the water, and alexia’s sobs become more clear now that the sound of the water no longer drowned them out. She seemed too upset to realise or be self conscious about it for which you were thankful, and it allows you to guide her out of the shower and bundle you both up in one large towel. You then sit, right there on the closed toilet seat and pull her onto your lap, grabbing one end of the towel in each hand and wrapping your arms around alexia, effectively holding her to you and securing the towel around her as well.

Her bare frame was flush against your own, skin slightly damp and warm. She trembles against you, her sobs just as intense as before, though you could hear now as she tries to stifle them.

“I failed.” She chokes out, her hands coming up to cover her face as she sits up in your lap.

“No,” you murmur. “You absolutely did not fail.”

She shakes her head. “I-I did. I-“

“No. Listen to me,” you interrupt,, gently pulling her hands away from her face so she has to look at you. “You are the most incredible player I’ve ever seen. You’ve won more trophies than most people can dream of. You’ve inspired millions of girls around the world to pick up a football. You’ve changed the sport forever.”

She shook her head, tears still streaming down her cheeks. “But not tonight. Tonight I was not good enough.”

“Tonight you were human,” you correct softly. “Football is a team sport, Alexia. You can’t win or lose matches by yourself, no matter how much you try to take responsibility for everything.”

“But I’m the captain,” she protests weakly. “Everyone looks to me. When we lose, it’s because I didn’t do enough to make us win.”

“That’s not how it works, and you know it,” you said, cupping her face in your hands and forcing her to maintain eye contact. “You’re the captain, yes. But you’re also just one person. One person who has given everything she has to this team, to this sport, to everyone who depends on her.”

Alexia sniffles, her hands coming up to take hold of your wrists as she leans into your touch.

“You’re incredible,” you murmur. “Today didn’t go how you want, and that sucks, but there’s nothing we can do to change it. Next time, we’ll try harder. Be better. But it’s we, alexia. Us. As a team. You don’t have to do it alone. You don’t have to take the blame.”

“But-“

“Mhh mh. No.” You shake your head. “We’re a team. All of us. We win together. We lose together. That’s it. No one single handedly takes the blame.”

She nods. You knew full well alexia didn’t believe you, but you could tell she has no more energy to fight you on the matter, and right now, you’d take what you could get.

“Okay.” She whispers, pressing a kiss to your palm. You brush your thumbs over her cheeks to get rid of the residue of tears before leaning in and pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead.

“Okay,” you murmur as you pull away. “Let’s go put our pyjamas on, and then we’ll snuggle up with a movie and order room service.”

Alexia nods. “Your shirt?” She asks, allowing you to coax her to her feet before securing the towel properly around her, grabbing another for yourself.

“Yeah baby, you can wear my shirt.” You agree.

**

I wrote this yesterday, and thought you guys may like one last update. I hope you enjoyed. Thanks for all the love on here, and maybe I’ll see you guys soon <3

[pheedraws]

Virtù e Fortuna

Pairing: Arthur Jenkins x Female V (Vic. Deckard)

Word Count: 3.3k

Summary: On V’s list of “Ways I Do Not Like to Spend My Friday Nights”, rubbing elbows with Night City’s elite at stuffy Arasaka parties would definitely take the top spot. That is, of course, until someone changes her mind... 

Warnings: Canon-typical language, use of alcohol, suggestive themes but nothing explicit (Rating- M)

A/N: I’m trying to get back into writing a little more, so I figured I’d try my hand at some of the prompts created for the #MoxWrites2077 challenge! Specifically in this case: Day 3 - First Meetings. Thank you for hosting such an encouraging, supportive event! I’ve honestly never felt so inspired. 

Charter Hill, 2071 

On V’s list of “Ways I Do Not Like to Spend My Friday Nights”, rubbing elbows with Night City’s elite at stuffy Arasaka parties would definitely take the top spot. 

Breathe. Relax. It's just a party, not a firing squad. 

Though admittedly, if faced with the choice, V wasn't confident she could wholeheartedly say she'd prefer the former to the latter. 

Arasaka spared no expense when it came to parties, and tonight was certainly no exception. The uppermost floor of the corporate hotel had been entirely transformed, staff from all departments mingling in the grand function room. The suite stretched out onto the balcony where the deep aquamarine ripples of the pool shimmered invitingly, glass and chrome furniture glittering in the light of the setting sun.

Had said party not been full of corporate sharks waiting to strike at the first scent of blood, V may have even described it as beautiful.

Not for the first time that evening, V surreptitiously adjusted the plunging neckline of her dress, silently resenting herself for choosing one that left her lacking on the brassiere front. For the most part, she had been lucky when it came to avoiding these functions, her role within Special Operations landing her in combat more often than it did black-tie events, but her luck had seemed to run dry on this occasion.

Said occasion being the promotion of her trainer, commander, and corporate leash-handler to the position of Director.

It made sense. Kiran Keller was, on paper, the perfect candidate for director of Special Operations; ruthless, efficient, and not above shoving a rifle in the face of whoever stood in her way. V both respected and feared the older woman in equal measure, but even that was not enough to coax a feeling other than discontent from her when faced with the prospect of a party in her direct superior's honour. 

On a Friday night, no less. 

Mandatory attendance for all Counterintelligence, Defence, and Special Operations staff. Plus ones permitted. 

Jackie had almost laughed his ass off when she'd suggested he tag along. "Vicky, you know I love you hermana... but fuck no." Not even the promise of an open bar had been enough to sway the man, and with a loving pat on the back, he'd pushed her out of the door with nothing but a smug "Buena suerte, chica!" to keep her company. 

And now, here she was; alone, painfully sober, and regretting ever allowing herself to be talked into buying the black patent abominations currently chafing away at her ankle bones.

Thanks, Jack. 

This was not her typical Friday night. Friday nights involved wine- lots of wine- takeout food of questionable origin, and playful repartee with the only person able to keep her head above water no matter how many times Arasaka- Keller- tried to sink it. Jackie... Jackie didn't know everything concerning her sudden backtrack into the corporate world, but he stood by her anyway; a friend through thick and thin.  

No, not a friend. A brother. Family.

V sighed, a small smile pulling at the corner of her mouth despite her distaste for the situation she found herself in. She never could stay mad at him for long.

She made her way over to the bar in the centre of the suite. V knew she’d have to face Keller at some point, be the polite, courteous corpo-rat her grandmother had once tried to morph her into, but the prospect of dealing with the woman sober struck fear through her gut like a hot poker.

Whiskey, don’t fail me now.

Hailing the bartender, V braced her arms against the countertop, newly lacquered nails tapping nervously against the sleek black marble. "Bourbon, please. On the rocks." 

The room was abuzz with voices conversing in jargon she didn't understand, filled with faces she didn't recognise. I don't belong here. It was the world she had been born into, sure, but not the world she had grown up in; mercifully whisked away at an early age following her parents' divorce, never having to endure the falsehoods, the corruption, the brutal backstabbing... 

Well, until recently, that was. 

Mom's probably rolling in her grave right now... 

It was easier to ignore at work; that sickening feeling of shame, of guilt. It was easier to convince herself that she had no choice, that she was doing what anyone else in her position would do to keep themselves afloat when she was cutting down enemies, doing exactly what Arasaka told her to do like a good little corpo-rat. 

But now? Dressed to the nines, sipping complimentary whiskey that no doubt cost more than her first apartment had, kissing ass and masquerading as someone who belonged in this world outside of working hours? V felt sick, a tightness that was becoming worryingly familiar as of late crushing her chest, stealing her breath. 

I need air. Now. 

Clutching her glass, she weaved through the crowds as gracefully as she could, forced polite smile on her face. Just a few more steps. Large doors beckoned her out into the cool evening air, relief washing over her as she made it onto the balcony unscathed and with her dignity still- relatively- intact.

The chatter was quieter out on the roof, and V felt the suffocating brain fog slowly start to dissipate, leaving only tendrils of tiredness in its wake. How many hours until she could leave without Keller hunting her for sport? V couldn’t be sure. Too many, at least.

She walked towards the quieter end of the balcony, only a few lone partygoers occupying the space, enjoying the last rays of the setting sun before it gave way to night. The music from inside the suite drifted lowly on the breeze, and V stopped to lean against the glass balustrade, gazing out at the bustling city below. Out of the corner of her eye, V noticed a suited man to the left of her doing the same, looking out at the city as the sun set on the horizon, bathing the towering corporate monoliths in a warm, orange glow. From her vantage point, V could faintly see the mismatched structures of The Glen in the distance, not quite gleaming with the same abstract beauty as the sleek buildings of Charter Hill, but emanating an aura of their own nonetheless.

Home.

"Quite the view, isn't it?" The man to her left had moved a few steps closer, body turned to face her. 

She hummed, feeling the breeze toy with the loose strands of hair framing her face, the sensation a soothing balm after the buzz of the party inside. "It's almost peaceful when you can't hear the traffic." 

V allowed herself to glance over at the man beside her, taking in his features in the golden light. His attention swept back to the guests mingling on the rooftop, before settling on her once more. "Not enjoying the party?" 

She tried not to grimace. "That obvious, huh?" 

"Not really, I just know a fellow reluctant participant when I see one." The man smiled warmly then, holding out his hand. "Jenkins, Night City Counterintelligence." 

She took his hand. "V, work for Keller over in Special Operations." The firmness of his shake was grounding, a much-needed anchor amidst the swirling cloud of anxiety that had hung over her head since stepping foot on the premises, and V found herself enjoying it perhaps a little more than she should have. It didn't hurt that the man himself was easy on the eyes; six-foot-something of toned muscle hidden beneath sharp suits, dark hair and bright blue eyes that had V mentally calculating exactly how long it had been since she'd last gotten laid- anything to excuse the way her pulse had spiked at the slightest touch that wasn't accompanied by barked commands or the sting of combat. 

Ah, fuck. 

"Keller, huh? The woman of the hour." 

"That she is." For better or worse.

Then, as if posing a scandalous question, Jenkins dipped his head towards hers, voice lowering, a look of mirth shining in his eyes. "She as scary as the recruitment vids make her out to be?" 

V laughed. Between the warmth of the whiskey and the man's- Jenkins'- presence, the discomfort she had felt moments earlier was already melting away. "'Fraid so. Never met her?" 

"Never had the pleasure of working with her, no. She likes to keep her department... contained, so to speak."

That was putting it mildly.

"Don't I know it..." V muttered, downing the last mouthful of bourbon. She tried to ignore the way his gaze trailed from her lips down to her throat and lower still, the stubborn spark of heat that had ignited in her stomach at his touch steadily growing into something more. 

"Can I get you another?" Jenkins nodded his head in the direction of the bar, charming smile toying at his lips. "Might as well make the evening as bearable as we can, since we're both stuck here indefinitely."

Fuck, he was good at that. All charm and smiles and smooth words... V had no trouble believing he was ruthlessly efficient at his job, thriving in this world that was eating her alive. 

"Lead the way." 

Jenkins held out his arm for her to take, and the gesture did not go unappreciated, V’s discomfort melting away into something almost foreign to her.

Enjoyment.

The bar was impossibly busier when they arrived back inside, the pair clearly not the only ones with alcohol in mind to ease the almost glacial passing of time. They found a space towards the far end of the suite, Jenkins ushering her in before taking up position next to her, propping his arm against the countertop as V mirrored his stance. He leaned down to speak over the noise, a warm, firm hand pressed against the small of her back as his breath tickled her ear. The scent of his cologne washed over her, and V found herself instinctively leaning into him, heat rising to her cheeks as she willed him not to notice. "What's your poison?"

"Bourbon, please." Jenkins turned to catch the attention of the bartender, ordering two whiskeys that were swiftly placed in front of him. V took the glass handed to her, grateful for the sweetness on her tongue as she took a sip to calm her nerves.

"So," Jenkins began, swirling his glass, "how long have you been with spec-ops? Can't have been long, I imagine." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" Though her tone was playful, a part of V- the part she had been trying to keep on a tighter leash since swapping the streets of Heywood for trouser suits and espionage- bristled at the implications of his words, that this man she had met not even an hour ago thought he could read her, could see past the walls she had so carefully built up to keep her neck intact in this cutthroat corporate world...

Jenkins grinned, picking up on her irritation immediately. Guess that leash needed to be tighter. "Your eyes." At her puzzled look, he continued. "There's fear in them- hidden, of course, but it's still there. You look around this room, you see threats. If Keller's anything like the stories I've heard about her, well..." Another smile, this one tinged with the slightest hint of sympathy. "She's got your balls in a vice, hm? Something held above your head? And you think everyone in this room is in her pocket, too- that you can't trust anyone." 

Well, shit. 

"The thing is," Jenkins continued, sparing her the embarrassment of attempting to retort with her tongue tied in knots, "once you've been here long enough, you soon realise everyone else has their balls in a vice, too. Everyone's out to save their own necks." He took a sip of his drink, piercing blue eyes meeting hers once more. "You stop seeing them as threats once you know you can ruin their day with a few special words whispered into the right ear. Power and control... S'all it is, V. Gotta take what you can from this world before it ruins you."  

V stood in stunned silence, equal parts admiration for the man and annoyance that she had been so easily read. Jenkins saw through the silence- because of course he did- and laughed good naturedly. "So… how did I do?" 

V smiled despite herself, shaking her head slowly in disbelief. "That's quite the party trick." She took a drink from her own glass, savouring the burn at the back of her throat before continuing.  "Been there just over nine months now, did some freelance work before that." 

"That how they sunk their hooks into you?" At V's pointed look, he smirked. "Thought as much. They never have played fair- guess they just like to make everyone else's jobs around here all the more complicated." 

V paused for a moment, studying the man before her, all confident smiles and charming words. "And you? Who's got your balls in a vice?" 

Jenkins laughed, shaking his head. "Can't tell you that, V. Speaking her name often has the unfortunate effect of summoning her, and I'm enjoying my evening far too much for that right now." 

The pair fell into a somewhat comfortable silence then, watching partygoers pass by, some more inebriated than others. V thought back to what Jenkins had said, reluctantly admitting to herself that perhaps he spoke a lot of truths, no matter how… grating those truths may be. She was about to speak when a new voice halted her train of thought.

"Jenkins, there you are." 

V didn't miss the way Jenkins' demeanour changed almost instantly; posture stiffening at the sound of the woman's voice as she neared the pair, stopping in front of them with her arms folded tightly across her chest. The look she gave the man was cold, calculating, and V noticed the same look mirrored in her drinking companion's eyes. 

Ah, balls and vices.

When Jenkins spoke, his voice was firm, any traces of the man who had joked good naturedly with her all evening effectively brushed away, hidden beneath effortless professionalism. "Abernathy. Enjoying the party?" 

The woman rolled her eyes. "Cut the bullshit Arthur, I'm not in the mood." V watched as Jenkins' jaw twitched in irritation, turning to face the bar to avoid being drawn into a conversation she really had no business being in. She flagged down the bartender once more, and soon enough another two glasses were set in front of her, condensation glistening under the soft lights. 

"Logistics need to run something by us before we leave the city, and I'd rather not drag that out any longer than needed."  Her cold gaze shifted from Jenkins to V, and then down to the glasses on the table, lips curling with thinly veiled disapproval. "We leave in five minutes. Do not make me wait." 

Almost as quickly as she appeared, Abernathy turned to leave, heels clicking across the polished hardwood. Wordlessly, V pushed one of the glasses across the countertop, Jenkins taking the offering with an appreciative nod, knocking back a mouthful of the amber liquid as she turned her attention to the retreating form of their unexpected guest. V waited until the woman was safely out of earshot, watching as she stepped around drunken interns dancing amongst themselves with the same look of distaste she'd presumably been wearing all evening. "Friend of yours?" 

Jenkins grimaced into his drink as if the very notion were offensive. "Colleague. We've been stationed in Osaka for the past ten months- longest fucking ten months of my life." 

"Wanna swap?" V propped her elbow up on the bar, hand resting beneath her chin as she levelled Jenkins a playful smirk. "Think you could charm your way through an 0500 hours training session with Keller while I jet off to Japan?" 

Jenkins barked a laugh, shaking his head in mock disapproval, any lingering traces of tension disappearing from his shoulders. "Isn't that Director Keller now?" 

"Mmhmm, lucky me, right?" 

Jenkins opened his mouth to retort, only to pause as his gaze locked onto Abernathy stood in the grand doorway across from the bar, glaring daggers at the man while jerking her head in the direction of the AV pad.

"Well, V. I suppose that's my cue to leave." His eyes shone a brighter blue for a second, the familiar flash of incoming data lighting up her own optics. "I'm flying back to Osaka tomorrow morning, but I've flicked you my details." He paused. "Should you ever need them, of course."

Maybe it was the whiskey, maybe it was the dress... Or, hell, maybe it was the ten-month dry spell that inspired a sudden surge of confidence within her. Whatever it was, V didn't have time to question it before her mouth acted of its own accord, brain cell lagging about five minutes behind it. "Is that strictly for business? Or for pleasure, too?" 

Preem. Smooth, V. 

She tried not to recoil too visibly at her own words. Jesus, where did that one come from, you gonk? She could almost hear Jackie's affable mocking in the back of her mind, delighting in the way she fumbled through any and all dealings of the romantic variety. Shit, maybe it really had been too long since Lola... 

To her relief, Jenkins' smile only widened in response, the man laughing as he placed a hand on her elbow. "I suppose time will tell in that regard." His voice was low, smooth, and V hated the way her stomach flipped at the sound. The crowded bar left little room for personal space, and- not for the first time that evening- she found herself wondering just who the hell deemed it fair to make his eyes that goddamn blue. 

V didn't realise just how openly she had been staring until the man before her smirked, his thumb stroking soft circles in the crook of her elbow as heat rose to her cheeks, brown eyes widening in realisation. 

So much for subtlety.

Amused, Jenkins leaned in closer once more, speaking low enough that his voice was only just distinguishable above the music. "Goodnight, V." She shivered at the closeness. "Don't let this world swallow you whole, hm? Be a damn shame to lose that fire." With a wink, he stepped away from the bar, making his way over to the doorway his colleague had disappeared through moments earlier. V watched until he, too, had vanished from sight, sighing before finishing off the remaining whiskey in her glass in one undignified gulp. 

That... could have gone worse. 

The man... Jenkins... was charming, dangerously so, with just enough carefully concealed hot-headedness to send her mind wandering to less than professional places. V groaned inwardly, sending a silent prayer to whichever god her mom had thought so highly of that she hadn't been too embarrassing. She wasn't sure Keller would ever let her know a moment's peace again if not.

Right, Keller. 

V sighed. Reality calls. But as she went to leave the bar, track down the newly appointed director seemingly committed to making every day of V's mandatory twenty-year loyalty obligation a living hell, she paused, and noticed the flashing notification in the corner of her optics.

New Contact Added: Arthur Jenkins. 

A strange feeling settled into her chest. It wasn't fear, no... Something new, something good. A lightness of sorts; a buoyancy aid thrown her way when all she had felt prior was a sickening sinking feeling, tied down by suspicion and disquietude and fear like a lead weight. 

Power and control. Maybe she could work with that after all. 

She squared her shoulders. For the first time since joining the corporation, the first time since selling her soul away on a dotted line as if it meant nothing... V didn't feel so utterly alone in the lion's den, and she smiled. 

Well, who would have thought. Maybe these parties aren't so bad after all... 

AO3

[jenneferofjengaberg]

I recently switched from Google Chrome to Microsoft Edge on my desktop. Various reasons, mainly that my desktop PC is getting older and Google Chrome sure does suck a lot of memory and even my 16 GB was finding it hard to deal with. 

And honestly, it’s been pretty great. Microsoft has made a good browser. I never thought I’d type those words, but the world is upside down now, so who knows.

It definitely is a lot faster than Chrome and way less of a memory hog. Especially on sites like this one, where a page full of huge gifs can put a lot of drag on your memory. Just in my own private tests Edge seems to use a lot less CPU cycles too. Here’s a screenshot of stats for both browsers with 10 tabs open each (same websites) and both browsers have the same exact extensions installed and loaded (more on that in a sec):

You might have to click on that to see it but the difference should be obvious. Despite the fact that both browsers are built on the Chromium codebase, Microsoft is doing something more efficiently here.

The nice thing about it using Chromium though, is that Chrome extensions are compatible with Edge. You can install them right from the Google Chrome webstore. Even better is that switching over to Edge, even after using Chrome for literally a decade, is as painless as it gets. When you start using Edge, the latest version will actually import all your Chrome extensions for you from Chrome. Actually, it smartly looks at its own Edge extensions repository and tries to see if there’s an Edge version of the same extension. If so, it installs that one. If not, it just imports the Chrome version. This is a great feature, because admittedly I tried out Edge awhile back, but the dealbreaker for me was having to manually install every single one of my Chrome extensions (I have a lot because I’m a geek). Ain’t nobody got time for that.

It’ll also import over all your bookmarks, cookies, passwords, open tabs, etc. (you can choose not to import any of these as well). For a more comprehensive guide in switching to Edge from Chrome, this PCMag article about covers it.

One new feature of Edge that I’m already sold on is the “Collections” feature. I always seem to have 20 open tabs or folders of “temporary bookmarks”. Things I want to look at soon but really don’t know what to do with. You know what I mean: articles you want to read, recipes you’re going to make in some nebulous near future, fic recs, that thing you’re researching for work, etc. The “Collections” feature lets you organize all of that into some semblance of order and get it out of your face. It pops up in a handy little sidebar (collapsible). You can add notes to your collections as well. I made a little shopping list inside my “Recipes To Make This Week” Collection. I already have a few Collections started and I’m sure I’ll be making more because I just love to sort things, it makes my heart happy.

I swear I'm not a Microsoft plant or anything, but if Chrome isn't working out for you lately, I encourage trying out Edge. They've removed a lot of the work involved with switching browsers and if you have an older machine, it may have better results for you.

[copperbadge]

freres-toujours replied to your post “So I’ve been following you/aware of your existence for a long time and...”

You don't have to stick to Latin anymore if you don't want to. You could use anything.

Aw, I love Latin though. Although admittedly it makes a lot less sense if the culture is rooted in colonial New England. I do have a scene where Remus and Sirius are doing an actual ritual and one of them is speaking modern English and one is using very formal old-timey English. :D

gyraethere replied to your photo “Where is the “turn off judgeyness” button in Chrome’s settings? ...”

do you at least have, like, the tree-style tabs equivalent for chrome? i cannot imagine how grim that'd look along the top.

No, it just lines them up at the top, but I go through and close them all in the space of an hour or so, so it’s not a huge deal. I didn’t know a tree-style tabs thing was possible, like...how would that work? How does it cluster the tabs? 

drgaellon replied to your post “twistedribbon: copperbadge: thudworm replied to your photo “Where...”

I hope you have good (and multiple!) backups, Sammy

I usually keep a list of recurring tasks in OneNote as well, just in case. And of course my actual computer is backed up every Sunday. 

clockways replied to your photo “This is a wordcount of the file where I’m storing only the completed...”

Okay but 'gaily jaunting towards disaster' is such a mood that I need it on a shirt or something. Or a sticker. I might have to do that if you don't mind lol

LOL knock yourself out! If you put any kind of figure on it, like a person or animal, I request but do not demand a tortie. :D

samjohnssonvt replied to your photo “This is a wordcount of the file where I’m storing only the completed...”

Sam, we love you, and "gaily jaunting toward disaster" is practically a subtheme of your blog.

It’s basically a subtheme of my life, lbr.

ameliahcrowley replied to your post “compromised-by-castiel replied to your post “thudworm replied to...”

What's wrong with "Dipstick"?

Nothing! It’s just kind of an old-timey insult. 

sugar-crash31 replied to your post “thudworm replied to your photo “Where is the “turn off judgeyness”...”

What... do none of you use the favourites/favourites bar? I barely have 6 tabs open at once and get annoyed if I can't read the titles, you're making me twitch just thinking about it! :)

Oh sure -- the favorites/bookmarks bar is where I store the folder with the 25 bookmarks in it :D 

The pinned tabs are for stuff I use all day every day, like our work database and gmail. Because most of my work is digital there’s just a lot of them. Unpinned tabs are stuff I haven’t read through/looked at yet, or sites I’m using in current research (like a specific person’s linkedin, or a website about doctors’ average salaries). For example right now I have two tabs open to tumblrs that reblogged something I said and I haven’t read what they’ve replied yet, a website about the history of art pigments that I’m going to skim before sharing on tumblr, and a longform article about queer women in baseball during the WWII women’s baseball leagues. Gotta clear those out by end of day when I shut down my work laptop.

The bookmark bar is folders full of stuff I use daily or weekly but don’t need to constantly have open -- research tools I only use on occasion like political donation pages and tax documents, plus my Daily and Monday bookmark files. 

And then Other Bookmarks is an archive of stuff I don’t use regularly but like to have on hand -- art archives, hobby websites of varying kinds, et cetera. 

[saywhatjessie]

One Hell of a Pilot

Written for Sunny for Fandom Trumps Hate 2019. Star Wars: the Force Awakens au. 9.8k (Ao3)

They slaughtered them all. CSTL-918 had watched them do it. He’d watched and he’d done nothing.

There was blood on his helmet. He looked through the red-tinted film over the eyepiece, throwing the world into crimson streaks. Or more streaked in crimson than it was already, the other Stormtroopers systematically taking down the assembled villagers.

Not just rebels. Villagers. Citizens. Innocents.

CSTL-918 wasn’t sure, really, what exactly ‘innocents’ meant. But he was learning. It wasn’t someone who deserved this. Did anyone deserve this? Had EZKL-108 deserved his death, the blood on CSTL-918’s helmet his last mark for an uncaring First Order? Would CSTL-918 deserve his?

He didn’t raise his blaster. He didn’t shoot. He didn’t defend. He just stood there, defecting in his inaction and condemning those assembled with the same inaction.

The world was on fire.

  He tried to steady his breathing on the shuttle back to the main naval ship. He admittedly hadn’t worn the Stormtrooper armor for long but surely it should have been easier to breathe in these helmets. He shouldn’t have felt like his chest was constricting. He shouldn’t have felt so hot and dizzy. 

Nothing helped.

Everything felt too loud and too close. He could feel the grit of the sand from Jakku making its way through the gaps in his armor, grating against his hips and neck. The stomping of the other Stormtroopers, marching and shouting, set his brain ringing.

The resistance pilot was being pulled off the shuttle, his jaw set in defiance. As he came into the carrier, CSTL-918 watched as his green eyes widened, his jaw going slack as he craned his neck around, trying to take in the breadth of the carrier. Was he in shock? Was he planning an escape?

The pilot had taken action. He’d shot directly at Michael, no hesitation. No restraint.

CSTL-918 found it even harder to breath.

He shuffled as fast as he could to a quickly emptying shuttle, nodding half-heartedly at the soldiers making their way past, blasters clutched in their hands.

Once assured he was alone and out of sight, he took off the helmet, glad for the relative dimness of the shuttle. His breathing eased, but not enough. He was left holding his helmet in his two hands, gripping it tightly as he worked to slow his heart, take in the air. He couldn’t look down at his helmet. He couldn’t bear to see EZKL-108’s handprint left there.

This had been their first mission. They had come up in the First Order together. And now he was dead.

He’d died so easily. So carelessly. So unspectacularly. He was just there one moment and gone the next.

What did any of this mean? What was any of it even for ?

“CSTL-918.”

CSTL-918 turned his head, his shoulders coming back into a soldier’s posture, even while his chest still heaved. Captain Naomi Phasma stood behind him, cape draped over the shoulder of her chrome suit and blaster held at rest in her hands.

“Submit your blaster for inspection,” she told him, her inflection at once flat and commanding.

CSTL-918 turned away from her, working to compose himself. “Yes, Captain.”

“And who gave you permission to take that helmet off?” she asked, a hint more assertion in her voice.

CSTL-918 paused, taking a moment to shove down his sudden rage and fear. “I’m sorry, Captain.”

“Report to my division at once.” Then she turned and left him alone again in the shuttle.

Her division. That meant reconditioning.

They wanted to make him compliant. Make him obedient.

Rage welled up again. Stronger than he’d ever experienced. More rage than he’d ever needed before.

He put the helmet back on. He would report to the Captain’s division. But that’s not all he would do.

The cell door whooshed open and CSTL-918 marched through, holding his blaster at rest. His posture was intentional if totally uncomfortable. He fought to keep his breathing slow as he approached the Stormtrooper appointed to guard the prisoner.

He glanced at the pilot long enough to ensure he wasn’t so badly damaged he couldn’t walk on his own. He knew what Michael did to people – to rebels. Luckily, the pilot looked a little worse for wear, a little rough around the edges, but still capable of escape under his own steam.

If CSTL-918 could get them that far, that is.

“Michael wants the prisoner,” he told the guard.

The guard nodded and released the pilot from his restraints. The trust and obedience was implicit. What reason did this Stormtrooper have not to believe him? Stormtroopers never lied. They didn’t have reason to. It wasn’t how they were programmed.

The pilot watched his restraints come loose, his eyes coming back to CSTL-918 with suspicious resignation. He knew something was off but he also knew there was nothing he could do about it.

CSTL-918 sent up a vague hope that the pilot would trust him by the end of this. He needed him on his side. 

The pilot swayed as he stood, just the slightest bit before he got his feet back under him. CSTL-918 reached out as if to steady him, only realizing when he was halfway there that that was not proper Stormtrooper behaviour. He turned the reach into a restraint, putting the pilot’s hands in handcuffs for the walk to see ‘Michael’.

The pilot didn’t fight. He didn’t make it easy for CSTL-918 and his jaw was so stiff it had to have hurt, but he allowed himself to be guided out of the cell, squinting into the brighter light of the corridor. CSTL-918 reluctantly put his blaster to the pilot’s side.

It wasn’t charged. There was no power that could have forced the blaster to go off at any time it was pointed at the man. But CSTL-918 still felt sick with it.

He only made it down a hallway and a half before he pulled the pilot into an abandoned alcove.

“Listen carefully: you do exactly as I say,” CSTL-918 leaned as close as he could, pitching his deep voice so low it could barely be picked up by the helmet’s modulator. “I can get you out of here.”

The shock and distrust in the pilot’s face did not inspire CSTL-918 with hope that they could get this done quickly. “What?”

CSTL-918 put down his blaster, freeing both his hands. He put one hand on the prisoner’s arm, half to reassure him and half to keep him there. With the other hand he pulled off his helmet.

The pilot’s eyes widened as he took in CSTL-918’s face. If he had to guess, this man had never seen a Stormtrooper remove his helmet before.

That was deliberate. Once a Stormtrooper removed their helmet, the illusion of uniform conquer was shattered. Removing his helmet, especially in the presence of a rebel, was nothing less than treason.

CSTL-918 instinctively turned to the hallway to see if anyone was coming. Not that it  mattered: what he was about to do was far more treasonous than a helmet removal.

He leaned again to get close to the pilot. “This is a rescue. I’m helping you escape.”

He took a deep breath, letting it sink in for just a moment that he said those words. That he was doing this. There was no going back.

Then he moved on. “Can you fly a TIE fighter?”

The pilot looked down at his Stormtrooper armor and then back to his face. “You’re with the resistance?” he asked, clearly trying to make sense of what was happening.

They didn’t have time for that. CSTL-918’s voice was a little short when he spoke next. “What? No, I’m breaking you out.” He leaned forward again, gripping the pilot’s arm, speaking with more urgency. “Can you fly a TIE fighter?”

“I can fly anything,” the pilot told him, smugly, his face brightening despite the exhaustion and blood that stained it.

CSTL-918 could feel himself slump a bit in relief, a small smile taking his face.

The pilot’s mouth opened in a smile back before he was, again, taken by confusion. “Why?” he asked, firmly. “Why are you helping me?”

CSTL-918 took a breath and straightened his shoulders.

There were so many answers he could give, all of them true. 

‘I admire your courage and action and you don’t deserve being imprisoned here.’

‘I’ve seen what being a Stormtrooper is and I don’t want it. For the first time in my life, I have wants.’

‘I’m afraid. Not only for my own life but for what I’ve been complicit in means for the galaxy.’

What he actually said was, “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

The man in front of him, sandy-haired and blood-streaked, bruises forming along his stubbled jawline and under his eyes, surveyed him for a moment before coming to a conclusion. “You need a pilot.”

That was also true. “I need a pilot.”

The pilot smiled at him, nodding, seeming to believe him for the first time. Something released inside CSTL-918 and it was like he could hear the tension draining from him.

“We’re gonna do this,” the pilot promised, one of his eyebrows arching up, his eyes bright and mischievous.

CSTL-918 nodded back, nervous but also excited. “Yeah?”

The pilot thumped him on the chest of his armor, both hands still locked together. “Hell yeah. You get me to a TIE fighter, I’ll get you off this imperialist garbage cruiser.”

CSTL-918 smiled shakily with another firm nod, reaching up to replace his helmet on his head.

As the defecting Stormtrooper’s helmet went on, so did the pilot’s mask of exhausted defiance.

Together, they made their way out onto the carrier floor.

Read the rest on Ao3!

[juju-on-that-yeet]

Not Quite Damseled

Prompt: Whumptober Day 27, Ransom

Summary: A gang attempts to hold Yandereplier for ransom. The key word being "attempt."

Warnings: Implied murder and violence, some noncon touching but nothing extreme

Tagging: @peribloke @tired-eldritchhorror (ask to be tagged!)

Read on AO3 (Full Whumptober Series)

Enjoy!

~

Yandereplier will admit to being surprised, at least.

He’s surprised that these people managed to ambush and kidnap him, and he’s surprised that he hadn’t known they were planning it. The people who’ve kidnapped him are associates of Dark, not a particularly respected group among the crime community. They’re drug dealers, usually non-violent, a good set of people for Dark to serve as a one-man protection racket for. Dark’s services come at a price that only their income can pay for, and Dark keeps up his end of the bargain through various complex deals with other gangs. It’s one of the ways he gets the money that keeps Ego Inc. standing and everyone in it happy and healthy. But evidently they’ve gotten tired of Dark’s high price, or maybe they’ve just gotten reckless, cocky with the belief that they don’t need Dark’s services anymore. Yandere doesn’t know the details, but apparently they already tried to back out of their contract with Dark, but Dark wasn’t having it, so they continue to pay for protection – only that now includes protection from Dark as well.

What Yandere knows for sure is that the reason he’s currently tied to a chair in a tiny, dingy room with a gag in his mouth is that he’s a last-ditch attempt to get Dark off their backs. The gangsters haven’t bothered to hide their motivations from him as they talk amongst themselves. Their hope is to use Yandere as ransom to get Dark to release them from their contract: They’ll give up Yandere if Dark leaves them alone and quits making them pay him. Maybe, some of them say, they’ll even get Dark to pay them back some of the money.

Of course, if Dark didn’t take such great pains to hide his supernatural abilities around humans, they likely wouldn’t be so confident. Yandere would smile if he wasn’t gagged.

“Did he get the message, Boss?” asks a lackey. The boss, a thin man with an annoyingly reedy voice, is holding a laptop, already streaming live.

“Think so,” says the boss, “He’ll have to get past the encryption to see the stream, but I wouldn’t want anyone else accessing it. He should be able to break through soon enough.”

“Hear that?” The lackey turns towards Yandere. He smiles condescendingly. “Your boyfriend’s gonna see you in a minute, all tied up and helpless. Wonder how much he’ll pay to get you back in one piece?”

Another lackey, this one shorter, claps his hands on Yandere’s shoulders from behind. Yandere jumps slightly, admittedly startled, and both men laugh.

“What exactly does “in one piece” mean, anyway?” asks the short man, hands remaining on Yandere’s shoulders. He tightens his grip when Yandere starts to squirm.

“Don’t get any ideas,” says the boss, not looking up from the laptop, which he’s currently setting on a table some feet in front of Yandere. “Damien’ll be logging onto the stream any moment now.”

“Pity.” The short man leans in close to Yandere’s ear. “We could’ve had some fun together.”

Yandere takes the moment to knock heads with the man. It’s not a perfect headbutt; Yandere’s own head hurts a little from it. But it does send the man stumbling away with a shout of pain, holding his head as the taller gangster laughs.

“Fiesty one, huh?” he cackles. “Maybe if Damien decides not to take you back, we can have some fun then.”

Yandere would laugh if he could. As if Dark would ever leave him with these guys.

As if they’re going to survive the revenge Dark will put them through.

True to the boss’s word, the laptop dings less than a minute later, showing the stream being accessed. The boss stand, back from the laptop, moving next to Yandere. Though the laptop is on a table a few feet away, Yandere can still see the part of the screen showing himself and the gangsters in real time – as well as the black part of the screen that instantly blips to life as people on the other end access the stream.

It’s Dark, of course, but it’s not just him. Yandere can tell he’s in the control room; no doubt Google helped him decrypt the stream link. Wilford’s next to him, looking uncharacteristically angry. Yandere can sort of see Chrome in the background, vibrating with rage at the sight of Yandere tied up. Yandere’s main focus, though, is still Dark. He’s the picture of composure, but Yandere knows him well enough to see the fury simmering in his gaze, just below the surface. His aura wavers around him like heat from a grill, threatening to crack.

“Glad you could join us, Damien,” the boss says, conversational and light. “Who’s the pink guy?”

“A friend,” Dark answers, voice so steely that the taller gangster visibly cowers. “What do you want with Ayano?”

“Not much,” the boss says. He pets Yandere’s hair like one would pet a dog, hand following Yandere’s head as he tries to turn away. “He’s a bit too much trouble for us, to be honest. All we ask is to be let go from our contract.” He grips Yandere’s hair and pulls his head closer to him. “Completely. That means you end our contract and leave us be, and in turn, we’ll let Ayano go and never bother you again.”

“Hmm.” Dark pretends to think about it, but it’s clear he’s getting angrier by the second. “And if I refuse?”

“Well,” says the boss, “Then Ayano gets to stay with us.” He leans into Yandere’s face, unruffled by Yandere’s sneer. “I’m sure we’ll all have a great time.”

Dark’s shell cracks, revealing a shadow of himself screaming with fury. It only lasts for a moment before Dark gets his aura back under control, but the gangsters all see it.

“Wh–” the taller lackey gasps, “What the hell was that!?”

“Must’ve been a glitch, chill out,” says the shorter one, though he sounds similarly rattled.

Yandere wishes the gag in his mouth allowed him to smile.

“Anyway,” the boss continues, either unperturbed or convincingly pretending to be, “What’s your answer, Damien?”

Dark glares at the boss for a long moment before looking to Wilford.

“You need me to take us there?” Wilford asks.

“No, actually,” Dark says. “I believe I’ve been to that building before. I can do it.”

“Alrighty then,” Wilford says, cracking his knuckles. “Ready when you are.”

“Take me, too,” puts in Chrome from behind them, growling with anger. Dark shoots him a look, but Wilford grins.

“Oh, let him tag along,” he says blithely, “No such thing as too much manpower.”

“Fine.” Dark looks back to the gangsters, who are all thoroughly confused.

“What was all that?” asks the boss. “Do you accept our deal or not?”

Dark chuckles, bitter and angry, and his aura starts to reveal itself, swirling around him. Yandere watches with rapt attention.

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Dark says. He flashes a shark-toothed grin. “We’ll be there to collect Ayano momentarily.”

With that, Dark, Wilford, and Chrome all disappear in a cloak of inky smoke. A moment later, the feed cuts to black.

“What the–”

The boss is cut off as the power goes out, plunging the room into darkness. Screams float in from elsewhere in the building, where Yandere knows other gangsters acting as armed guards are. He starts to laugh, unable to stop himself, though the sound is muffled by the gag.

“What’s going on??” shouts the tall gangster. Yandere can see him shaking with fear as his eyes adjust to the dark.

“I’m gonna find out,” the boss growls, pulling a pistol out of his waistband. “You two stay here and watch Ayano.”

He dashes away as the screams wax and wane, the far-off ones cutting off as closer ones ring through the air. Gunshots pepper the cacophony of sound, along with cracking, crunching, and something like the rushing of wind, the roar of something ancient and evil. Yandere manages to stop laughing, not wanting to miss what happens when the cavalry reaches his room. The two gangsters tasked with keeping him there freak out more and more as the sounds of carnage get closer.

“Dude, maybe we should go after Boss,” the tall one says, nervous.

“No way, man, you heard him!” the short one yells, “We gotta stay here and–”

The door slams open, cutting him off. Two wisps of smoke rush in like whips, nearly invisible in the dark. They grab the men as they scream, lifting them off the ground. As they’re pulled away through the doorway, Yandere hears a telltale poof from behind. He looks over his shoulder to see Wilford, who starts untying him.

“How you doing, kiddo?” he asks, making quick work of Yandere’s bonds.

Yandere raises an eyebrow at him, using his now-free hand to point at the gag still in his mouth.

“Oh, right,” Wilford says breezily, before undoing the gag in short order. “Better?”

“Very much,” Yandere says, standing up from his chair and stretching. “Arigato, onii-san!”

“Anything for you, Yan!” Wilford laughs, ruffling Yandere’s hair.

The screams of the two gangsters peter off and turn to silence as two sets of footsteps enter the room. Yandere doesn’t have to guess who: Chrome’s bright red eyes are a beacon in the blackness of the room, illuminating Dark, who’s walking in beside him.

“Are you okay?” Chrome asks as he approaches.

“I’m fine, Aka-kun,” Yandere assures him. He addresses both Dark and Chrome with a grin. “Did you save any for me?”

“We got a little carried away, I’m afraid,” Dark admits. His aura is waving freely around him, but he’s calmer now, relieved and no longer out for blood. “I hope you can excuse us.” He opens his arms, playful.

“Of course!” Yandere laughs, jumping into Dark’s arms. His laughter peters off into a pleased hum as Dark kisses him, holding him close. Yandere wraps his arms around Dark’s neck, letting one hand sink into his hair. He nearly forgets where he is, getting so absorbed in kissing Dark that everything around him seems irrelevant, until…

“Hey, if all the fun is over, can we go now?” Wilford asks, blunt and a little grossed out by the kissing. Chrome grunts in agreement, the first time he’s agreed with Wilford in who knows how long. Yandere breaks away from Dark with a laugh, and Dark sighs.

“Fine,” he says, setting Yandere down. “Dr. Iplier is going to want to check you over, anyway.”

“Sounds like Shishi,” Yandere giggles, “But I’m okay, I promise.”

“Good.” Dark strokes Yandere’s cheek with a soft smile, and Yandere beams, leaning into Dark’s hand.

As Dark teleports the group back home, Yandere decides that, all things considered, this wasn’t such a bad way to pass an evening.

[ultravioletparacosm]

fictober ‘19 day 1: “it’ll be fun, trust me”

hi!! to try and get myself into a better pattern of writing before nanowrimo, i’m gonna be doing fictober this month! just a short fic that’s like...just a quick exploration of an idea i had, 1 day maybe i’ll expand upon it but w/e

1,144 words, halloween horror nights, tw for murder and also ghosts (boo)

“It’ll be fun, trust me.”

There had been rumours. Rumours of lights turning themselves on and off with nobody looking, thudding behind the screens, whispers about the scent of burnt skin and hair. I’d only been working there for, say, a couple days before my co-worker told me something strange behind the snack bar, only willing to do so when our boss wasn’t looking.

So that’s what lead me here. Standing outside of the theatre in the rain, just about midnight as the clock teetered on the edge of a Monday, Labour Day, so we had today and the next day off. Quinn, a friend of sorts and my most troublesome co-worker, beckoned me over to the front. It was a wonder why our manager gave her the spare keys of all people, watching as she fumbled with the clunky keyring and had to try out a few before getting the right one in, stuffing it into a random pocket of her fat, tattered purse.

“Be my guest, in ya go.” She held open the door with a little grin on her lips, bearing some coffee-stained teeth as she grabbed my shoulder, ushering me inside. The theatre was nothing I’d not seen before, of course; the tallest ceiling you could expect, carpets they’d not changed since the 20s it seemed like, and the stink of stale buttered popcorn. “I hang out here all the time after-hours. Feel free to help yourself to the candy ‘cause I know for a fact they either don’t know or don’t care if I take ‘em.” And she’d already started sifting through the supply of chocolates and boxes of taffy and hard candy.

I crossed my arms, rubbing my shoulders as I stared up into the dark cathedral above, unilluminated and ominous. “I don’t know, do you think there’s any kind of risk to this?”

“Eh, no? I’ve done this since I’ve worked here, might as well let a newbie in on the fun.” She was speaking with a couple gobstoppers in her mouth, strolling back around from the snack bar. “Say, I brought some stuff with me, wanna take it back to the cinema hall?”

“I guess, I just…” Something about the air felt a little funny, like I wasn’t meant to be there. I supposed this could have just been the general feeling of being somewhere after-hours, but it still lingered with me. “It’s nothing, can you grab me a soda?”

“Hell yeah, now you’re talking.” Two of the largest cups filled with some sort of soda pop, which I didn’t care too much about the type. My mouth just felt dry.

Quinn lead me into the theatre room, the big screen blank without anything playing on it. She plopped her big bag down on the floor dead-centre in front of the screen, sodas and candy strewn out on the floor. Out of her bag she pulled a polished slate of wood, setting it down to reveal a carved and burnt-in alphabet, along with a little teardrop-shaped piece of stone with a hole in the centre. An Ouija board.

“Oh no,” I ran a hand down my face, letting out a long sigh, “I’m not doing any ghost bullshit, not after what you told me.”

“But that was the fun part!” She took a sip from her soda, spinning the talisman on her finger, “you’ll regret it if you bail now.”

I plopped down on the floor in front of her, putting my hands in my lap as I anxiously played with the loose string on the end of my slacks. “Whatever, it’s just stupid. Do you REALLY think anything good is gonna happen if we…?”

“Come on, you’re being lame. Put ‘er hand on there.” She patted the planchette on the wood, and I obliged. A little shaky, admittedly, my hand rested on hers on the board. She spoke, loud and clear as her voice echoed through the walls, “is anybody there?”

Silence. And then some horrid, glacial coldness cascaded over our hands, the sound of wood against wood. Sliding. ‘No.’ My breath hitched as it moved again. ‘H’, ‘A’, ‘H’, ‘A’. Finally, it felt a little warmer after resting on ‘Yes.’

Quinn’s eyes were wide as she laughed, uttering under her breath, “sick as hell.” Then, she asked again, “what is your name?”

Nothing. I noted a distinct coldness in the air, and…It felt hard to breathe. “Quinn, I don’t like this.”

She rolled her eyes, “you’re no fun. Ever since you started working here, you know, you’ve been so uptight. Loosen up.” I clenched my fist, diverging my attention from her judging glare, anywhere but looking at her. And looking down at our hands again, there was a third one, white and gloved.

Oh no.

“Am I not a part of this conversation any more?” A raucous, shrill voice filled the air with an undeniable presence. The gloved hand lead up to an arm of black and red, old and tattered sleeves from a vintage usher uniform. And the most unsettling grin sat upon a wrinkled face, definitely dead, there was no way this was not a corpse, reanimated. Most notable was an eye of white, contrasting against a wide brown one that was much less glassy, but not a bit more lively. His skin was pale as a ghost, probably because he was one.

I jumped to my feet, stumbling back, but Quinn just sat there. Hell if I knew why, but before I could try to tell her, scream at her to run or do just, just anything, he’d already grabbed her by the nape of her shirt collar. In his hand he raised a flashlight, clunky with the shine it may have originally had decrepit with both age and splatters of brown and red across its chrome. I wanted to either move forward, attacking the man who threatened to bludgeon my superior, or just run back, but I couldn’t help but watch.

Blood. Blood down her face, broken nose in with a single thwack that really showed off how heavy that thing had to be. But he looked back at me, dropping her limp body to the ground, and his eyes, the crow’s eyes cracking from the crevices from an inhuman smile. “I-I’ve got to go, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I sputtered nonsensically, like it’d matter. I made a beeline for the front door, which I could have sworn we closed, but one of the glass doors sat open.

“Hope to see you Tuesday.”

That voice sat with me in my mind. It sounded like he was right next to me as I slammed the door shut, but I rushed, I had to go. I had to leave. Leaving her behind as I ran for wherever I could, home, the police? I had the feeling I’d not see Quinn again.

[drink-n-watch]

Glass really is a great invention. It’s one that has really been taken for granted compared to most of the inventions Senku has explored so far. A lot of people actually just think of glass as a building material. I was pretty happy to hear Senku explain what’s so great about it and why glass’ unique properties have made it so important to human civilization.

He skipped over a lot of stuff but it was a nice tidbit. As I’m currently sitting at my glass topped desk writing this, I appreciate it just a little more!

What I thought Would Happen

I actually thought the show would use Gen’s departure as a natural bridge to leave behind Senku and the village for a little bit (for the episode or 3/4 of it) and catch up with Tsukasa. Maybe let us know what Taiju and Yuzu are up to. This would also have been a good opportunity to throw in a bit of confusion about Gen’s loyalties and keep us on our toes.

At most, I though we would get a continuation of the training between Kohaku, Kinro and Ginro while Senku and Chrome remained mysterious, working on something in the background. Maybe gathering mats, they do still need quite a few after all. That way, we could go back next episode and all the leg work would have already been done. It would have been a good way to add a sense of urgency and menace as well, although I suppose they already have the tournament and Magma for that

What Did Happen

Let’s  concentrate on what I got right, Kohaku, Kinro and Ginro did continue training for most of the episode and…that’s about it.

As you may have guessed from my opening paragraph, Senku set out to make glass this week, a necessity if you’re going to attempt any sort of advanced chemistry. This ties in nicely with the fact that Suika is actually short sighted. The mask that she wears has pinholes for the eyes which help her vision. But now, she has lenses. It may sound super silly, and it was, but it was also very sweet! We also find out that Ginro is short sighted as wel. That’s probably going to pay off later.

What About the Characters

Right now, it’s not so much about developing the independent characters as it is about building up the various relationships in their makeshift little band. Senku seems to be a static character (one that hasn’t and probably won’t change that much in the story) and I think that’s actually an excellent thing with this type of premise. We’re slowly getting to know him more and more but as we already know him pretty well, it’s not exactly remarkable. Although there was a moment at the end of the episode, when he saw the lab and for the first time, seemed honestly emotional.

This said, Chrome is still the faithful sidekick, Suika remains the adorable one. Nothing much to report of that front. Yes she now sees better and that’s great but otherwise, same charater.

The brothers though, Kinro and Ginro did manage to reveal a bit more of their personality. For one, we are slo9wly seeing that Ginro seems a little insecure and is hiding this behind his rigidity and discipline. While Kinro, who’s been portrayed as a lovable dolt up until now, is a little sneakier and more underhanded than I first believed. This puppy has some bite. What makes me happiest is that so far, the group dynamic doesn’t seem to have been destroyed by the new additions. I would even welcome Gen back as I believe he brought a unique personality to the mix but this episode still felt balanced and was entertaining without him.

What I Liked

Like I mentioned, I really liked the pursuit of glass as the science of the week. It’s a good choice!

The show seems to have settled into a comfortable routine. The pacing is quite good and episodes don’t feel overly long or confusing. It’s a fairly simple structure and a repetitive one but it’s also just plain enjoyable watching all these characters come together and toil away.There’s just enough real world science to get the context and it makes their weekly pursuits feel more tangible.

Although the characters can feel like caricatures and are all clearly exaggerated, they’re not actually archetypes I recognize. All of them have on some level subverted my expectation. Kohaku is a strong independent action girl who is also very open about her attraction to Senku without ever fawning over hi, can recognize when she needs help and is more than happy to ask for it (I say this every week, I quite like Kohaku). Senku is just a weirdo, no one could expect him. Chrome is your basic nice guy but the science geek edge is a bit. I can go on but basically none of the characters were exactly what I expected and I like that.

As I was writing the episode summary I realized it was  much shorter than usual and that’s actually a good thing. Dr Stone can get a little scattered. Having the episode revolve around just a few points and narrowing the scope of the narrative made it more enjoyable for me.I think they should in fact stick to this formula when they can.

As for the show itself, it continues to expand the colour palette and my stills, when looked at from a distance, are getting more and more interesting. Look at that sunset!

What I Liked Less

I actually really liked this episode. The only thing that is sort of bugging me is that the whole Tsukasa side of the story has just been left hanging for so long. I’m really wondering what’s going on over there. Especially with our friends. They could at least just show us an image.

And as I am writing, I realize that it’s probably on purpose. My curiosity is certainly piqued. I will come back just to find out what’s going on on the other side. They’ve built up some great little mystery and suspense here. I would move these paragraphs from the section but then I wouldn’t have anything left to say.

On wait, I guess Ginro has the potential of becoming annoying but for now, I’m fine with him.

Closing Thoughts

Fine, I’ll admit it, the show won me back. It won me back a while ago to be fair I just wasn’t ready to admit it. Admittedly, it’s not that hard to make me love an anime but I’m just having fun with it. Honest to goodness fun. I kind of wish it didn’t air on the same night as so many other shows I’m reviewing so I could enjoy it on it’s own.

Mood: Suckered

  Dr. Stone Episode 11 – Focus Glass really is a great invention. It's one that has really been taken for granted compared to most of the inventions Senku has explored so far.

[luki-fanfic]

KHR/BNHA Fanfic: The Restaurant with Sushi That’s Out of This World

This idea WILL NOT LEAVE MY HEAD!  Too many people getting into BNHA and dragging me along for the ride!  I watched the first season when it first came out and then keep diving into fic’s so naturally, I decide to tell this fic with the BNHA characters in focus rather than the KHR ones! (brain starts imploding on the lack of logic).

If I get round to doing more, it’ll be a snippet-style fic rather than a full on story, if just to keep me sane.

Present Mic first spots the restaurant when it’s his turn to patrol the local neighbourhood around UA.  With so many heroes on staff and the constant threat of attacks, it’s safer to have everyone on a random schedule to deter any would-be villains from causing trouble, or allowing anyone to learn the rota.  It’s a security measure that results in the surrounding area having some of the lowest crime statistics in Musutafu, but also means real estate is at a premium. Businesses will fight to the metaphysical death to get their store in these streets.

So while it’s not unusual to see a new store open, the lack of familiarity with the name does draw the hero’s attention. Self-owned businesses are rare – the sheer amount of capital deters most of them from starting here, choosing lesser known neighbourhoods to build up a client base before making the leap.  Since he’s never heard the name ‘Takesushi,’ or even heard down the grapevine of the venture, it must be completely new.

That’s enough to pique his interest, and when the school day is over, he decides sushi would be a good dinner option.

It’s clearly only been open a few days judging from the number of people carrying grand opening vouchers.  Eventually, once the novelty dies down the restaurant will be judged for it’s food, but Hizashi highly doubts the owner would dare risk opening here if he didn’t think he could compete.  At the door he’s greeted by a pretty girl with golden blonde hair, who asks if he’s looking for a table or take-out.  She doesn’t bat an eye at his appearance, and happily directs him over to the take-out. line.

Thankfully, the queue isn’t as long as it could be – it might not be all that ‘heroic’ of him, but people do have a tendency to let heroes cut in line, and Present Mic is more than popular enough to find himself at the front of the line in a matter of minutes.

There’s a young teenage girl minding the till, a frail looking thing, with dark purple hair and an eyepatch decorated with a skull motif.  Her mouth drops just a tad as her eye glances up, taking in Mic’s leather and hair, and he waits for the inevitable spluttering that comes from coming face to face with a hero.

“Um, good evening” She offers.  “Welcome to Takesushi, may I take your order?”

He almost double takes, but grins in delight.  For such a young girl, she’s quite the professional.  

Unsure of what would be best, he orders one of the specials advertised, and hangs back after paying.  The order heads to the back, where he can only see one man working with a knife, although there’s a pair of teens – a brunet and a black haired boy who’s clearly related to the chef - working on packing up boxes or putting together platters. Anything not immediately heading out to the bar is being carried out by a rather punked out silver haired teen and an older boy with white hair.

It’s a lot of teenagers – the chef is the only member of staff that can be older than 18, but they work like a well oiled team.  

“That was very impressive of you” he hears, and his attention is drawn back to the girl at the desk, now greeting the next customer in line. “My daughter works at a 7/11, and every time a hero walks in she turns into an excited mess.  She’d never have gotten two words out in front of Present Mic.”

Some of the others in the line chuckle, and Hizashi’s lip twitches into a grin, trying to pretend he can’t hear the conversation.  

However, instead of insisting she was just doing her job – or even admitting that she’s not a Present Mic fan, the girl just blinks and says.

“Who’s Present Mic?”

There’s a hideous screech that lasts all of two seconds before Present Mic realises it’s coming from him and shuts up, while the entire line goes silent.  Even the busser’s, and the chef looks up from the fish.

The woman looks embarrassed, and the girl is starting to shrink into herself, so clearly it’s up to Mic to defuse the situation.  As iconic as he is, Present Mic’s dropped in the rankings since taking on the role at UA, and he’s hardly as prevalent as the big hitters, so this is hardly the first time he’s gone unrecognised. Admittedly it doesn’t normally happen this close to UA, where he’s seen on a near daily basis, but it does happen.

“Hah hah, that would be me young lady” he says, walking back up to the counter.  “Guess I need to be doing more rounds, not often I meet someone who doesn’t know me.”

He snaps a pair of finger guns in her direction and grins.

“Present Mic, the Voice Hero and star of ‘Put Your Hands Up’ on Hero FM” he announces.

The girl hunches down, face starting to redden.  

“I don’t listen to radio.”

Mic laughs.  “Don’t worry about it.  I’m a bit much for some people, nothing wrong that.  Which heroes do you like?”

It’s an easy enough question, and one that even the most embarrassed person can usually answer after a hero faux paus.  If all else fails you can just blurt out ‘All Might’ and move on.

Yet, what should have been an easy out for the girl seems to cause more problems.  Her face pales and her eye flickers to the side.  She looks like the kids in Mic’s class when he springs a test on them without warning.

“Chrome, are you okay?”

They both look up to see the chef heading towards them, eyes narrowed. Behind him, both teens are watching, the brunet looking as nervous as the girl.

Mic holds up his hands in a placating gesture.  

“Sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable” he says, and genuinely means it.  “I’m just surprised there’s anyone in Musutafu that hasn’t at least heard of me.”

“We’re new around here” Tsuyoshi offers, and all but thrusts a bag into Present Mic’s hands.  “Enjoy your meal.”

It’s a strange feeling, for a hero to feel so unwanted, but not a single one of the teens looks friendly – the silver haired one is outwardly glowering – so Present Mic grabs the bag, waves to the line, and heads out the door.

As if she hadn’t spotted the last five minutes of awkwardness with her co-workers, the girl at the front door bows and says with an impressive amount of cheer -

“Please come again!”

Yeah...Mic doesn’t think so.

Normally, Present Mic would let it go.  Maybe the girl genuinely didn’t like heroes, or had a bad experience – it happens.  Maybe she had a quirk that had resulted in bullying and chosen to reject anything about heroes to protect herself.  It didn’t really matter - if a civilian has issues with heroes, so long as they’re not breaking the law, they have a right to be left alone.  Normally, he’d just take note of Takesushi’s apparent ignorance and dislike and make a point not to eat there again.

However...the sushi was really good.  As in, melts-on-the-tip-of-your-tongue good.  So good he was having cravings less than 3 days later.  The chef was either exceptionally trained, or someone on his staff at a flavour enhancing quirk that they were using illegally – either way, he wasn’t quite ready to give it up.

Thankfully, the nature of heroes meant he didn’t have to, and the next time he enters – it’s as the casually dressed English teacher, Yamada Hizashi.  It’s early in the afternoon, but there’s still a handful of customers despite the early hour – every time he passes in the evening the place is booming, the food good enough to maintain the customers even after the newness wears off.  

There’s no young greeter this time, just the chef, who nods and greets him as Hizashi sits at the bar.

“Welcome to Takesushi” the chef greets.  “I’m Yamamoto Tsuyoshi.  What can I interest you with first?”

Hizashi grins, tapping at a menu at some of the morsels he’s been pining for all week.

“Let’s start with eel and tuna, then...ah, surprise me.  What do you recommend?”

Yamamoto grins back, and starts preparing the order.  His hands move with impressive grace, and Hizashi can’t help but be drawn in – and eagerly digs in once his order starts arriving.

“So what brings you to Musutafu?” he asks between plates – and oh, the sushi’s just as good in the restaurant.  “Moving out of the big city?  Moving closer to the big city?”

The man smiles back.  “I guess it was...intuition?  We needed a fresh start, and something about this town drew us in.  When this building became available, seemed like a perfect fit, and here we are.”

He breaks off for a moment, taking the plates he’d just finished preparing to a handful of other customers in the corner, and Hizashi focuses on his meal.

“That is not physically possible!”

The sushi drops from his chopsticks as Hizashi snaps his head back at the outraged tone.

Turns out the teenagers aren’t as absent as he thought – they’re all crammed into a booth in the corner, along with a much younger boy with sandy blond hair.  They’re all staring at a tablet on the table, and the silver haired punk boy is half standing, looking frustrated at what he sees.  Most of the table seems amused by his outburst, but the girl Mic had unwittingly embarrassed is frowning at him.

“...Um, are any of us physically possible?”

The boy waves frantically at the screen.  “He has wings!  An additional set of limbs!  Growing from his shoulders!  Do you understand the anatomical impossibility of that!”

“So did Byakuran,” says the black haired boy, and the punk’s throws his hands into the air.

“Byakuran’s were a manifestation of metaphysical energy!  They weren’t real, physical limbs!”

The fluffy brunet ducks his head down.

“They felt real...”

This immediately results in the silver haired boy dropping to his seat and trying to desperately console the boy next to him, only to start ranting again at the next clip – yelling about the heat limitations of the human body before spontaneous combustion becomes a possibility.  Hizashi can’t help the chuckle before he turns back to his meal, only to see Yamamoto watching him indulgently.

“Sometimes I think I should sell tickets” he says.  “They’re incapable of not attracting attention.”

“Are they watching hero clips?” he asks, because that seems a large change up from the last time he walked in here.  

Yamamoto shrugs.  “They got a little blind-sided last week, heroes aren’t that prevalent where we’re from, so they’re trying to catch up on the local talent.

“Hiee!”

“Oh come on!  How did he not break every bone in his arm!”

“That’s so extreme!”

“Wow, he was like a grown up Sasagawa.”

“Turf top uses...you know!  This guy doesn’t.  It doesn’t make any sense!”

The man’s lip quirks.  “With varying degrees of success. Flashy...quirks aren’t something they’re used to seeing in broad daylight.”

Hizashi however, frowns before glancing back at the table, and then back at Yamamoto.  His eyes   search behind the man, and starts looking at the photos on the shelf.  Yamamoto and his son feature prominently, but he’s starting to realise all the kids are featuring quite consistently.  A tad too much to just be friends or employees considering how new the restaurant is.

“Wait...are they all yours?” he asks, because there’s no resemblance whatsoever – the youngest doesn’t even look Asian.  Sure, with quirks that’s not as odd as it used to be, but the ages-

Yamamoto follows his eyes to the photo’s and grins.

“Foster kids” he admits.  “Takeshi’s mine, but the rest...more or less adopted us.”

He picks up one closer to the side, clearly the newest of the lot as the restaurant is in the back.  It’s Yamamoto with all off the teens grinning as the youngest boy holds up a hand written sign saying ‘Now Open.’

The man shakes his head.

“Tsuna was in a bad place” he says, finger tapping at the small, brown haired teen in the centre.  “Not through any fault of his own but...he couldn’t stay there.  So when a friend of his found a way to save him, free from everything that was slowly killing him, he took it.  But most of his friends weren’t much better off.  When they realised, they refused to let him go alone.  They’d been through too much to let him leave them behind.”

Tsuyoshi’s smile dims, eyes glancing away.  “It was tearing Takeshi apart.  As far as he was concerned, Tsuna and the others were family, but so was I.  There was no choice he could make that wasn’t going to make him miserable.  So I made sure he didn’t have to.”

The photo gets put back, and he hands over another plate.

“I packed up my shop, filled in a thousand ridiculous custody forms and here we are.  New life, new world, new beginning.  For all of us.”

“You seriously took in what, seven kids just to keep your kid happy?” Hizashi squawks, jaw hanging a tad lower than he would like to admit.

“Well, they needed some kind of adult figure in their lives” Tsuyoshi chuckled.  “And Takeshi needed them.  You don’t know what he was like before Tsuna – I wasn’t letting him go back to that, and I wasn’t going to let him run away from me. Besides, in a town like this, they’re practically angels, haven’t had a single problem with them.”

He pauses, and then huffs quietly to himself.

“Well, no problem that could conclusively be linked to them anyway.”

Hizashi just shakes his head in wonder.  “You’re quite the hero” he offers, though he’s a little surprised Yamamoto dumped all of this one him – perhaps with so many teens running around, the man hasn’t had much adult company.  He’s probably been desperate to talk, and Hizashi’s interested enough to let him continue.  There’s more the story – exactly when and how his son became involved with what appears to be half an orphanage, or some kind of multiple abuse case is probably just as gripping, but Yamamoto seems to bring himself to reality, shaking his head and offering up a final plate.

“Sorry, don’t often get to talk these days.  What about you?  You work in the area?”

Hizashi smiles.

“I’m...an English teacher at one of the local high schools” he offers.  “Long hours but I enjoy it.”

“Wouldn’t be Seirin would it?” Yamamoto asks, mentioning one of the nearer non-hero schools in the area, known more for their sports programs than it’s academic prowess.

“Afraid not” Hizashi offers.  “Is that where they’re enrolled?”

He partially gestures with his chopsticks to the group in the corner, and Yamamoto nods.

“Takeshi really wants to play baseball professionally, so he looked for somewhere with a good team, and the enrolment was within everyone’s ability so they stuck together, even if it’s not the greatest fit for some of them.  Keep getting calls asking why on earth I haven’t encouraged Hayato to go to a better school, or even just test out for university – god knows the brat could get in without trying if he wanted.  But you’ll only pry him from Tsuna’s side when he’s dead.”

Behind his glasses, Hizashi raises his eyebrows.  “That sounds a little...”

“Hyper dependent?” Yamamoto offers.  “Probably.  But he’s much better than he used to be, and that’s saying something.  To be honest, they’re all a little like that.  Tsuna draws people in, even when he doesn’t mean to.  You’d think so many personalities would rip a group like that apart but, Tsuna’s particularly...gifted, at keeping harmony.”

Hizashi chances another look at the group – and now that it’s been brought up, he can see the connections.  The silver haired boy and Yamamoto’s son are flanking the brunet, both leaning into the boy slightly more than most Japanese would consider appropriate, and while the group is mostly watching the screen, whenever someone speaks up, they look at Tsuna first, as if waiting for approval to continue.  The fluffy teen is controlling the entire conversation, although from the way the teen is acting, he’s either very aware of this, or completely oblivious.

“He’s oblivious” Yamamoto replies, and Hizashi chokes when he realises he said the last part out loud.  “Tsuna spent most of his life being told he was no good at anything.  It’s a difficult mind set to get out of, once you start believing it.”

Hizashi nods in understanding.  He’s heard Aizawa rant enough times about the Entrance Exam to know the world isn’t kind to those that don’t fit into a certain category.  

“So many students come through our doors with problems that go unnoticed until high school” Hizashi replies.  “Sometimes I wonder if we’ll get through to them before they graduate.”

Quirks, financial status, intelligence, ethnicity, society breeds a need to excel, and unfortunately, that means someone needs to fail along the lines.  At least ‘Tsuna’ is finally getting the help he needs, between Yamamoto’s new custody and his hoard of very close friends, Hizashi is sure the teen can learn to excel, rather than becoming a victim, or worse, a villain.

Part of him is itching to pry more, but even Yamamoto is starting to realise how much he’s dumped on a complete stranger, because he’s shaking his head and stepping back, choosing to clear up some of his bench.

“Clearly I’m spending too much time around teenagers” the chef jokes. “I’ve taking up gossiping.”

Hizashi laughs softly.  “I promise, I’m not complaining.  Not the first time I’ve been used as a sounding board, and won’t be the last.  Your story is safe with me.”

Yamamoto’s lips twitch.

“It’s not exactly something secret, it’s not all that impressive when you strip it down” he says, brushing it off.  “But thanks for listening anyway.”

“For sushi like this” Hizashi says, gesturing at his plate.  “I’ll happily take some conversation with the deal.”

Yamamoto grins, and hands him the bill.

“Then I look forward to seeing you again.”

[thezomblr-blog1]

Happy Birthday || @hellrager

Of course this isn't the first time he's celebrated Damien's birthday. Far from it. However this time it's different. This time they were a couple. Just like Yule it stupidly felt like the stakes were higher even though this likely wasn't going to change anything between them. Although anything less than perfect in Brian's mind felt like a damn death sentence. The ghoul's stress stemmed from the fact that this time the gift was... decidedly something *outside* his realm of expertise. As much as he tried to research the fuck out of this it didn't feel like enough. It was all so damn CONFUSING and foreign.  

He was rubbing the back of his neck raw as he had the gift laid out on the kitchen table, trying and failing to keep his breaths level as he presented it.

It wasn't wrapped beyond a red bow on the matte black surface. A large, nondescript case with chrome silver clasps. Very similar to the various cases Brian used for his own work sneaking weapons into places they did not belong. Something that was deceptively lightweight and easy to carry. With a plating that was enchanted to prevent security measures and other nosy seers from being able to accurately see what was within.

A simple weapons case – only when it was opened did it reveal it's true purpose.

Several mirrors and compartments would fold out in different tiers lined with a luxurious black velvet. Perfect for storing many pallets, foundations – and anything else Damien might need on the go. Brian had this discrete case custom made. Something he was nervous as hell about. He wasn't sure if there was enough space – or maybe there was too much? Were the mirrors enough? He didn't dare try to actually buy make up to fill it with...  but there was one additional surprise on the lower most panels.

On one side there was a  fresh make up brush set, on the other side a pair of scissors, a comb set and a hair dryer. All custom done and matching in a metallic red colour with the slightest trace of gold glitter when the light hit them right. He'd felt more comfortable getting these ordered as he just contacted the brand of Damien's existing equipment that he seemed to like. The makeup and hair world was ... admittedly overwhelming. So it'd been easier just to just get the best equipment he could get from a brand Damien already used.

“...It's okay?” he huffs, “if it doesn’t work let me know -- I can get another one made properly.”

[joonbird]

Blue Blood

➭ “Prince Jimin was born with blue blood. His coronation is rapidly approaching, but there are two requirements he must fulfil before becoming a king. He must have the skills to fight in battle, and he must have a Queen with blood as blue as his. You, a member of the royal guard, are assigned to teach Jimin the ins and outs of combat. You are not scared of death, of blood, or of battle. What you are scared of however, is falling in love with Jimin, the one man your blood decrees you can never have.”

pairing: jimin x reader

genre: royalty au, smut, angst

wordcount: 26k

❀ 1 / 8 of my oneshot requests ❀

** warnings: this is angsty!, jimin is a light dom, slow burn, violence, mentions of blood, heavy themes, lots of drama, character death

“You know, if our ancestors could see us right now, they would roll in their graves.” You hiss, folding your arms. “We’re members of the Obsidian guard, I really think our skill level goes beyond teaching some bratty prince how to fight.”

Hyungwon just lets out a dry snort.

“Seriously. I train half my life, for what? To be called in by the idiot-”

“Ha.”

“-idiot King to teach his son how to fight?”

Hyungwon just smirks at you. “Y/N,” He says calmly. “Like you said. We’re members of the Obsidian guard. We don’t exactly have a choice, do we?”

You purse your lips, hating that he’s right.

The Obsidian guard are your kingdom’s military. More specifically, the royal family’s impeccably trained personal military. The members of the guard are revered for being formidable opponents: it was as if some deity had given them the gift of brute strength and unwavering fearlessness.

Both the royal family and the guard have ancestries that date back centuries. Myth and legend tells that while the Royals have blood as calm and azure blue as the ocean, the guard have blood as unpenetrable and black as the stone they are aptly named after.

In this kingdom, the only thing that matters is blood. People are divided neatly, andt according to their bloodlines. The systematic division of people is, at first glance, simple. The Royals, who live in the central palace, a heavily guarded fortress. The Obsidian guard, who mostly dwell in the mountains training. And everybody else, scattered amongst several rundown villages in the kingdom.

Blood is a constitution in this kingdom. It is blood that governs above all else, as it decrees law and order. In your kingdom, blood is thicker than water, than flesh, than bone. And it is blood that ties the guard to the Royal family. 

The Obsidian guard were created centuries ago to profit the Royals. Folklore told that the Obsidians were birthed from the mountain side, eyes and hearts as pitch black and hard as obsidian stone. Children were taught that Obsdians were created from one drop of royal blood, dripped over a piece of obsdian heartstone. As history told, the Royals gave Obsdians life. And the Obsdians lives would be used to protect the Royals. Black blood protecting blue.

Which of course means that if the King himself requests the services of the two strongest members of the guard, those services being to personally train his own son in combat... you don’t exactly have a say in the matter. 

The Prince is a mystery to you, and to most people. The King has kept him shielded all his life, raising him from within the shelter of the palace walls. All you know is that the Prince’s coronation is due to happen soon, and that each future King needs to fulfil to requirements before taking the throne.

One, the ability to fight in battle, and two, a chosen Queen with blood as blue as the Prince himself.

Both are, in your humble opinion, stupid fucking requirements.

So all of this means that you are here. Standing in front of the palace, shifting comfortably from foot to foot. You are restless, irritated, while Hyungwon is standing perfectly still. 

Hyungwon is your longest friend and another member of the Obsidian guard. You are happy that Hyungwon was selected to be your training partner. While you excel in attack, there is no one better than him in the entire Kingdom at defense. There's that, and the fact that Hyungwon shares your distaste for the royal hierarchy (although admittedly, he is much less openly vocal about it than you).

“Let’s get this over and done, shall we?” He asks as the doors finally open, and you just let out a sigh in response.

You walk into the palace together.

As always, you feel a bit taken aback when you’re on the other side of the palace gates. Everything inside the palace is impossibly ornate. Polished marble, orange chrome, and crystal as far as your eye can see. 

You gaze in disdain at the ceilings, which feature hand painted murals and chandeliers, and you can’t help but think that the Royals really must have a lot of free time if they’re painting on the damn ceilings.

A few people shoot you curious gazes as they stroll past, and you shudder at the obnoxious display of velvet clothing, immaculately made up faces. Everything in the palace is luxurious, even the people. Everywhere you turn, you see generations of wealth, blood money. 

Meanwhile, you and Hyungwon stick out like sore thumbs, dressed in simple, tattered training garments that have greyed with age and wear. 

One of the royal advisors, a tall man dressed in an embroidered blazer, comes rushing out to greet the two of you. He introduces himself as either Namjoon or Manjoon, you can’t remember and you also don’t care, and he leads you through the palace.

You’re led into a room adorned with plush looking couches and bookshelves crammed with books. At the centre of it all is the King, sitting on one of the couches, flanked by three guards.

“Thank you for coming,” The King says, bowing his head slightly and smiling graciously at you. “I trust you and your people are well?” 

He doesn’t wait for a response,, continuing on blithely. 

“My son requires combat training before his coronation, and I trust you both will be more than capable of training him in time. He-”

“When is his coronation exactly?” You interrupt, you feel Hyungwon prod at your side. “Your Highness,” You hurry to add, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

There is a slight silence that hangs between the three of you before the King clears his throat.

“Six months.”

It’s soon, sooner than you had anticipated. You wonder why that is, knowing the coronations usually happen in summer. The Royals like having their fancy coronation ceremonies when mother nature is more generous. 

Six months is a fraction of the time you take to train the Obsidian fledglings, let alone an inexperienced Prince. You glance sideways at Hyungwon, who also has a doubtful expression on his face.

The King catches this and hastens to reassure the two of you.

“We will have daily training sessions, six days a week.” He says authoritatively. “Six hour ones, attack and defense alternating day by day. I need him to be prepared in time for his coronation.”

You open your mouth to protest, but Hyungwon intervenes smoothly.

“We should be able to get him ready in time, Your Highness.” 

You hiss in your breath at that, loud enough for only Hyungwon to hear. You are appalled at the thought of how much time you are going to have to spend here, with the Prince, in this palace. 

Suddenly, the thought of being back in the mountains training the fledglings seem pleasant. Even with their penchant for biting and letting out random, high pitched screams.

“Wonderful.” The King smiles, leaning back in satisfaction. 

“So,” Hyungwon asks, glancing around the room. “… Where is the Prince, Your Highness?”

The King claps his hands together. “Ah. Son,” He calls out. “Come forth.”

You glance up as a young man strolls into the room. You feel a wave of surprise - you weren’t sure what you were expecting exactly, but whatever it was, it isn’t this.

The man is lean, and he has a smaller, more compact frame than you expected. He is also much, much more handsome than you expected.

He is dressed in a perfectly fitted black shirt, it’s adorned with lavish embroidery. His shirt is tucked into his pants, and his hair is a shade of burnt  silver, swept off of his forehead. 

He has quite unusual features, you muse to yourself. Almost feline eyes, strong eyebrows, and full lips. He has a dainty face, and as you look closer, a small silver earring dangles from his left ear.

He commands all attention from the moment he walks in the room without even trying. It’s not all due to his striking looks, it’s also his presence. He is oddly magnetic. It is  something that you’re sure will benefit him as the future King of this kingdom.

As your eyes rise to meet his, a tiny smile ghosts over his lips and you immediately frown.

He’s soft. There is no other way to describe it. Although he has sharp features, a piercing gaze… he is soft. He walks with the poise of a man who has lived a life in luxury, he smiles at you with the quiet shyness of someone who is too trusting, too open. Soft.

Now that you’ve identified it, you can practically see it radiating off of him in waves. He keeps glancing at you, his lips turned upward in a smile, and he even turns to look at Hyungwon and smiles. 

You can tell your comrade is equally baffled, because the Obsidian guard are not like this. No one smiles in the mountains, unless you are asking to be bitten by a fledgling.

Your lip curls. You have no patience for people who are soft, whose hearts are malleable and too easy influenced by others. Your expression doesn’t change, even when he continues to smile at you. You watch with a grim satisfaction as his lips droop downward.

“Chae,” The King begins, gesturing to Hyungwon. “Y/N.” He nods to his son, who is standing still, clasping at his own fingers.

“This is my son. Prince Jimin.”

Jimin, Prince Jimin, glances up and nods meekly at the two of you.

“It’s nice to meet you,” He says in a melodic voice. The words roll off of his tongue eloquently and your frown deepens.

“Nice to meet you too, your Highness.” Hyungwon says politely, you grit your teeth as Jimin turns his eyes to you.

“Nice to meet you too, Prince Jimin.” You say stiffly, and Jimin holds your eyes for a long moment before you finally look away.

“Will we start training tomorrow?” You ask, addressing the King and tilting your body away from the Prince. “Your Highness,” You add on.

You feel like you’re about to break out into hives, and all you want to do is leave the palace and drink ten litres of whiskey-

“Today.”

You can’t hide the shock from your face, because today? 

“If that’s difficult for um, Y/N and Hyungwon, we should start tomorrow, Father.” Jimin pipes up. Your eyes meet Jimin’s again and you see that he’s apologetic, biting his bottom lip as his eyes dart from his father to you.

You immediately decide that you hate him and the puppy dog look on his face.

“No,” You force out instead, pasting a fake smile onto your face. It must look terrifying because Jimin’s eyes widen. Come to think of it, you’re pretty much baring your teeth at him. Like you said, Obsdians don’t smile. You relax the expression as you turn to the King.

“Starting today sounds great, your Highness.”

You walk into the training field at 3PM on the dot, immediately spotting Jimin standing to the side. 

He looks ridiculous – wearing brand new black training gear so crisp and so untouched, that you can’t help but roll your eyes as you approach.

“So,” You begin. “Do you have any experience with combat?”

Jimin jumps in place at the sound of your voice, reaching up as if to run a hand through his hair. He stops, his hand hovering in mid-air, and then he shakes his head.

“No. None.” He answers in a polite tone and you cross your arms.

“… Nothing? Throwing, hitting, how to choke someone?” 

Jimin just shakes his head and wrinkles his nose delicately.

You frown. “Well, can you at least throw a punch?”

Jimin hesitates, long enough so that you can see him nibble his bottom lip, before he nods decisively. 

“I can.”

You nod, relieved.

“...I think.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, ten years of training up in the mountains and this is my life. Training a silver haired imbecile who doesn’t know if he can punch. 

“You think?” You repeat, not even bothering to mask the disbelief dripping from your words.

Jimin just nods again.

“Alright,” You sigh. “We’ll move onto actual fighting later. But for now… punch me.”

His eyes practically boggle out of his head as you hold out your palm in front of him, a makeshift punching bag.

“Punch you? I- I can’t. I can’t punch a woman.”

You let out a noise of impatience. “Just do it.”

“Aren’t we, I don’t know, gonna do warm ups or something?”

You roll your eyes. “This is a warm up. Punch me.”

He hesitates and then he shakes his head again, firmly. “No. I can’t.”

You raise an eyebrow at him irritably. “Punch me, or I will punch myself.”

You don’t really mean it, but you say the words as menacingly as you can and Jimin’s eyes widen before he coils his hand into a fist and strikes. 

He punches your palm, and you can tell from even the seconds before the hit lands that he has absolutely no experience. For one thing, his finger is curled into his own fist. Furthermore, instead of throwing his body weight behind the punch, he flings his arm out and bats uselessly against your palm like a cat hitting a piece of string.

“God,” You groan. “That was so bad.” 

Jimin is shaking his hand, wincing. “What? Really? Because that hurt.” 

“So you don’t know how to fight, you don’t know how to attack somebody, and you can’t even throw a punch.” This is beginning to feel like a very cruel joke. “How have you gone this far in life and without knowing how to punch someone?” You ask incredulously.

Jimin just shrugs. “I’m not a very violent person.” He comments, and then he gives you a tiny smile. “People don’t want to fight me.”

You wrinkle your nose at him. “I find that hard to believe.” You mutter. Jimin just smiles at you like you’ve made a great joke.

“Alright. We’ll we’ve got… what, a few months of training? We’ll try go through what we can. You’re training with me every second day, right Jimin?”

Jimin flinches at the last word and you stop still, staring at him.

“Did you just flinch?” You demand in a low, accusatory tone.

Jimin hesitates. You can practically see the words forming on his lips before he falls decidedly silent, and you narrow your eyes.  

“What is it?”

“I’m sorry, I’m just not used to it. Not being called Your Highness.” His shoulders drop up and down and he at least has the decency to look somewhat embarrassed. “Or Prince.”

“Just because the blood in your veins runs blue doesn’t mean that you are better than me.” You tell him evenly.

He nods, his eyes apologetic. “I know. I’m just not used to it. My own father doesn’t even call me Jimin half the time. But  really, I don’t think I’m better than anyone else. I’m just… me, I guess. I’ll get used to it, I promise.” He says, and there’s something the sincerity in his voice, the way he’s babbling on, that grates at your nerves.

You coil your fist back and punch him in the stomach. Not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to knock the wind out of him. 

As expected, he staggers back a little, making a small “oof” and clutching his stomach. 

“That is how you punch someone,” You say evenly, crossing your arms. “Jimin.”

Halfway into your third session with Jimin, you call for a quick break. 

As you promptly crouch down on the ground, you glance at the other man. You’re tired, but you can tell Jimin is exhausted – his chest is heaving with exertion, his face dotted with sweat, his silver hair mussed up. 

Your first session had been all about teaching Jimin how to land punches and hit with his fists. The second session entailed you teaching him how to use his feet. This session is all about facing your opponent and gaining the upper hand. In other words- you were basically hitting Jimin over and over and yelling at him, ‘Upper hand Jimin! Upper fucking hand!’ 

You have to give credit to Jimin for his determination. He’s dedicated, trying hard, but you refuse to ease up on him. If he is going to learn how to fight, well then, he is going to learn how to fight.

Jimin senses your stare and cranes his head to look at you.

“You okay?” You ask bluntly, and Jimin nods.

“How was I?” He asks keenly, and you shrug. 

“Better.”

That’s another thing that surprises you about Jimin, how he constantly asks you for your opinion on his progress. Whenever you offer even the barest shred of positive feedback, you can see that he’s pleased- he sits up straighter, fighting to hide a smile on his face. 

You don’t know why that is, why he cares so much about what you have to say... but you shrug off thinking about it too much.

“You’re a better learner than I expected,” You offer finally. Jimin smiles at that, taking a drink of water. “Thank you.”

You just shrug in response, and the two of you sit in silence for a moment.

“You weren’t what I was expecting.” Jimin confesses, wiping at some of the sweat on his forehead. “I didn’t know women could be Obsidian guards. No offense,” He added, seeing you narrow your eyes. “Please don’t punch me again.”

Your lips twitch and you fight the urge to smile. You study him closely, and when you see no maliciousness in his face, you relax a fraction. 

“Yeah,” You say finally. “I’m one of the only ones. There aren’t many. They’re meant to be men, in all the books and in history they were always men. They usually don’t even let women train in the mountains. They don’t even let woman touch weapons.” You let out an angry snort at that. 

Jimin nods, and you sneak a glance at him before continuing. He is gazing at you attentively, his knees tucked into his chest.

“They didn’t even want me to become one,” You continue wryly. “But I kept pushing, and fighting. Then eventually they said they would let me train if I beat their top fledgling, thinking that would get rid of me.” You smile at the old memory, shaking your head. 

“And you beat him,” Jimin finishes, and you grin at him.

“Sure did. It was close, but I destroyed his ass. Don’t let him tell you otherwise. Attack always wins over defense.”

Jimin’s eyes widen. “It was Hyungwon?”

You nod. “So, I trained. Trained hard. And now I’m here.” With you.

Jimin nods thoughtfully, resting his chin on top of his knees.

“So why did you want to become one then?” He asks curiously, and you hesitate.

“My…” You begin. Your voice cracks slightly. “My mother was the first female member of the Obsidian guard.” You say quietly. “I wanted to be like her. She always used to say, ‘life doesn’t play by the rules, so why should you?’ I know however hard I had to fight to join the guard, she fought twice as hard.”

You’re pulling the grass out of the earthy soil, and Jimin watches.

“What happened to her?” He asks softly, and you look up at him. His eyes are imploring, and you don’t ask how he knows. Something tells you that Jimin just gets things sometimes.

“She died in battle.” You say finally. “Ten years ago.” 

You can still remember that day clearly – a day when there were rumours of another kingdom planning an invasion. Your mother had ridden out to meet them in battle, to end the fight before it came to the royal grounds. 

Two hundred members of the guard had left that day. Only forty had returned. They had been triumphant, but only just. It was a bittersweet win, bodies were slain, dragged back into villages. You were young, but you can remember the sounds of the wails, the smell of death.

The entire time, those of blue blood had gone about their everyday lives, indifferent and uncaring about what had happened. Because that was the duty of the black blooded. Protect blue blood, at all costs.

“I’m sorry.” Jimin says softly, and he reaches out. He rests a few fingers on your wrist and you stop pulling at the grass. 

You suddenly didn’t know what to say. Everyone in this kingdom knows that Jimin’s mother, the previous Queen, had died when Jimin was young. Her death left Jimin without a mother, and the Kingdom without any other viable heir to the throne. 

You think back to the King, and how he actively shielded his son from the world after her death. You bit your lip. In a way, you suddenly understood. The day your mothers body was dragged back the village is one burned in your mind, like an ugly scar. You will carry it for the rest of your life.

You think that if you ever were to bring a child into the world, you would want to protect them at all costs too. 

Jimin’s fingers are still on your wrist and you drop your hand. Jimin pulls away and clears his throat.

“C’mon,” You say, straightening. There is a small pile of shredded grass on the ground and you kick it, sending the little pieces flying. “Back to work.”

You find yourself stopping by one of Jimin’s training sessions with Hyungwon.

For no reason other than curiosity, you tell yourself as you fold your arms and watch the two men. 

Hyungwon is unbeatable when it comes to defense. His long, lean limbs seem to be made of liquid, he is effortless, evading attacks and dodging strikes. 

There’s no one Jimin could be in better hands with. Still, you expect him to fail as miserably as he did with you at the start. 

So, you’re surprised when they start to fight.

Jimin is slow, as expected, and uncertain with his movements, also as expected… but he is surprisingly agile. He is almost graceful in the way he moves- his body slinks forth, he is in control of his movements. You realize that while he isn’t gifted with attack, with aggression… he maybe is okay at defense. Maybe. 

You watch the two of them, mesmerized.

Hyungwon calls for a rest and strolls over to you, one eyebrow raised. 

“What brings you here?” He asks, grabbing his water.

“How’s he doing?” You ask instead, nodding to the prince who has his water rucksack at his lips. You watch as droplets of water glide down from his lips his neck and something inside of you stutters. Hyungwon is staring at you with inquisitive eyes.

“Good,” He says slowly. “As I’m sure you can see.” He cocks his head at you quizzically. “You’re certainly interested in the prince prodigy.” 

You just shrug. “Doing my job, right?”

Hyungwon just gazes at you. “No other reason?”

Your eyes flicker from him to Jimin, who is practing his dodges, his burnt silver hair falling in his eyes as he practices, his face pinched in concentration.

“Nope,” You say, ignoring the fact that it feels like a blatant lie. You return your attention to Hyungwon, who is watching you intently. “No reason at all.”

You’re sparring with Jimin and for the first time, he’s not completely outmatched.

He’s doing well, more confident in his body and his movements. While you still neatly dodge all of his attacks, he comes close to landing a few punches.

But you’re still so much better, so much faster, and it’s almost fun to see the Prince frown in frustration every time you dodge away from his attempted attacks.

You keep your eyes on him, wondering if you should flip him on his back and call it a day, when he runs a hand through his hair. It’s an absentminded gesture, but something inside of you reacts, and you hesitate, staring at him.

His silver hair combed through his fingers, his eyes narrowed in focus, the tense of his muscles from underneath his black training shirt.

You swallow, your throat dry.

And then Jimin darts forward and lands a hit, right against your abdomen.

You stumble back, letting out a shocked gasp because most of your opponents never land a hit on you, let alone Jimin.

“Yes!” Jimin cheers, and you narrow your eyes. You sprint to him, he dodges your attack but your movements slice through the air as you hook behind his knee with your foot.

He comes tumbling down, within moments you’re on top of him. You pin his wrists to the floor, your leg keeping his down against the dirt. He’s winded, and you can’t help the triumphant smirk from dancing over your lips.

“You were getting a bit too cocky there, Park Jimin.” You say mockingly, but Jimin’s face is still scrunched up in pain. He lets out a tiny groan. You frown at him. “Hey asshole,” You mutter, loosening your grip on him slightly. “Are you okay?”

In a split second, Jimin headbutts you and you recoil in surprise, letting go of him. He takes the opportunity to roll, and before you quite know what’s happening, he’s pinning you to the ground. You struggle for a second, but your legs are pinned under his, your wrists locked in place by his fingers.

“Ah, that’s Your Highness to you,” He crows triumphantly. 

You can feel the dirt behind your hair and you can smell the earthiness of the soil, and Jimin is a lot stronger than you realized.

Jimin is also a lot closer than you realized. His face is only inches away from yours. You open your mouth to say something, but the words die from your lips when you see the way Jimin is staring at you. 

His eyes are intense, and this close, they’re unavoidable. They’re a deep, dark brown, with flecks of green and gold. This close, you can smell him. He’s a mix of different scents – sweat, mingled with a sharp, sweet, woody smell. Your eyes trail down to his lips and you feel a heat start to rise in your body. His lips are soft, full, and so fucking kissable.

Since when did you consider the Prince’s lips kissable?

You shove Jimin off of you roughly, he doesn’t make any protests, collapsing to the ground beside you. 

What the fuck was that? You straighten, shaking the dirt free from your clothes and your hair, your heart hammering away in your chest. Jimin too was avoiding your gaze, shaking the dirt free from his clothes.

“Sorry,” Jimin apologizes, and you glance at him. His cheeks are tinged pink and you look away. Your eyes land on the imprint in the dirt, trying not to remember how close he had been to you.

“It’s fine.” You say in a clipped voice. Jimin glances up at you uncertainly. You relent. “You did good.”

“Because of you, Y/N. Thank you.”

Jimin’s face melts into a smile and you have to look away because God damn it, you’re here to do a job and that job doesn’t involve getting a weird tingly feeling in your stomach every time Prince Jimin smiles like that.

Probably indigestion from the leftover rabbit stew you had this morning.

“Anyway,” You mutter. “We’ve gone overtime for our session today so yeah. Good job. Get outta here.”

Jimin nods, but he doesn’t make to leave, lingering.

“You know Y/N. Out of all the classes that I’ve had to take to prepare for being King one day, this is my favourite.”

You don’t even try to hide your scoff, looking up to see him staring at you with an earnest, sincere expression. That tingling feeling comes back and you return your stare to the ground.

“Seriously,” He continues. “It’s better than ballroom dance, better than archery, better than aristocracy…”

“Artisocracy?” You snort, Jimin ignores you and continues on.

“…I don’t know, I feel like at least this way I’m doing something. I mean, it might not be the most useful, but-”

You interrupt him with a deadpan expression. “Combat and learning how to fight might not be useful?” You repeat, and then you snort derisively. “Oh never mind. I forgot who I was talking to for a moment. You’re royalty. You have others to fight your own battles.”

There. You see it, a flash of irritation that crosses Jimin’s face. 

You feel it, a gnawing sense of relief. This is what you’re good at- testing people, pushing them further and further away. Not that Jimin is getting closer, you tell yourself quickly.

“No need for that,” Jimin says calmly. “There hasn’t been a war in centuries, my father never fought in a battle and neither did his forefather. I’ll be fine.”

You frown at him, there’s something spiking in your chest and you don’t know quite what it is. 

“When I talk about you making other people fight your own battles I’m not necessarily just talking about war, there are more sides to the damn coin than ‘war’ and peace,” You snap out. You hear your own voice back, you sound irritated, bothered. There’s something about Park Jimin that pushes all of your buttons all at once.

Jimin just frowns at you in confusion. He either doesn’t see the growing anger that is melting over your face, or he isn’t fazed by it.

“What,” He says in confusion. “An invasion?”

You narrow your eyes and you feel it seething inside of you. You look at him, with his hair, his eyes, and you can’t stand it.

“No,” You grit out in an icy tone. “Not a fucking invasion, this isn’t Troy and the wooden horse. I’m talking about the people out there.” You fling your arm vaguely outwards, Jimin’s eyes just trail your movement. “There are people who live in the villages, my people and other people, people beyond the four walls of this tiny palace, you know.”

Jimin just stares at you uncertainly. “I know that-”

“Do you?” You cut in. “Because they’re fighting different battles of their own. Famine, and having to work all day just to survive. You know last winter, when that blizzard struck? Do you know how many children perished? How many animals froze to death, leaving families starving? And what did you and the King and the rest of you blue blooded cowards do? Just burned through more firewood and called for warmer velvet jackets to be made, right?” 

Jimin is just staring at you, his eyes stricken and wide.

“We- we-” He stammers out and you just let out a frustrated sigh. 

Your eyes prick suddenly with tears and you have no idea why you’re so angry. Why it feels like your blood is boiling and your chest is thumping. It’s everything, you suppose. This day, today. Him, Park Jimin, who is the absolute epitome of everything you oppose, everything you despise about the royal hierarchy. Park Jimin who is so different to what you had expected him to be. 

A heavy, thick silence settles between the two of you. Jimin clears his throat.

“Can you take me?”

Your head snaps up as you stare at him. He is staring straight at you.

“Take you where?” You mutter, and Jimin bites his lip.

“To the villages. To your village. I don’t know, I just…” His voice breaks slightly and he swallows. “I haven’t been on non-royal business before and… I didn’t know…” His voice is tiny. 

You stare at him, your lips set in a firm line. You remember the royal official visits, days when the King and his royal advisors would travel to the different villages. Sometimes they would bring gifts – baskets of fruit, barely enough to make a dent in feeding people. Still, in the days leading up the village would be in a frenzy. Pooling together scraps of money and desperately buying nice garments to wear, scrubbing their faces, putting on the façade of happiness. 

You had hated it, even from a young age, and you can still remember clearly the resentment you had felt watching the King stroll through your village. And you can also remember the younger Prince by his side during one of those visits, cherubic and smiley, gazing around thoughtfully. 

You had decided then you hated him too. It’s ironic, that he’s standing in front of you now, asking to return to a village he’s already visited but doesn’t even remember.

“You really want to go?” You ask, and Jimin nods. His eyes are full of determination.

“I do.”

You stare at him and you sigh. Before you can quite stop yourself, you hear the words spilling out of your mouth.

“I’d take you, but there’s no way out of this Kingdom without guards seeing what we’re doing. And you can’t exactly just leave.”

You half expect to see Jimin nod in resignation. But instead, Jimin just smiles. His eyes dance and you frown. 

“What if I told you there’s a way out of the palace that no one knows about?”

“I’d say you’re a liar.” You retort, but Jimin just grins and walks forward, taking your hand. 

You almost snatch your hand away but Jimin’s hands are warm and laced into yours so comfortably that you just kind of just stop in place. Jimin just walks, leading you out of the training field. 

And as you walk,you ignore that feeling that’s back, in your stomach. It’s indigestion, you think firmly, I must be getting sick. Nothing else. Nothing to do with Park Jimin, and his hand, resting in yours.

It turns out that Jimin really does have a way in and out. 

There is a small hatch hidden behind a wooden plank in bedroom, and it funnels out to a drainway outside the heavily guarded palace walls.

When you arrive on the other side, blinking down at the soggy earth beneath you, you can’t help but feel impressed. Jimin catches the look on you face and smirks triumphantly.

“Still think I’m a liar?” He teases, and you begrudgingly shake your head.

“What d’you use it for?” 

“... To sneak in girls from the palace into my room. There’s another entryway that goes into one of the halls in the palace.” 

You let out a shocked, guffawing laugh. “You? Yeah right.”

Jimin just shrugs. “It’s true.”

You glance at him and you see the fullness of his lips, his hair, and you think about how close you were to kissing him earlier.

Nope, no kissing thoughts. You shake your head abruptly and change the topic. The last thing you want to think about is kissing Prince Jimin.

“So you haven’t used it to leave?”

“I haven’t,” He admits. “Not properly. I’ve known about it since I was a kid but I never even thought to use it. But then after my… after my mother died, I went through and I used to just sit here. On the bridge between my world and the outside world. I thought about running away a lot.” His voice is soft, and you glance at him. He has a pensive look on his face and you feel something akin to empathy.

“When my mother passed,” You say quietly. “I thought about running away all the time.”

Jimin glances at you and you feel your breath halt. The sky is nearly all but black now, and he has such a soft look on his face that you feel unnerved by it. 

“I’m glad you didn’t.” He murmurs.

Time stills.

“Yep,” You say brusquely. “Let’s go to my place. I’ve got a cape and some of Hyungwon’s old pants that’ll fit you… you’ll need to hide your hair and change clothes.” You glance dismissively at his black, sleek training pants and his silk shirt, and Jimin looks at you with a surprised expression.

“People don’t dress like this in the villages?”

You stare at him and then his face breaks into a laugh. His eyes crease in the corners and he laughs with his entire body and it’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen, and you honestly cannot stop staring.

“I’m just kidding. I’m not a complete idiot, you know. Sounds like a good idea, thanks.”

His voice is slightly throaty from laughing and you just swallow hard and nod, wondering how it is that Jimin’s laugh makes your stomach do backflips. A very abnormal reaction. Possibly dangerous. Definitely not indigestion.

You make a quiet mental note to yourself that from now on, when it seems like he might start laughing, to avert your gaze. It’s a matter of your own safety, you think.

You have to suppress your laughter every time you look at Jimin. 

He’s dressed in Hyungwon’s old training pants that you found buried in a corner of your room. They’re black, made of a heavy fabric and Jimin had to roll them up at his ankles. 

You’ve given him an old charcoal grey cape that he wraps around his shoulders and hoists over his head, blocking his distinctive hair and most of his face from view. You have a feeling no one in your village will recognize him anyway, but still, it’s better to be safe than sorry.

You are walking with him down the footpath from your small, tucked away home to the main part of the village.

“So,” Jimin begins. “Who lives here?”

You bat at a branch ahead of you, it snaps and falls to the ground. “A lot of families of the Obsidian guard.” You say. “And old members of the Guard. The guard themselves either live in the palace fulfilling their duties, or in the mountains, training.” 

Jimin nods at this, the hood slipping slightly over his face. He pushes it up hastily and you fight the urge to giggle. It doesn’t work, and a small giggle escapes your lips. You clap your hand to your mouth.

“Did you just… giggle?” Jimin asks incredulously and you open your mouth in protest. You are not a giggler. Or a laugher. Or even a smiler.

“No,” You begin in a strong voice but Jimin is just grinning at you and God damn it. You giggle again and then groan when you hear Jimin laugh loudly. “Shut up.”

The two of you trudge down the path in companionable silence and then you hear Jimin clear his throat.

“So… these are Hyungwon’s pants, right?” He asks, and you look down at them, the fabric rolled neatly around his calves. 

Even though they’re too long, Jimin has surprisingly muscular legs, strong thighs and calves that have a curved muscle running through them. They’re tensed now as he walks and you suddenly rip your eyes away, realizing that you’re staring at the prince’s legs.

“Yep,” You say instead, ignoring the prickling heat threatening to crawl up your face.

“Oh,” Jimin says lightly. “So you and him…” his voice lilts up in a question and you give him a dry, slightly disgusted look.

“Hell fucking no.”

Jimin smiles at this and your stomach flip flops. “Oh.” This time, the oh sounds completely different. You try not to dwell on why.

“We’re just friends. I’ve known him my whole life.” You say instead. 

“Oh, so he’s like your best friend?”

“No. I don’t have a best friend.”

Jimin frowns at this, a small pout. He looks ridiculous, the hood still pulled low over his face, rolled up pants, pouting.

“That’s sad.”

You roll your eyes. “What, do you have a best friend?”

Jimin thinks on this. “No. But I hope my future wife will be my best friend. As well as the love of my life.”

You wonder if he’s joking, but his face is deadly serious. You’re so used to royal marriages being talked about as if they’re economical, clinical affairs – marriages designed to benefit two Kingdoms, to bring about the maximum prosperity possible. That’s your idea of a royal marriage. Not two best friends who are in love.

You’re not sure how to respond to that, to Jimin’s frank words, the earnest expression on his face. The trees are thinning ahead of you and you clear your throat.

“Um, we’re nearly there. We shouldn’t say your name, you know, just in case. We should call you something else.”

“Okay. Like what? Something that makes me sound tall and handsome and cool.” He grins, he’s in such a good mood and for a moment your walls slip and you smile back.

“Uh- sorry to break it to you. You’re not tall, or cool.” You say witheringly and then a small, sly smile spreads across Jimin’s face.

“But you think I’m handsome.” 

God, are you blushing? You just look ahead to where the village main square is, and you ignore Jimin entirely. Jimin laughs again, spotting your blush, and of course, you blush even harder.

“We’ll just call you John, okay?” You say aloud instead and Jimin hums beside you.

“Okay. John the Handsome.”

Your blush deepens.

You reach the main square, and it’s busy. Even now, when the sun has set fully, the square is dimly lit and you can see people working. Carts being dragged, taking the produce to safe places of shelter, small children running around selling goods. Old, wizened women laid on the floor with only a thin blanket beneath them, shivering in the cold, old pieces of fruit and vegetables laid out carefully by their feet. 

And then, scattered throughout, people in threadbare rags, curled up, speaking to nobody and seeing nothing – presumably, just trying to hold themselves together and last through the winter.

It’s a familiar sight to you. One that you hate, but one that also feels like home. 

“Home sweet home.” You mutter, but Jimin hasn’t heard you. He steps forward, his eyes widened as he takes in the scene. He looks stunned, the earlier lightness gone from his face, the smile no longer on his lips. 

You watch him, biting your lip. “Hey,” You say softly. “John.” 

He barely reacts, you see him staring at a small huddle of people sitting together. A family, a woman, a young child, a baby. The mother is dressed in thin, barely there rags, her baby in her arms swaddled in what must be her only clothes. She is shivering in the wind.

Jimin is staring at them, a stricken look on his face. You watch as he begins to grab at the cape. “I should…” You hear him mutter and you stop him, your hand catching his wrist.

“You can’t.” You say bluntly. You meet his gaze and your eyes soften when you see the look in his eyes. 

“C’mon.” You murmur, and before you quite know what you’re doing, your hand is slipping back into his again. “Let’s go.”

You’re a familiar face in the village, and some people nod and greet you as you pass. Jimin is intrigued by this, and he turns to you.

“How do they all know you?”

You shrug. “I’m one of the few female Obsidian guards, I guess.”

Jimin doesn’t buy it, you can tell by the way he pokes your side.  “And what else?”

You squirm, but his gaze is unrelenting. Finally, you shrug.

“I give people in the village supplies and stuff when I can, okay?” You mutter, and you glance up to see a tender look on Jimin’s face. You shrug. “It’s the least I can do. You should see some of the other villages. This is one of the better ones. The others are so much worse.” Your expression darkens and you see Jimin bite his lip and stare at his feet.

You take him around in fairly aimless circles, eventually ending up back in the main square. The entire time, Jimin is mostly silent, only asking isolated questions every now and then like ‘how many people live here?’, and ‘where do people live if they don’t have houses?’ You can practically hear the thoughts churning through his mind, right up until he asks, ‘How many people die?’ You end up answering with ‘Too many’, and you see the way Jimin’s face crumples. He doesn’t ask questions after that.

You end up waiting outside a small rickety home, a makeshift bakery where the owners make hot loaves of corn bread. It is nothing compared to the crunchy sourdough they make at the palace. But on a cold day like today, it’s better than nothing. As you take the hot, small loaf in your hands, giving the lady money, you return to the spot where you told Jimin to wait for you. 

The rain has started to fall, it’s more of a drizzle than rain, causing the square to be filled with a strange slate grey haze. A mist. 

Eventually, you spot him sitting by that same woman with the two children. They’re talking, and the woman’s face is tilted to him, and you wonder what it is that Jimin is saying. But the woman looks happy, and then Jimin smiles and you see the woman smile back. The young child who is tucked shyly into her mother’s arms beams too. You can understand that, how Jimin’s smile can make you feel. It seems to blot out the darkness and the bitterness and replace it with something gold and warm.

You approach them. “Hey John,” You mutter. “Here.” You pass him the loaf because you feel like he should eat. He’s royalty and they’re renowned for eating several lavish meals a day. 

Jimin glances up at you and accepts the loaf. He holds it in his hands and then passes it to the woman.

She starts to refuse, her protests feeble, but Jimin presses it into the young girl’s hands instead. She, of course, lights up with enthusiasm, her tiny palms splayed over the bread as she starts babbling excitedly about how warm it feels.

The woman is grateful, so grateful, and Jimin is still talking to her about something. You’re not sure what. You’ve stopped paying attention, because the entire scene unfolding in front of you has you feeling it. That same golden, soft butteriness. It seems like it’s spreading into every inch of your bloodstream as you watch Jimin gently offer his palm to the young girl’s. She shyly gives him a high five and you it feels like you’re made up entirely of warmth.

“John,” You murmur, and Jimin glances up at you. 

You feel something inside of you buckle, like a rubber band snapping. He’s so beautiful- the mistiness of the rain causing tiny droplets to hang on his lashes, his full lips slightly parted, his eyes distracted. The cape around his head has slipped slightly and you can see a flash of hair, silver, framing his face.

“We…” You stammer, and then you tear your eyes away because you’re not sure if you can handle looking at him for much longer. “We should get going. It’s late.” 

You’re staring off into the distance as you speak, and you hear Jimin sigh, nodding and standing up. 

“Okay.” 

You hear him brushing the dirt off his clothes, then his voice, soft and sweet.

“It was so lovely to meet you. Really. I… I won’t forget you.”

You hear her response, her words tumbling over themselves in an effort to get out quicker. “Thank you. Thank you so much. Thank you, John.”

You don’t look at Jimin, you wait until he’s by your side and then you turn your head, practically marching away. 

“Thank you for showing me.” Jimin says softly beside you. 

You don’t speak, because you have too many thoughts in your head and you’re confused and overwhelmed. All you want to do is reach your house so you can give Jimin his clothes back and get him back to the palace. 

All the neat compartments of your life aren’t as neat as you thought they were, and now the lines are blurred. You’re so confused that all you can do is keep your head down, staring at the ground and the heavy indents of your footprints left behind in the dirt, trying to get your thoughts together.

You reach your place and more or less shove Jimin’s clothes at him, muttering ‘get dressed’. 

When Jimin is finally back in his normal clothes, he lingers by your doorway, sighing. You can see by the expression on his face that he’s deep in thought, biting his bottom lip contemplatively.

“We have to do something,” He suddenly bursts out. “I have to do something.” He continues, shaking his head fervently. “I’m going to be different when I’m the king,” He says firmly. “I’m gonna change things, you know? I don’t know how, but I will. I’ll… I’ll I don’t know, use some of the resources to make things more balanced, improve peoples lives, figure out a way everyone can last through the winter…”

He stares at you and you can see it in his eyes. He means what he’s saying. And that in itself terrifies you. He’s good, you realize with a jolt, he has a good heart and he has good intentions, and he’s empathetic. Everything that you thought you knew about royalty, about Jimin, about everything... is wrong. 

There’s that, and he’s also going to be the King, and he’s standing here in your house where he doesn’t belong and God, that feeling is back in your belly.

You’ve been staring for so long that you don’t even notice how silent it has gotten, just the sounds of him, breathing, and you, breathless.

“Yep,” You say finally, sarcastically. “Sure.”

Jimin frowns. “What, you think I can’t?”

You don’t respond, and you hear Jimin take a sharp breath in.

“Or do you think I won’t?”

You roll your eyes instead because it’s the only way you know how to respond, because you’re too afraid to speak. Too afraid of what it is that you’re feeling in your chest.

“Stop doing that!” Jimin snaps, and for the first time you hear his voice harden. 

“Stop doing what?” You taunt back, and you’re doing it again, pushing, pulling, prodding at him. And you don’t know why. But unlike everyone else in the past, he doesn’t back away. Instead he steps closer.

“Talking to me like you think I’m a bad person,” he continues. “Belittling me. What is it? Do you really hate me that much?”

His eyes are flashing with hurt and he’s standing with his shoulders square, directly in front of you. 

You almost say no, I don’t, I don’t hate you at all and that’s the problem but instead you stiffen your shoulders and put on the steeliest face you can.

“Do you really think I have it in me to hate you? I don’t care about you enough to hate you, Park Jimin.” 

You almost expect Jimin to react but he’s just staring at you, a strange expression on his face.

“Do you always push people away?” He asks instead, his voice calming down.

His words hit a nerve. You are lost for words, staring at him, but Jimin is just watching you. 

“You know what,” You mutter venomously. “Scratch what I said earlier. I do hate you. I can’t stand you.”

You take an angry step towards him, expecting him to flinch, but he doesn’t move. He just stands there still, his eyebrow raised. 

Something flashes in his eyes – anger, frustration, blended with something else. Something you recognize. Lust. And then Jimin pushes you against the wall, his fingers laced with yours, your back against the stained stone of your home.

Your breath shudders out in surprise as you stare at him. All your attempts to curb that feeling crumble as you take in the look on his eyes, the clench of his jaw. 

You stay there for a moment, locked under him, and the two of you stare at each other evenly like you’re waiting for someone to make a move. A stalemate. And then you can’t tell who breaks it first, but somehow your lips collide in a hungry, urgent kiss.

Your body keens into his the moment you feel the urgency in his kiss. He kisses you deep, hungrily, desperately, like he wants to consume you whole. His touch is rough, his fingers grip so tight against your hip that it hurts, and the pain just spurs on the arousal beginning to pool in your belly. 

He’s pressing your hard against the wall and your back aches, but the ache in between your legs is stronger, tugging you into a headspace of dizzy arousal.

Jimin bites his lips as he pulls away, his eyes scanning over your face. 

“You can’t stand me?” He comments calmly, and you just whimper under the heaviness of his gaze. He responds by pressing his thumb hard against your slit, pushing it inside the folds of your pussy and making you cry out. His touch is rough, dominant, and it fills you with so much heat.

“Yes, I can’t fucking stand you,” You pant out, you lie right through your teeth, and Jimin’s eyes flash. 

“Get on your knees,” He commands, and you stare up at him. 

“Why?” You ask, even though you already know what the reason is. 

“Because I want you to suck my cock dry.” 

Your breath hisses in involuntarily as you look down at the bulge in his pants, your eyes flitting back up to Jimin’s face. 

He has a quietly calm look on his face, and it occurs to you that you had never expected Park Jimin to be like this. 

For a moment you consider saying no, standing up and strolling out. This is a bad idea, the rational side of your brain chides. He’s royalty, this is so wrong, not to mention you’re supposed to be his coach. You’re supposed to maintain some kind of power and authority…

But when you look into Jimin’s dark eyes and see the way he licks his lip, the quiet confidence that emanates from him. And all reason flies out of your head. 

You want him. The thought of Prince Jimin, too soft for his own good, ‘I talk to high five children and I don’t know how to land a punch’ Prince Jimin demanding that you get on your knees has gotten you so fucking wet. So wet that you have to squeeze your thighs together. 

With a tiny whimper, you fall to your knees, wincing a little as your kneecaps hit the hard ground below. 

Jimin grasps his pants and underwear and yanks them down, and your eyes widen. You’re not exactly a connoisseur of cocks -a cock is a cock, okay- but Jimin’s… It’s thick, thicker than you expected, and it stands up straight and hard, and you suddenly wonder how his thick cock is going to feel when you’re taking it down your throat. 

You swallow, seeing his balls, tense and full already, and the pinkness of his head. It’s wet with his precum and the sight is obscene and wildly arousing. Your mouth waters.

You shuffle towards Jimin and carefully take his length in your hand. It’s been so long since you’ve done this that each movement is uncertain. 

Jimin doesn’t encourage you. He simply stands there and looks down, his dark eyes hypnotic. He has strong, thick thighs, more defined than when you first saw him – a byproduct of your intense training sessions, you assume. The thought of your training sessions: you telling Jimin what to do, the frustration on his face as you bark orders at him… and how completely reversed the dynamic is now, you perched between his legs like this… it has your mouth drying with lust. 

He wasn’t kidding, you realize, when he talked about how he was experienced, sneaking women into his palace bedroom. He knows what he’s doing. He knows what to say. The thought of him being like this with other women, demanding that they get on their knees and blow him, saying it without cockiness or nastiness but stating it firmly and calmly… sweet God. It’s hot, so hot that it feels like flames are licking at your face and under your skin.

And suddenly, all you want is to have his dick in your mouth and down your throat until you can’t breathe. As dirty as that is, you want it, and you want it bad.

You stick your tongue out and press it flat against the head of his dick, tasting his salty precum. He lets out a suppressed grunt and the sound makes you smile. Your smile widens when you swirl your tongue around his head and feel his thighs stiffen. 

You wrap your lips around the head of his cock properly, and flick your tongue over it. He lets out a low, almost guttural moan and it causes something inside of you to ignite. You like this, hearing his tiny moans of pleasure, being on your knees. "You feel amazing,” Jimin moans and you like that even more. You don’t have time to question what the fuck that means because you’re slowly easing your mouth down and taking in more of his dick.

He isn’t very long, but he is thick. Carefully you ease more of his cock into your throat until it hits the base of your throat and you let out a tiny, choked gag. Tears spring to your eyes and you glance up through your eyelashes to see Jimin watching you. He reaches out and brushes the hair off your forehead.

“Keep going, darling.” 

What is it about the silkiness of his words that has you taking in even more of him down your throat? You have no idea but whatever it is, it’s a turn on. A huge turn on, because your legs are still squeezed together and you’re fighting the urge to slip your hand between the folds of your pussy and get yourself off. 

You can hear it, the small “mmmhms” and the hooded look in his eyes as he gazes down at you. You can feel it, his cock hitting the base of your throat as you bob your head up and down carefully.

“You feel so good, fucking me with your mouth.” Jimin moans, “I swear I’m going to cum down your pretty little throat soon you feel so good.” You moan around his cock at his words, and then he pulls out of you, his fingers grasping your chin. “Up, clothes off. I want to fuck you.”

His dick is still standing up tall and erect, glistening from having been thrust down your mouth just moments ago. You stay there on your knees, dazed for a moment. You snap into action and hurry onto your feet, fingers trembling as you yank off your pants and your training shirt. 

They fall to the floor and then you’re naked. Naked, in front of Prince Jimin. You barely have time or awareness for that to sink in, because you want him so badly it’s the only prominent thought in your brain. You’re desperate, rushed.

Jimin however, scans over you slowly. His eyes are wide and you watch as his mouth drops open a little. He’s taken aback somewhat, and then he swallows, hard.

“Fuck. Wow.” He says simply, and you realize right then and there that you have to fuck this man. You want to communicate this to him, but all you manage is a small whine of his name.

“Jimin.”

He reacts immediately, he all but rips his shirt off, throwing it to the floor – it’s raw silkworm fabric and you don’t even want to know how much gold that would’ve cost – and you gape. You haven’t seen him shirtless before, and although you’ve guessed that he’s well built by the ripple of his muscles under his training clothes... this is something else entirely.

You can’t help but boggle, at the tautness of his stomach, the muscles in his arms. 

He’s lean, muscle on top of muscle and he’s lithe. He moves with intention and purpose. While the men in the guard are bulky, tall, fleshy and blatant… Jimin is smooth. Every line of him is supple, yet strong. It turns you on more than you thought possible.

He nods over to the small stool that you have in the centre of your room, you use it to do stretches and to toss your clothes on at the end of the day.

“Bend over on that chair,” He snaps, his voice soft and his words icily firm, and you do what you are told. It fills you with a dangerously hot arousal, your tummy tucked over your stool, your ass propped up in the air, as Jimin walks towards you. 

He runs his palms over your ass and he moans, and you feel so wet and you ache so bad that it hurts. 

“You want it, don’t you?” He hums, his voice is still liquid smooth but you can hear the throatiness in his words and you know he’s as turned on as you are.

“Yes,” You whimper out. “God yes.” 

Jimin’s hand is still caressing your ass.

“Why should I give my cock to you?” Jimin asks, his words hard and unrelenting, his voice still pleasant.

“Because,” You pant out. “Because I want it. Please, please your highness.” 

The words spill out of you, you’re begging for him. In any other situation your lip would curl at the words coming out of your mouth. But right now, with the throb between your legs this dense and heavy, you’ll say anything.

Being at the mercy of Prince Jimin like this, it fills you with a strange, fiery kind of want. Your hear him groan at your words and then his hands are at your hips. He teases your wet entrance with the tip of your cock and your jaw is clenched hard and tight. You can feel it, the tip of him brushing over your clit and over your wetness and it’s such a tease that you almost feel like crying. 

“Jimin,” You grit out. “Please.”

Jimin just responds by sliding a fraction of his length inside of you, it’s so close that it has you whimpering out. 

“Please, please,” You beg out, your voice is breathy and full of desperation, but you need him. Feeling his hands on your hips, the strength of his hold on you. It’s immense. It feels like every moment until now, the sparring, the crackling sexual tension, has let to this. 

The sounds of your breathiness, you begging.

And then Jimin slides inside of you.

He takes it slow, likely on purpose, and you let out a cry at the feeling. 

His cock is thicker than what you’re used to, and it stretches you out. It’s been such a long time since you’ve had sex, and when you have in the past, it was always rushed. You, riding a guy until you had a quick, mildly satisfying orgasm. But it was never this – drawn out, teased, you sprawled under a man with plump lips and a silky smooth voice. 

When he’s finally all the way inside of you, you release a long breath that you hadn’t even known you’d been holding in. You hear Jimin let out a stuttering breath, the two of you are still for a moment, just feeling one another, and then Jimin starts to thrust.

He is fucking into you hard, his pace steady and at just the right speed that has you crying out his name. The blood is rushing to your face and you’re slightly dizzy but all you can feel is him, the loud slap of skin as he slams into you. 

You can hear the vocalizations he makes with every thrust, grunts, growls, and then small soft mewls as he arches upwards and hits you at different angles. Each push of his cock leaves you a writhing mess beneath him.

You’re spiraling fast into it, at this angle and this speed it feels like you’re about to either sink into the fucking earth or float into the stratosphere. You’re both heavy and light all at once and you have never, ever felt this good before. You’re being fucked out on your chair like a sex doll, and then just when you think you can’t be pushed any further to an edge that you never knew existed, Jimin’s fingers run through your hair and whe wraps your hair in his fingers with a twist of his wrist.

Your breath hitches in as you realize what he is doing, seconds before he pulls. The sting on your scalp, the hand he has rested on the top of your ass, the vulgar slaps of his messy, intense thrusts has you wondering if you can die from pleasure, because seriously, you’re going to fucking die it feels so good.

He pulls hard, and you focus in on the words that are coming out of his mouth and it feels like your insides are going to spool out of you, you’re that fucking messy. Pain and pleasure mingling together, spikes of white hot heat flashing through you. 

“You’re such a mess for my cock, you’re falling apart around it,” Jimin is saying in a throaty voice. “I wonder what everyone else would think, Y/N getting fucked out on her chair like this, begging for me…” He tugs again and you let out a loud moan. It feels good, so good that even the word ‘good’ doesn’t fit, and then it happens. 

You gasp for air and you let out a loud, strangled moan and your body collapses forward. Your orgasm is intense, sharp and shooting and delicious and warm all at the same time. Just before your head hits the floor Jimin is pulling out of you and scooping you up.

He carries you to your bed and lays you down, he hovers over you for a second and you open your eyes, wincing a little.

“More,” You pant out, you’re still high but you still want, and Jimin just smiles. “More huh,” he murmurs, his voice controlled, but you see the way he bites his lip and the aroused roll of his eyes. And then he’s inside of you again. 

You almost can’t believe that you want more but you do. It feels insatiable the hunger you have for Jimin. You’re blissed out, your orgasm still glittering inside of you, but you want him to cum, you want his cum inside of you. You want to see what an orgasm looks and sounds like coming from his lips. If his smile does what it does to you, you can’t even imagine what his orgasm face will look like..

Jimin is thrusting into you hard and fast and desperate and you stare up at him. He looks so good from this angle, his dark eyes dilated and staring directly at you. His full lips are bitten from your kisses, his hair a mess. He looks beautiful. Prince fucking Jimin, you think, and then you see him clench his jaw. 

“I’m going to, God I’m gonna-” He stammers out and then he orgasms, hard and messy and intense, his body folding on top of yours, his body weight heavy on top of you as he moans out into your scratchy bedspread.

You close your eyes and bask in it for a moment. You feel good, your body relaxed, your core sated, your limbs slippery. 

Your mind however, is not as rested, racing with dirty images of him, and even though yes, you feel satiated sexually, you still want him. It’s like you’ve unlocked a floodgate and you want more, more, more.

“Was that alright?” Jimin asks breathlessly, you glance up and your face flushes with heat. He’s lying on his side, propped up with his elbow. “I wasn’t too… rough?”

You stare at him. He’s biting his lip, smiling at you. How does he go from that, pinning you down, pulling your hair and saying those hot, dirty things... to this? Buttoning up his shirt, a sweet smile on his face? That duality turns you on yet again and you swallow heavily, resisting the urge to ask for more.

“Yeah it was… it was good,” You manage to say, and you keep your eyes averted. Still, you can sense that he’s smiling, pleased with your words.

“I wanted you from the moment I first saw you.” He confesses, and you glance at him. 

“I…” Your voice trails off and you suddenly have no idea what to say. He waits for an answer and then steps towards you. 

He misses, his lips landing on your jaw. Your head snaps towards him in surprise and then he kisses you. Softly, tenderly, and you can’t help but melt into it for a split second before you shake it off, shake him off. 

This is insane, this isn’t you. This is Jimin, Prince Jimin.

“What the hell are you doing?”

You see Jimin’s face fall just a fraction before he shrugs.

“I wanted to kiss you.” He says simply, and you narrow your eyes at him.

“Yeah, well don’t.” You snap out. “This is just sex, okay? I have needs, you have needs, that’s it.” 

Jimin stares at you for a long moment, his eyes unreadable. You feel something deep in your belly and you quash it down, hardening your voice even more.

Needing to gain authority, to gain control again, because your body is trembling and your heart is slamming around in your chest and it’s terrifying.

“Got it?” Your words come out harsher than intended but you can’t take them back now.

Jimin just stares, and then he nods, glancing down. He picks up his embroidered jacket and slips it on, his face taut. 

He walks towards the door, his hand resting on the doorknob. 

“Got it.” He says quietly, before he leaves.

Jimin trains with Hyungwon the next morning. You’re lingering around the palace, sneaking bread from the kitchen. You’re moping about the sex, trying not to dwell on it too much but also unable to stop dwelling on it, when you hear a voice behind you.

“Y/N.” 

You whirl around, a bread roll in hand., to see the King. Behind him, one of his guards stands, his face turned away politely.

You gape for a moment, but you don’t let go of the bread roll as you bow to the King. When you straighten, you take an inconspicious nibble. Because, priorities.

“How is Jimin’s training going?” The King asks, and you blink, unsure why he’s here, why he’s talking to you. 

“Um,” You say, swallowing the bread. “Good?” The training is good, the sex is good... wait no, don’t think about it, don’t think about the sex when you’re talking to his Dad. Who is also the King. Fuck. 

The King nods, and you see worry flit over his face. “Do you think he’s ready to be a king?” He asks you tentatively.

You have no idea why he’s asking you, but something inside of you weakens. You lower the bread roll and sigh heavily.

“Yes and no.” You say honestly, and the King nods.

“I appreciate your honesty.”

You just shrug in response. You study him, seeing the tension in his face, the aged sigh that seems to continuously drift from his lips.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” You begin hesitantly. “Why were you so insistent on ensuring Jimin has such thorough combat training? I know it’s a condition of the throne, but I’ve heard in the past that most princes skim through that requirement. Er, Your Highness.”

The King frowns at your question, you can sense his eyes on you, assessing you. He’s trying to get a sense of whether or not he can trust me, you realize. 

“I’ve heard whispers of things. Of tension.” The King said finally. “Things in this kingdom have been so peaceful. For years. Too peaceful. I’m worried.” He sighs, that same weary sigh. “When Jimin takes the throne, things may collapse. In ways worse than I can even imagine. That’s why Jimin needs to be prepared. He needs to be the best King possible, better than I ever was, better than my father ever was. He needs to hold thing kingdom together before it falls apart.”

He’s talking negatively, and you open your mouth to let out reassurances. Or maybe criticisms. Because he hasn’t exactly been a good King the last fifty years. But you fall silent. It occurs to you that maybe the King already knows that. 

“I’ll train him well.” You say instead, lamely, and the King just nods. 

“Please.” He says. “Do.” Then he turns, nodding at his guard, who straightens. 

The King doesn’t say anything to you as he leaves, and you watch him retreat, stuffing the last of the bread roll into your mouth.

The next day at training, you keep your eyes on Jimin, waiting for a sign of something. 

You haven’t spoken to him since you all but pushed him out of your place, and as much as you want to act like it isn’t there, a knot of worry has gathered in the pit of your stomach.

“Hello, Prince Jimin.” You greet, biting your lip. Jimin glances up, meeting your gaze. His face is carefully composed.

“Hello.” He says coolly, and you feel your muscles stiffen. Your eyes are searching his. And you see it. Jimin’s mouth twitches, just a fraction. A tiny hint of a smile. Everything is okay.

You don’t realize how tense you were until your body relaxes. You wonder what that means- why you were so worried about this, about seeing him again, but you push that thought away. You have a job to do.

“We’re going to run over weapon strategy today,” You begin, and Jimin steps towards you.

“Wait. Before we start, I just wanted to say... thank you. For taking me to your village.”

You’re surprised by his words, which is why you stammer out a startled sounding “It’s okay.”

Jimin nods, a serious look on his face. 

“I meant what I said, Y/N. Things are going to change when I’m, you know. The King.”

You gaze at him and feel something twist in your chest. He’s so idealistic, so determined, and you can’t help but wonder how many other rulers started off like that. Countless. But then again, you also wonder how many other rulers were like this. Like Jimin. None.

“I really hope so.” You just say back.

Jimin nods. “I promise you.” He says, and you stare at him, before you finally clear your throat, tearing your eyes away from his face, focusing on the wooden rack of weapons in front of you.

“Which do you think you’d prefer to use?” You glance up at Jimin, your fingers lingering over the different choices. Mace, sword, crossbow, flail, axe. Jimin just shrugs.

“The weapon of my brilliant mind and kind heart?” He jokes, and your lips twitch before you give him a disapproving look. 

Jimin frowns. “Do you really think that I’ll ever be in a one on one battle?” He asks dubiously, and you can understand his confusion. Royalty are never on the forefront of war, they stay cloaked, shielded behind rows and rows of men.

Guards like yourself take the risks. Take the deaths.

“Probably not.” You said honestly. “But I think it’s important regardless.”

You hadn’t run over this particular element of training with anyone from the royal family. You hadn’t even run it over with Hyungwon. It hadn’t been officially approved, and you know that you’re supposed to be teaching Jimin ‘battle tactics’ (and by tactics you know that means the 'send in the weaker first then retreat’, a cop out that you refuse to teach). But after last night and your conversation with the King, you have decided to do things differently. 

“Don’t tell anyone I’m teaching you this,” You continue. “Royalty don’t usually learn, because they don’t need to. But…” Your voice trails off and you shrug. “I’ve taught the ten year old kids in my clan weaponry skills, so I figure you may as well learn too.”

Jimin nods and shrugs, easygoing as ever. 

You feel relieved, and nod curtly. “We’re going to run over weapon strategy today,” You begin, and Jimin nods at your words. “So,” You continue. “Choose.”

“Dunno,” He mutters. “Crossbow maybe? I’m good at archery.” 

“Hmm.” You hum. “Good for long distance or for stealth attacks,” You begin. “But not for one on one battle.”

Jimin nods, absorbing your words. Your hands rest on the different options. 

“Royalty often hold swords,” You continue, “But they’re heavy and slow. Maces and flails are good for those with brute strength. Axes are good for when there’s thick masses in battle, a good way to cut down the people ahead of you.” 

You watch him carefully but Jimin’s face holds firm. He is a far cry from the man you had first begun training who couldn’t punch. A flutter of pride eases it’s way in your chest.

“Okay, so for me…?” Jimin continues, and you gaze at him thoughtfully.

You reach in your pants to the weapon sitting flush against your thigh. You pull it out in one smooth motion, setting it on the wooden table in front of him.

“Dagger.”

Jimin’s eyes widen. “Where…?”

You bite your lip. “I stitch a loop into all my pants,” You admit. “I’m kind of a sewing genius. Don’t tell anyone.” You lift the dagger menacingly to him but Jimin just laughs. You frown, lowering the weapon. 

“Seriously. Maybe I’m paranoid,” You shrug. “But keeping a weapon on you that no one knows about is a smart idea. I don’t know, I really believe in keeping some things hidden. For yourself only.”

Jimin just shrugs. “Fair enough.”

You sigh. “Here.” You mutter, tossing the weapon over to him. He picks it up, analyzing the blade. It’s metal forged in the mountains, ancient metal that is sharp to the touch. Stronger and deadlier than any blade you’ve encountered in battle. A rare heirloom, passed down from your mother. 

You pick up the mace, testing its weight in your hands. Jimin’s eyes widen as he sees what you’re holding.

“Uh,” He begins uncertainly. “What are you going to do with that?”

You smile at Jimin. “We, your highness,” You begin in a slightly mocking tone, enjoying the way his face pales. “Are going to practice your weaponry skills.”

Jimin’s jaw drops open. “That… against this?” He raises the dagger and you nod. 

“Uh huh,” You begin, lifting the mace. “I’ve taught you agility and attack and you’ve learned defense from Hyungwon, right? Plus, the best way to learn is to try. So…” You smile. “You’ll be fine.”

Jimin’s eyes widen. “Are… you sure?”

You shrug. “I’ll go easy on you…”

Jimin’s face relaxes and you smirk.

“At first.”

You don’t know how it happens, but sleeping with Jimin has become a part of your routine.

It just happens. Nights when Jimin doesn’t have commitments, you meet up – so far into the inky black night that as you walk to the palace, you can hear birds and animals stirring to start the day. 

Every time you crawl through the tiny tunnel and end up in his bedroom, you feel a thrill of exhilaration.

You tell yourself it’s because of the sneaking around, and not due to the prince waiting for you.

It’s starting to become a bit of a mindfuck, honestly. The sex is always intense, toe-curling orgasms and not much emotional intimacy. Even with the furious kisses you exchange. But it’s the afterwards that has started messing with your head. 

It’s the look Jimin has on his face after the two of you have fucked, the way his eyes linger on yours. It’s a look that you picture at random moments during the day- while you eat your fig porridge for supper, or sit by the pond near your house. His smile, radiant. The creases that feather out from his eyes to the tiny chip on his tooth that’s exposed when he smiles at you.

Still, you keep going. You tell yourself it’s for the sex, for the tension drain that the orgasms give you. But in the late of the night, when you’re walking to his palace, listening to the sparrows communicate… you know there’s another reason altogether. A reason you can’t define. A reason you don’t want to define.

Now, lying in Jimin’s bed staring at the ceiling trying to catch your breath, that same question mark floats back into your mind. 

“That was great,” Jimin pants, and your eyes flutter open. His hand has found it’s way to your hair, his fingers massaging your scalp comfortingly. You tell yourself to snap at him to stop it, but you can’t find the words.

I’m too tired right now, that’s why, you tell yourself feebly. 

“Mhm.” You mutter back noncommitedly, but Jimin just smirks wryly at you.

“Don’t try to act like I didn’t blow your mind,” He grins, and fuck, it’s that smile again. Like sunshine, or that really expensive butter that they sometimes sell have here in the palace. You stare at him for a moment and then break your eyes away.

“Mhm.” You grumble. Jimin just chuckles to himself. 

A silence settles between the two of you. “Hey,” Jimin says quietly. “Seriously. That was great.” You can sense the hesitance in his words, but before you can respond (or cut him off with another grunt), he hurries to fill in the rest of his sentence. “You’re great. Not just the sex, or the blowjobs…” His face breaks off into a grin before he sobers. “But everything. You’ve really… taught me a lot. Fighting, and… other stuff. You’re a really good person, Y/N. I hope I can be half the person you are when I take the throne.”

Is this what it feels like to have the breath knocked out of you? 

“Jimin…” You mumble. You snap your head to Jimin, your eyes wide. You’re sure you look like an idiot, like a kid, eyes wide and vulnerable and surprised. Jimin’s eyes soften.

“I used to be scared about being the King one day.” Jimin says quietly. “It just felt like I’d never be ready. That I’d never live up to my father’s shoes. And honestly… I didn’t want to make sacrifices. I wanted to do what other people my age do, you know. Go to the tavern with my friends… just live a normal life. And I felt like I wasn’t ever going to be able to make those decisions. The big ones, you know. I didn’t want to think about it, responsibility, the Kingdom…” His words trail off and then he meets your eyes. Your heart is beating so fast in your chest you’re suddenly afraid he can hear it.

“But since I met you, I don’t feel afraid anymore.” 

You feel like you’re going to sink into the bed, and you blink hard and fix your eyes on the ceiling. Jimin’s ceiling is intricate, hand painted, depicting famous scenes from the past. Battle scenes, mostly. You gather yourself as your eyes hone in on one particular scene from a few centuries ago, a past king on a horse, being slain. 

The myth told that he had been looking the other way, falsely misled by something in the distance, and that moment had been his downfall. Another panel depicts a King surrounded by riches, a famine ravaging outside his Kingdom walls. You know one day Jimin will be on one of these panels, his features painted in dainty dots of colour. Jimin will be memorialized and you don’t know how. And you won’t be painted by his side. Members of the guard are never included. They are the silent partners in the background.

“You should always feel afraid.” You say instead, in a short, sharp voice. You don’t turn your head, but you can hear Jimin clear his throat, surprised by your change in mood.

“I know,” He responds. “I’m just saying… when I’m with you I feel like I can do anything. I trust you.”

You let out a scoff, still staring at the ceiling. You close your eyes. What are you doing? Lying here next to the prince?

You open your eyes and turn your head, staring at Jimin straight in the eyes.

“Then that is a weakness.” You say shortly, and you stand up. “Don’t let anything or anyone be your weakness. Let alone me.”

You say nothing as you get dressed, Jimin too is silent, watching you.

“You know, my father has all these women from other kingdoms that he wants me to consider marrying.” Jimin says finally. His voice is passive. You glance up at him. “I said no to all of them.”

You have no idea why he’s saying this.

“Jimin…” You’re stammering, and you fight to keep the waver out of your voice.

Your palms are clammy and your heart is racing and suddenly, it all feels too real. Jimin, with his warm eyes and the concern that fills them. Jimin, who’s heart is too pure and too good for this. For you.

You don’t finish that sentence, instead, you turn and leave. 

Thankfully Jimin doesn’t follow you, and you’re all alone as you walk home. 

The sun is beginning to rise, the sky looks as if it is tea stained. And they’re louder than ever, stronger than ever. 

The birds, your mind, your thoughts, tumbling one after the other. Figments and pieces and memories of Park Jimin.

A few days later, during a training session with Jimin, he asks the question.

“I haven’t seen you in a while.”

He says it nonchalantly, and you hiss in, reaching out and kicking his shin. The man dodges your attack easily and you narrow your eyes.

“Hyungwon is right there, keep it down.” Your eyes flicker over to your comrade, who is watching the two of you from a distance. 

“He can’t hear us,” Jimin smirks. “Relax.” 

He says it with way too much confidence and you narrow your eyes. 

“You know, I was going to go easy on you today, but that’s not fucking happening anymore.”

Jimin’s smile just widens and you have to look away because your chest is hammering so fucking loudly you can hear it.

You are sparring with Jimin, with Hyungwon analyzing for weaknesses. Hyungwon’s had multiple sessions with Jimin, and so for that reason, you’ve avoided him with ease this week. 

You haven’t seen him since the other night when you slipped out of his room. You have been fighting the urge to sneak over and see him. I’m too tired for sex, you told yourself, knowing you were lying through your teeth as you lay awake until daylight broke, wondering if Jimin was waiting for you.

“Okay, starting sometime soon would be appreciated…” Hyungwon yells out and you focus your attention on Jimin. 

This, you can do. Your eyes narrow. This, you’re familiar with.

You lash out with your fist, but Jimin dodges the attack, moving swiftly.

“Predictable,” He teases, and you narrow your eyes.

“Asshole,” You say back in exactly the same tone of voice, and annoyingly enough, Jimin just laughs.

“So,” He says. “Why haven’t you been coming around?” He pouts a little and you kick out with your feet, hoping to sweep him. He just jumps up and dodges effortlessly. He’s fast, and it’s like he can read your mind. 

You tell yourself to focus, but it’s hard to when Jimin is doing this, dancing around you and taunting you.

“Been busy,” You mutter.

“Okay. Are you too busy tonight, then? Because I have ideas involving blindfolds and you naked on my lap…”

You lash out with a violent, intense roundhouse kick and Jimin darts out of the way, popping up beside you. He’s in an almost unbearably good mood today.

Still, your thighs tremble at the thought of being perched on Jimin’s lap, one of his favourite black silk blindfolds tied tight around your eyes.

“Why are you so annoying today?” You growl. Jimin just grins.

“I’m just happy to see you,” He responds, and you try and land a punch on him, he just swerves. God damn it. He’s getting too comfortable, too cocky. You eye him closely, knowing he knows your pattern, he thinks he’s got this in the bag. Please.

You feign punching out with your left arm but then lash out with your left foot in a smooth, intense roundhouse kick. As expected, Jimin collapses with a grunt, the sound of your attack echoing throughout the field.

But on his way down, his hand darts out and catches your ankle, pulling you down with him. Your body more or less collapses on his, and you blink. De ja fucking vu. You can smell him, Jimin- his scent, rich and intense and so utterly Jimin that it clouds your head. You can’t focus on anything else except that you want to kiss him. 

In fact, you’re about to, his pillowy lips so close to meeting yours. All you want to do is close that distance, to kiss him…

Bad idea.

“See,” You mutter, jumping off of him jerkily and dusting the dirt off of your clothes. “You’re never as good as you think you are.”

Jimin doesn’t say anything, he’s still lying in the dirt with a surprised look on his face as you march away from him and towards Hyungwon. 

“Can you take over the session?” You ask in a short, clipped voice and Hyungwon just nods.

You turn and walk away, ignoring the raised eyebrow Hyngwon gives you.

At the end of the day, you’re sitting by the pond in your village. 

It feels like a stormcloud is hovering above your head, your muscles restless. You’re debating with yourself internally about what exactly is going to happen later tonight, whether or not you’re going to end up at the mercy of Park Jimin and a black silk blindfold.

It’s a bad idea, it’s not just sex anymore, you tell yourself firmly, tossing a pebble across the water. 

It skims across five times. 

But… the thought slips in, and it’s much more powerful than the previous one. But. That says it all, doesn’t it? You’re here, the most self-assured person in the whole kindom, and yet, Park Jimin is the one thing that messes you up. 

He is the big ‘but’ in the already constructed sentence of your life.

Ugh.

“Y/N.” At the sound of your voice, you glance up to see Hyungwon strolling towards you. 

You nod at your friend moodily, throwing another pebble. It skims across the stream’s surface ten times.

“What are you doing?” He asks, amused. You just shrug.

“Thinking.” You mutter.

“That’s unlike you,” Hyungwon says dryly, and you just hiss in response. Hyungwon laughs.

“Jimin’s improved a lot. He was good today, sparring with you.” Hyungwon comments, eyeing you carefully. You just shrug, throwing another pebble.

Seven times.

“Yeah well I’d hope so, seeing as we’re the ones training him.” You say back a little snarkier than intended. Hyungwon as always, is unaffected by your tone of voice.

“The two of you are close,” He comments. You shrug, throwing another pebble.

Twelve times.

“He has feelings for you.” Hyungwon states in a matter of fact voice. “Kid’s in deep.”

You give him a wry look. “Watch who you’re calling kid, Hyungwon. He’s the same age as you.”

Hyungwon just laughs. “And you’re avoiding what I just said.”

You fall silent, throwing another pebble. Three times.

“He doesn’t have feelings for me,” You say aloud. “And it doesn’t matter anyway. He’s getting married to a royal before the coronation.” 

Saying the words aloud sends a flash of something through you, you can’t place what it is, but it hurts. You ignore it and hurl another pebble into the lake, it only skims twice.

“Hm.” Hyungwon just says, and his tone of voice gives nothing away.

“Please. Hyungwon. You know me.” You turn to look at him. Your lip quivers. “There’s no way anything would or could happen between us. Ever. I’m… part of the guard. He’s royalty. It’s just… not even an option.”

Hyungwon studies you closely, before he shrugs. He plucks a pebble from your hand and throws it, it skims fourteen times.

“No matter how far they travel,” He comments, his eyes fixated on the lake. “They always sink.”

He stares straight at you and you swallow. A heavy beat hangs between the two of you before you drop the rest of the pebbles to the ground, they sink into the dirt.

“Look at you being all philosophical and shit,” You roll your eyes and reach out to punch your friend on the chest. “C’mon, let’s go get something to eat.”

You can feel Jimin’s eyes on you as you pull yourself out of his bed, the duck feather mattress shifting underneath your weight. 

You reach down and pick up your black clothes from the floor, slipping into them. You are both silent, as you get dressed, straightening. Getting ready to leave.

As you pass Jimin’s mirror, you catch sight of your reflection – bitten, swollen lips, wide fucked out eyes. You pull down the collar of your shirt and see a spattering of purple hickies, dotted over your breasts and your collarbones.

‘Lovebites’, Jimin called them, and you always flinched at him saying the word ‘love’, hissing at him, ‘just call them hickies’.

Your eyes linger on them now, the marks on your skin. Jimin had taken his time giving them to you tonight, being slow and torturous, as if he could sense your antsiness ever since your conversation with Hyungwon. 

He had wrapped the silk blindfold over your eyes, trapping your vision and limiting it to only darkness. His teeth had latched against the curve of your breasts, the slopes of your collarbones. The pressure and pain was effective in silencing the swirl of thoughts surrounding him, you, and his coronation. His wedding to whichever royal was deemed the best fit for the kingdom and for Jimin’s hand in marriage.

Of course, the minute the sex was over, all of those thoughts came creeping back in. Which was why now, you were going.

“You’re always in such a hurry to leave.” Jimin notes. 

You hesitate, glancing at him in the reflection of the mirror. He’s sitting upright in his bed, still shirtless. The blanket is pulled up around his armpits and he is just staring at you.

“Stay. Please.” 

He says the words softly, and for a moment you weaken. 

Just as quickly as that moment arrives, it passes, and you straighten, tugging your collar up to hide your mottled skin. 

“I don’t have any reason to stay.”

The words come out harsher than you had wanted them to, and you watch in the mirror as Jimin’s face falls. 

“What if I want you to stay?” He asks quietly.

You freeze. It’s a question you know has been coming for weeks. You’re reaching the end of your training with Jimin, and as time has slipped away, your sense of urgency with whatever it is that you are both doing has only increased. 

You’ve spent so many nights together. Half nights – bodies pressed together and hot, desperate kisses… only for you to leave immediately, every single time. 

You’ve never missed the look on Jimin’s face every time he watches you go. You’ve never missed the way his lips curve around the a question he’s never gotten the courage to ask. 

Until now.

“Like I said. No reason.” You answer back curtly. 

You ignore the stirrings in your chest and the pang in your belly. 

What are you supposed to say? That with each press of his lips to your skin, each time he pulls out of you, you lose yourself harder and faster in him? How are you supposed to put words to the dazed heat that is always flickering in your ribcage?

You’ve learned in the last few weeks that it is much too easy to be lost in Park Jimin.

“Got it.” Jimin mumbles, and you feel a strange twist in your heart from the crestfallen expression on his face.

You let out a sigh, turning and walking back to the bed. You sit on the end, far away from him. 

You sit there in silence for a long moment, unsure of how to translate your thoughts into words. 

You fumble with your hands.

“We…” You begin, and Jimin just glances at you. 

His expression is guarded.

“What? Just say it. You don’t have to tiptoe around me.”

“We can never be more than this, Jimin.” 

Jimin’s stare is defiant. “Why not?”

His stare is all too stubborn and you frown at him. That’s definitely something he’s picked up from you.

“Because, when this is over, when our training is done, I am going to return to my village and do what I always do. Train fledglings and wait for the day that I die in battle. When this is over, when our training is done, you will marry a royal and be crowned king. That’s the plan for you. Somehow, I don’t think that plan involves fucking a member of the Obsidian guard on the side.” 

Jimin is considering your words, biting his lip. 

“Alright, but what if I don’t want to just fuck you on the side? What if I want you by my side? During all of it? The coronation, the future… everything?” 

You freeze.

Your eyes meet his and you’re sure he can see the panic in them. But you have no idea what he’s saying, what he’s trying to imply. That he wants you by his side? There are so many things wrong with that, so many terrifying elements to that, and you shake your head, once, and then again, vigorously. 

“Not a chance in hell.” 

Jimin just frowns. “And why is that?” He demands. 

“Because you’re you, you’re royal, and I’m-”

“What does that matter?” Jimin’s words sputter out, and he looks genuinely disbelieved. “You talk constantly about wanting to abolish social classes, about how fucked up the royal hierarchy is, yet you seem pretty stuck in their ways of thinking.”

You reel backwards at his words. 

“You’re wrong, that’s not it, it’s-”

“What is it then?” Jimin interrupts, and you suddenly feel lost for words. You don’t know how to vocalize what it is. The big comma that’s making you pause. The ‘but’. What is it about Park Jimin that does this to you? Dredges up feelings you’ve never felt before, forces you to confront sides of yourself that you’ve kept hidden for years?

You just stay silent, and Jimin snorts derisively.

“If you ask me, you’re scared.” He says in an even tone. “For someone who’s supposed to be strong and brave… you’re being a damn coward.”

His words are like a whip. They lash, and they hurt. And, you can’t help but think, maybe it’s the honesty behind them that causes the sting.

“What does courage have to do with any of this?” You hiss. “With us fucking?That’s all it is, Jimin. We’re fucking. What, do you really think if we tried to take this any further it would work?”

Jimin scowls at your words. “Why do you always see things so negatively?” He says in a low, hurt voice. “You’ve doomed us to fail before we’ve even tried.”

His words hit home, but you refuse to dwell on that. Instead, you chest puffs up and you narrow your eyes. 

If there’s something you’re good at, it’s fighting. If there’s something you feel comfortable in, it’s this – spikes of tension, lashes of words. 

“There is no us, Jimin.”

Jimin opens his mouth and fire flickers in his eyes, and you wait, poised to reply, ready to argue, ready to fight... but then he deflates. 

His face crumples just a fraction and then he looks away, at the wall. His jaw clenches and unclenches, and you feel your heart start to ache when you realize he has tears in his eyes.

“Okay. Got it. I guess this is it, then. It’s done, whatever this was. Fucking on the side or whatever you called it.” He says harshly, and you hesitate.

Somehow, this feels wrong. You need to say something, anything, to soothe over this. Your mind races for the words, and you feel an awful sense of panic. 

“Jimin. I-”

“Don’t. Just… please. Just go.” 

His face is completely closed off and you stand still for a moment, unsure of what to do. Suddenly, you want to rewind time, to say different things, to be different – to not jump and attack like you always do. To not fuck things up like you always do. 

Jimin looks like he’s about to cry, and you feel your throat itch with tears of your own.

But you can’t stay. How can you stay? This was never going to work in the first place, and it is with that thought that you stand up and walk.

You don’t look back, you walk out, and keep walking, through the tunnel, emerging on the other side of the palace. 

This is what you wanted, you tell yourself. A clean break.

Still, it feels wrong. Every step you take feels wrong. 

You think about the tears that had pricked Jimin’s eyes, thinking about him, in that huge bed, crying because of you.

And it isn’t until you reach your house that you realize you’re crying too.

You wake up with your spine stiff. 

You sit up in bed, your muscles clenched and rigid. 

You look down at your arms, they are dotted with goosebumps. 

It feels like every nerve ending in your body has short circuited, an ominous voice in your head telling you that something is very wrong.

You’ve never felt this before. You can almost taste it in your mouth, metallic and bitter. 

You have heard about this before, it’s a legacy almost, that those with black blood can sense imminent danger. 

Is this it? 

You don’t have time to question, instead, you react. You are pulling on your clothes and running out the door.

You arrive at the palace in a few minutes, that feeling only growing. You pull at the tunnel’s planks and then you are inside Jimin’s bedroom. 

It’s still, peaceful, and you spot Jimin asleep in his bed. You rush to his side.

“Jimin,” You hiss, shaking him awake. He awakes drowsily, a smile flickering on his face as his eyes focus on you. 

“Get the fuck up.” You mutter. “Why,” He mumbles, his mouth opening impossibly wide in a yawn. 

“Wait, what are you doing here?” He narrows his eyes at you, his eyes going flat. You let out an impatient noise.

“Just get up.” You all but drag him out of the bed. 

“What is it?” Jimin whispers, seeing the worry on your face. 

You let out a sigh, shrugging irritably. “I don’t know,” You mutter. “I just… had a feeling. That something is wrong. I can’t explain it, okay? It’s just a feeling. I had it the day my mother died, and I have it now…”

You shoot Jimin a look, scared he’ll be staring at you like you are crazy because maybe you really have lost the plot. But he is looking at you seriously. 

“Okay, I trust you. Let’s go.”

You nod, and Jimin makes for the tunnel. You follow, but then you stop altogether.

You hear it. Footsteps, in the hallway, towards you. Metal, clanking softly. A blade.

You can’t quite explain the feeling that washes over you. It’s a prickling intensity, the most instinctual kind of heat, as you wheel around.

“Go.” 

Jimin’s eyes widen. “No,” he whispers back but you narrow your eyes.

“Go. Now. The tunnel.” He’ll be safe there, you think. 

“I-”

“Jimin. Go. I’ll meet you, I promise, but… go.” Jimin just gives you a long, conflicted stare before he nods. 

He disappears through the hallway, the wooden plank slotting back neatly in place. You let out a silent breath, striding over and extinguishing the candle that is illuminating Jimin’s room.

The room elapses into near entire blackness and you slip into the corner of the room, staying perfectly still.

The figures step into your periphery, into the room itself. You watch with bated breath as they creep near the bed. 

You feel your breath hiss in as you recognize them. Members of the Obsidian guard.

What are they doing here? You wonder if you should reveal yourself, these are your people after all. But something holds you back. 

They’re holding blades, dressed in black. You would recognize them anywhere, by their clothes and even their stance. They are warriors, fighters, they are never subtle, and never secret. Yet they are here, stealthing around. For Jimin. 

But why?

You’re trying to go over it in your head when a seventh sense kicks in. A chill, both hot and cold, screaming danger. 

You spin around but you are too late. Arms clench around your neck, squeezing hard. Squeezing expertly. You know this chokehold, and you know that in moments you’ll be passed out. 

You writhe against the arms pinning you, lashing and twisting your body. But they seem to know every move before you make it, easily avoiding each of your attacks. 

Your energy is draining, your vision speckled with indigo and black. You’re praying that Jimin has made it through the tunnel, that he is safe, when your eyes fall across the room onto the mirror.

And you see it. You see the person who has you in a chokehold, his biceps pressed to the pressure point in your neck. 

You recognize that face, a face you have known for years. 

It feels like you’ve been plunged in ice cold water, your eyes meeting his in the reflection before everything slips away into the abyss.

Hyungwon.

You wake up with an ache wrapped over your body like cling film. 

You wake slowly but keep your body still, your eyes closed, as everything flashes back into your still groggy mind.

Hyungwon.

There was no mistaking who it was holding your neck so tight. You feel a shudder in your body as you recall the look on Hyungwon’s face- his face as cold as ever, his lips pursed slightly in apology as he cradled your head in his arms.

It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense. Why was Hyungwon in Jimin’s room, why had he incapitacited you?

Your head is starting to clear, the fuzzy veil of unconsciousness slipping away, and you focus. You can hear voices- three, One of which you could recognize anywhere. Hyungwon.

You feel your nostrils flare and your breathing quicken, he’s talking in quick, rapid-fire Obsidian dialect, and you strain to make out what he is saying. 

You move your limbs, careful to shift them in a way that won’t draw too much attention. You have ropes coiled around you- so tight they are threatening to break your skin. You knew there is no chance of trying to get out of the ropes, knowing Hyungwon and the intricacy of which he would have tied these knots.

Fuck.

Where am I right now? You wriggle your back slightly, experimentally. You are lying on something hard, stone maybe. 

You hope Jimin is alright.

You are still trying to decipher what the men are saying, your mind racing incoherently as you attempt to formulate some kind of plan –any plan- when you hear a fourth voice.

This fourth voice is familiar to you, just like Hyungwon’s was, but this time it is for entirely different reasons.

“Please,” The voice murmurs out hoarsely. “Let me go.”

Your eyes snap open and you tilt your head. Your suspicions are confirmed and your breathing quickens.

Jimin’s father, the King, is in front of you. Your eyes widen as you take his appearance in – he has dried blood oozing from a gash on his forehead, and he too, is wrapped up in ropes. 

He’s seated on a throne, and you realize exactly which throne he is sitting in. He’s in the coronation throne. A throne that is only sat in during coronation ceremonies. 

You are in the coronation hall of the palace.

You glance down frantically at yourself, not surprised when you see the complex knots that bind the rope against your body. Hyungwon’s specialty, and you know with a sickening certainty that you have no chance in hell of getting out. 

“She’s awake.” 

Your head snaps back as you spot Hyungwon, stepping into your line of vision. His arms are crossed.

“Y/N. I’m sorry for knocking you out, but we both know you’re the better fighter out of the two of us. It had to be done.” He gives you a crooked smile and you narrow your eyes at him. 

“Fuck you,” You spit out. “What the fuck is this?”

Hyungwon’s smile slips away, his eyes flat and cold.

“What do you think it is?” He asks in an hard voice. “It’s what you and I used to talk about when we were training. We are ending this system, the royal system. We are taking back what is rightfully ours.”

Your eyes widen at his words. “What… what are you talking about?” 

“For centuries,” Hyungwon says. “We were the ones to fight their battles. We are the ones who have legacy in our blood, we are the ones who shed lives and win wars. We have glory in our roots. And we give it all to them. The royals. And what do they give us? Nothing. We fight, we work, we die, so they can sit in this palace and hide from the outside world.” 

Hyungwon looks bitter.

“Not anymore.”

“Hyungwon,” You begin shakily. “This isn’t you.”

Hyungwon just stares straight at you. “It isn’t?” He asks quietly. “Because this has been in the works for years. It is me. And it’s funny, because if I had asked you six months ago, if I had approached you then about joining us, I have a feeling this would’ve been you too.”

Your blood runs cold at his words, you feel uncomfortable under the weight of them. You know how Hyungwon feels, the anger he’s carrying around. But things have changed now. Your view has shifted, and you think of Jimin’s kind eyes, his promises to making things better.

Your voice is shaky. “Things are going to change,” You begin. “Jimin will-”

Hyungwon just kneels down. “Speaking of Jimin,” He says, interrupting you. “Where is he, Y/N?”

You ignore his question. 

“What’s your plan Hyungwon,” You snap out. “Find him and kill him? You really think you won’t be held accountable for this? You’re stupider than I thought.”

Hyungwon doesn’t seem affected by your words. He never is.

“To end a line, you cut it at the source. And then you end everything that follows thereafter.” Hyungwon says calmly. “Jimin is the end of the line. I kill him before his coronation, and everything will fall apart. You know as well as I do how fraught this kingdom is. So much tension waiting to be released, all bridged on the coronation of the next King. And when there is no King, our people will step up.”

You start quivering.

“There are Obsidians who are loyal,” You hiss. “Who are loyal to the throne and who will fight. And the other royals won’t stand for this.”

Hyungwon nods thoughtfully, a flash of regret passing over his features. “Yes,” He murmurs. “Unfortunate casualties. But I think you underestimate how people’s loyalties will shift when the hand that forces those loyalties is eliminated.”

Your breath shudders out at his words.

“Prince Jimin is going to die regardless,” Hyungwon continues. “We’ll find him. It’s just up to you whether you want to help us make his death fast and painless, or slow. So slow that you won’t get the sound of his screams out of your head for days.”

It feels like you’re drowning, you pull against the ropes desperately but they keep your limbs locked behind you.

“I’m not telling you shit,” You snarl out. Hyungwon just shrugs. 

“I thought so. In that case…” He pulls out a blade, it glints menacingly in the dark light of the coronation room. 

“I’ll kill the King,” He begins, pointing the tip of the knife at the King, who is groaning softly in the throne. “Then I’ll kill you,” He continues. “And then he himself will come to my feet. I know he will do it, because he is weak. Especially when it comes to you.”

He knows. Your own words come floating back to you. Don’t let anything or anyone be your weakness. Least of all me. 

You had been right, your advice more crucial, more important, you ever expected. You watch in anger as Hyungwon stalks towards the king, balancing the knife carefully in his hand.

“Hyungwon,” You plead. “This isn’t the way.”

Hyungwon turns and he stares at you, his eyes cold. 

“This is the only way.”

You scream as he sinks the blade into the King’s stomach, wrenching up with a quick, efficient twist of his wrist. 

You thrash violently against the rope, wanting so badly to be freed, but the more you struggle the more you feel your chest tighten. You are helpless, so helpless, and the ropes are beginning to burn against your skin. 

You see red and black, and you close your eyes as you hear the King’s choked breaths. They slow to a stop. When you open your eyes again, there is scarlet red dripping down the seat of the throne.

You let out a cry, and your head tips forward. You have tears dripping down your face and you see feet in front of you. 

You lift your head to see Hyungwon standing in front, wiping his blade.

“He didn’t deserve that, Hyungwon.” You choke out, and Hyungwon just stares at you.

“Didn’t he?”

You have no idea as to how much time has passed, and you are still lying on the ground, your muscles cramped and aching. 

The King is still slumped in the throne, blood now pooled around the floor below him. Hyungwon and the other Obsidians are waiting, taking turns to rest and keep watch for Jimin.

You are only praying that Jimin has left, that whatever anger he had felt towards you from your argument before has encouraged him to leave. 

To be honest, you hope he never returns. Because if he does return, you know the odds are not in Jimin’s favour. Even if he does return, even if he returns with help, he will be facing Obsidians. Obsidians, who strike hard and fast, who strike before you know what is happening.

If Jimin steps foot into this palace, he will die.

You are flipping through your thoughts, searching for ways to do something. Anything. But you have no options. 

You are trapped, your muscles paralyzed and aching under the thick coils of the rope. No one will enter the palace, not when it is so isolated from the central living quarters. Not when entering the coronation palace is strictly forbidden unless there is a coronation occurring. 

No one will come to help. Not until morning, when they notice the King is missing, when they notice the most likely dead guards outside of his room. 

You can’t help but think that this is your fault somehow. That if you hadn’t entered Jimin’s life, if you hadn’t been so wrapped up in him to see what was happening around you, that you could’ve maybe stopped this. That you could’ve maybe stopped Hyungwon. Then things would be different.

Or would you have been here with him, by his side? The thought creeps dangerously into your mind and you shake your head. 

No, you think, but in all honesty, you don’t know. Things are different now, you think. I’m different. And it’s true, you realize. While in the past you saw the world as black and white, Jimin has shown you the shades of grey in between. 

Your eyes flicker up to the king and you feel tears fill your eyes. Jimin’s father, the only family Jimin had left in this world. 

And you, your death now imminent. It isn’t your death that you are afraid of, but what is to come after it. What will happen when you are gone.

This was never meant to happen. As a member of the Obsodian guard, you are never meant to put the ones you love in danger. You are supposed to protect, to fight, to be strong. You are not meant to be like this, watching people die in front of you while you wait for your own imminent death.

“I’m so sorry.” You whisper, to the King, to Jimin.  To your mother.  “I’m so sorry.”

Time passes, and you sense Hyungwon beginning to stress. You can tell in Hyungwon’s body language, in the way his spine stiffens just a fraction and the scrunch of his brows. 

Jimin isn’t here yet.

There are only a few hours until daylight breaks, and you know that you being in Jimin’s room to intercept them had not been part of his plan. 

You suppose that’s why there are only three of them here, they had assumed, wrongly, that it would be an easy fight. None of the men have moved the King’s body, and you have kept your eyes trained away from him. 

You too, are beginning to hope that Jimin has fled. Too much time has passed. He won’t return, surely.

That at least gives you some inkling of solace. 

You watch Hyungwon and it feels like you’ve been punched in the stomach. How could you not realize? 

Out of everyone in the world, there are few people that you care for. You don’t really trust anyone, but care is different. And you care for Hyungwon. You cared for him. Now, you don’t know what you feel. Just anger. 

You think to yourself, as your eyes focus on Hyungwon, that it is either you or Hyungwon dying tonight. 

It’s strange, you sitting here and thinking about Hyungwon’s death, thinking about how you would kill him. But, just as he showed no hesitancy to you before in mentioning your death, you would show him no mercy. 

Because that is the life of an Obsidian. Lives are just gambling chips, used to claim the bigger prize. And while you always thought the bigger prize was protecting, fighting, justice… Hyungwon’s mind was slanted in another way from yours. He is tilted towards a darker justice.

You glance again at Hyungwon, and then you spot it. 

A figure, small, crouched in the shadows. You would recognize the slope of those shoulders anywhere, and you only catch sight of him by chance. It’s Jimin.

How has he concealed himself so well? He’s like a shadow, melted against the wall. His eyes catch yours and you see the shock on his face. 

You want to tell him to leave, to tell him that he’s put himself in inherent danger. You can’t exactly call out his name, whisper out a warning… so you do the next best thing.

“Hyungwon,” Your voice comes out scratchy. “I’ll tell you. I’ll fucking tell you. Just let me go.”

Hyungwon strides over to you in moments. He stands in front of you and you swallow. “Speak.” He says in a low, dangerous voice and you hesitate. 

“There’s a tunnel,” You say finally, “Hidden in an old boarded over duct in Jimin’s bedroom. It leads outside of the palace. He’ll be in there. He’ll be waiting for me.”

Hyungwon stares at you, long and hard, and you fight to keep your composure. He leans down, his blade in his hands, and you suddenly wonder if he’s going to kill you. If he can see through your façade.

Instead, he grips at two of the larger knots around you and pulls. You let out a strangled sound as the ropes tighten around you. They’re so tight they hurt, and it feels like you can barely breathe. The thick, fraying rope is cutting hard and fast into you and you let out a gurgle of pain. 

Hyungwon straightens.

“Stay here. Watch her.” He snaps at the two Obsidians standing nearby, and then he leaves the coronation room.

You figure you have about ten minutes. Maybe less. You know Hyungwon is suspicious of your intentions, and you don’t know what the plan is, but maybe Jimin can sneak over here and cut your ropes. 

You need to be freed from them because they’re cutting off your circulation, and you can already feel yourself starting to go faint. When you’re free, you can take down these two Obsidians taking guard with ease. 

Hyungwon will be more of a challenge. While you excel at attack, he is the master of defense. More than that, he knows you so well, he knows each of your attack moves, he reads your face, your thoughts. You have a fifty/fifty chance of death, but it’s a risk worth taking, you decide.

And just when you decide that, you hear a cry of pain.

Your head snaps up just in time to see one of the Obsidians collapse to the ground, his knees buckling. 

It’s Jimin. 

He’s quick, sharp, intense with his attacks, he punches hard and fast at the throat – a proper punch, just like you had taught him – and the guard lets out a “Hk.” With that, Jimin raises his knee and slams it under the Obsidian’s chin. He collapses, unconscious.

You barely have time to feel anything other than shock because the other Obsidian is barreling towards Jimin. Jimin is quick, he wheels around and kicks the Obsidian in the face, the Obsidian reels backwards and grimaces but is otherwise unaffected. 

Jimin is back on the balls of his feet. He ducks and weaves, and you are shocked to see how good he is. He must’ve practiced, you think, concealed how hard he had worked in his spare time. 

He listened, you think. Trust nobody. Keep some things hidden. Keep some things for only yourself.

The other Obsidian is larger, stronger… but Jimin is agile and quick and he attacks with short jabs that has the other Obsidian crying out in pain. Jimin darts out with his fingers and jabs the Obsidian in the eye, causing him to holler out, and then Jimin grabs his neck and twists. He uses his whole body, it’s an effort. 

You hear the crack of bone, and then the man collapses onto the floor, his body twitching before it finally stills.

Jimin rushes to your side.

“Set me free,” You pant, and Jimin is trembling. 

“I don’t have a weapon,” He says, his words stuttering, his voice panicky. “I didn’t even get anyone from the palace, I didn’t know that it would be like this, what the hell is going?”

“That’s fine, get one from them,” You begin, nodding to the guards’ bodies, but Jimin’s entire jaw is slack.

He’s staring at the throne. At his father. 

You see it on his face, and your heart sinks, then breaks. 

There is nothing but raw confusion all over Jimin’s face as he stares at his father. Lifeless, still crudely tied to his own throne. 

“Father?” Jimin whispers.

You need to pull him out of this, to snap him back to attention, to get him to focus so you can both live, so he can live, you tell yourself fiercely.

“Jimin!” You snap, but he is still staring. His eyes filling with tears. His mouth opening and closing almost robotically.

“Jimin,” You repeat. “Please. Look at me. Look at me.” You all but shout the last words and Jimin rips his eyes away to stare at you. He’s crying, fat tears pooling in his eyes. 

“Focus,” You plead, and then you hear it.

The palace doors slam open. Hyungwon. He’s back early, too damn early. 

Your eyes snap to him, his eyes are flat and black and furious as he strides towards the two of you. You’re dizzy, from how tight the ropes are. They are bound around your wrists, your stomach, your chest. 

“Jimin,” You repeat, but Jimin is staring at his father again, as if he is in a trance. 

“Jimin!” You scream, as Hyungwon nears.

Hyungwon punches Jimin hard on the jaw, and the sound of bone against bone reverberates throughout the hallowy palace. Jimin’s body goes flying, collapsing on the marble. 

You watch as Jimin lifts his head dizzily, you see the beginning of a bruise forming against his sharp jawline. 

Hyungwon is right on Jimin’s heels and he plants one, two, three punches against Jimin’s ribs, and Jimin’s howls out in pain. 

The sound rips into you and you struggle harder than before against the ropes, but it does nothing. Your head is beginning to go woozy. Your body hurts.

Hyungwon moves away from Jimin, walking towards the Obsidian’s bodies.

“Fuck!” He bellows out, he is angry, and you realize that this is all going to be over soon. You need to get out of these ropes. 

You cry out Jimin’s name, and he glances up, blood trickling out of his mouth.

Jimin pulls himself across of the floor until he is by your side. You glance behind him, Hyungwon is picking up a weapon. He has a mace, the ball is thick with spikes, and you see his tall body approaching. Like a predator stalking prey.

You don’t have long now. There isn’t time for Jimin to cut the ropes. Jimin needs to run. You don’t know how he is going to outrun Hyungwon, and your blood is racing under your skin.

“Jimin,” Your voice comes out shakily, desperately. “I love you. I love you so much, okay? I love you, fuck. I’m so sorry.” Your words are tumbling out, and Jimin’s eyes are still unfocused. He is still staring at his father, but his head snaps to you at your words. 

He leans his forehead against yours, and you realize you are crying. 

Your head is starting to spin, the ropes are so tight that you are losing vision, things beginning to get out of focus.

“I love you.” Jimin whispers, and then his hands are at your waist and tugging down, hard. 

His fingers grasp inside your pants, around your concealed dagger. Hyungwon is still approaching, you can hear the anger in his heavy, drawn breaths. 

Your vision is fading, fast, and the last thing you see before everything fades to black is Jimin standing up shakily, your dagger in his hand.

It all starts coming back to you in pieces.

First, you are aware of your throat. It feels like cotton has been stuffed down your windpipe. Each breath of air that you take, rattles. 

In fact, that isn’t exclusive to your throat, every bone in your body feels like it has been brushed with sandpaper. You are sore, and it’s a rough, unrelenting soreness. 

Next, you open your eyes. You are so heavy lidded that it takes an effort, but you manage to force them open. You blink upwards wearily. 

For a beat, you think you’re back in the palace, tied against the throne, and you panic. But you recognize the carvings in the ceiling. 

The palace infirmary.

Your mind is racing, flipping through the different ideas of what exactly could have happened to you. 

The last thing you remember is Hyungwon, his face bent down by yours, demanding answers about Jimin-

Jimin.

You stiffen and jerk upwards, ignoring the ache in your body and the sharp pain that shoots up your legs from your sudden movement. 

Jimin. You remember the look of anguish that had spooled over Jimin’s face as he saw his father slumped in the throne. Your mind replays the image of his face, his cheeks stained with tears, his voice telling you that he loved you as he grasped at your dagger.

Jimin. Where was Jimin?

You hear footsteps, and as you glance up, you feel like you are going to melt into the floor with relief.

Jimin is standing in front of you, concern written all over his delicate features. He looks like the same Jimin you have known for the last few months. His silver hair is pushed back off of his forehead, he is dressed in an immaculate black suit. 

You let out a weak cry, and he is by your side in seconds.

“Jimin,” You breathe out, and your chest feels tight and you are faint with relief.

“You’re awake,” Jimin murmurs, relief is pouring over his face too as he brushes the back of his hand down one of your cheeks. “Thank God.”

You blink dazedly as Jimin reaches over to one of the nearby tables, passing you a ceramic cup of water. You accept, relishing in the coolness against your sore throat.

“What happened?” You ask finally. “The others? Hyungwon…?” 

Your voice trails off and Jimin’s eyes are downcast.

“One Obsidian guard is dead, the other imprisoned. We are trying to get him to talk. Hyungwon…” Jimin says quietly and his voice wavers. “We fought,” He continues. “He got me a few times,” He adds, and you remember the heavy mace Hyungwon had held in his hands right before you blacked out. 

”But it’s over. I… I killed him.” 

You feel a pang in your throat, a heavy lump. You have known Hyungwon since you were a child, and you don’t know what hurts more, the sharp bitterness of his betrayal or this, his death. 

Jimin nods over at the table and your eyes follow his movement, you spot your dagger sitting neatly there. You can see even from here that the blade has been wiped clean. Jimin bows his head forward, his eyes squeezed shut. 

“I’m so sorry.”

Your eyes flicker back to him. “Why are you sorry?” You whisper.

“He was your friend.” Jimin murmurs back. 

“No,” You reply, your voice shaking with conviction. You take Jimin’s hand in yours. “He was a different man to the man I befriended.”

Jimin swallows and nods. “Regardless,” he whispers brokenly. “I killed him. I killed two men.”

“You didn’t have a choice,” You tell him fiercely, but you see the shadowy doubt that crosses Jimin’s face. You open your mouth to ask more questions, but you fall silent instead. 

You know all too well the heaviness that lingers after your first kill, survival kill or otherwise.

You wonder how he did it, how he overcame Hyungwon who fought like a snake, slipping through the cracks. He is strong, you think. He will be an incredible king.

“How long have I been out?” You ask.

“Only a day.” Jimin answers. “You’re fine, just a few surface injuries. You’ll heal fast.”

“And you?”

Jimin just shrugs. “Some bruising. I’ll be okay.”

You stare at Jimin, searching his face. “Are you okay?” You murmur.

Jimin thinks on this.

“As far as the public knows, my father died in his sleep. A peaceful death. Nothing untoward, happy days in this kingdom.” His lips twist and he blinks rapidly and you reach out, wrapping your fingers around his wrist.

“Jimin,” You whisper, and Jimin just shakes his head, his eyes welling with tears.

“I’ll be okay. It’s just… my father is dead.”

He shrugs and you don’t miss the glint of tears in his eyes, feeling a tug in your chest. 

“Jimin…” You whisper. Jimin just glances at you and laces his fingers through yours. 

“I… I’m just… I’m just glad I didn’t lose you too. God, I don’t know what I would’ve done if-” His voices breaks off, his voice cracking and you stay there for a moment, your hand laced in his.

“Your coronation? I’m guessing it’s been pushed forward?” You ask quietly. 

Jimin nods. “It’s in three days.”

It feels like you’re falling, your stomach dropping uncomfortably as a wave of sadness washes over you. Three days? You look at your fingers, interlaced with Jimin’s. You knew this was going to have to come to an end eventually. But you didn’t expect three days.

“Oh,” You simply whisper. “There must be a wedding soon then.”

Jimin just nods and you suddenly feel like you’re going to cry.

“Well I hope that whoever-”

“Marry me.” 

A long silence stretches between the two of you, and you wonder if you have heard him correctly.

“What? Are you fucking crazy?”

Jimin just smiles. “I love you.” He murmurs. “I am in love with you. Every part of me loves you.” 

You stare at him and you realize you are shaking. “Jimin,” You begin, shaking your head. His hand is still holding yours. “I… I’m not royal.”

“Y/N. You made me see things differently. You gave me strength.”  

Suddenly, you can’t breathe.

“It made me a better man, a better ruler, a better fighter. You did.” He is firm, serious, desperate, all at once. “It is because of you I am alive. And I am so utterly certain that if I take your dagger,” He continues. “And pierce your skin, your blood would run blue. You are royalty. Not them, not those women my father had lined up for me. You.”

“Jimin…” You breathe out. “People will not accept me as a queen. I’m a member of the Obsidian guard. It’s written in blood.”

Jimin stares at you, and he softens. “Things are going to change,” He says in a firm voice. “This is just the first of many changes. Y/N, some things are stronger than blood.”

You hold his gaze for a long moment.

“It isn’t going to be easy.” You murmur. “Hyungwon… He mentioned it to me, and I know -I knew- him. He isn’t a lone wolf, Jimin. He follows orders. What he stood for, what he was trying to do? That wasn’t an idea from him. It was an idea from a collective of people.”

Jimin nods somberly. “I know.”

“Jimin,” You whisper. “You need stability. You need a queen who will settle the people, who will give them hope, who will inspire change-”

“I can settle the people.” Jimin interrupts softly. “I can give them hope. I can inspire change. And so can you.”

He squeezes your hand and you swallow.

“I…” You murmur. “I don’t even know if I want kids.”

Jimin just nods. “That’s okay.”

You shake your head furiously, your voice trembling. 

“What kind of royal couple doesn’t produce a family?” You ask bitterly. “And how could I ever be a Queen, I don’t know the first thing about royalty. This, us, it goes against every rule of royalty…”

“Well,” He cuts you off. “Someone once told me, that a great warrior told her that life doesn’t play by the rules, so why should you?”

You fall silent and your eyes prick with tears. You are filled with it, that same feeling in your chest. The feeling you used to get when walking the path from your place to his in the middle of the evening, the feeling you got whenever he smiled at you during your training sessions. 

This time though, you don’t run away from it. You don’t try and chase the emotion out of your head. 

Instead, you accept it. 

Love, intense, and terrifying, stronger than any bond you had ever known. You and Jimin, stronger together than you could ever be alone.

“So,” He whispers. “Will you marry me?”

You stare at him and your lips quiver. And for the first time, you don’t fight. You don’t turn away.

“Yes.”

The wedding is the day after the proposal.

You have to get married quickly, what with the coronation set to take place in just a few days time. It works well in your favour, the rushed nuptials, as there is decidedly no time to plan any kind of wedding ceremony. In the end, you decide on just you, Jimin, and the archbishop. 

Getting married is still a concept utterly foreign to you. Your entire life, you had been against the concept of marriage, convinced that you would never find yourself in a situation where you would want to get married. You accepted long ago that you would never find someone you’d be willing to give half of yourself to. 

For so long you had fought. You had fought against yourself, against any inkling of love, and it wasn’t until Jimin that you had stopped fighting.

The ceremony is easy. You are married in the training field. 

The air is so still, although cold, and the field is so private and familiar that it mutes most of your worries about the wedding. And when Jimin steps out onto the field, dressed simply in just a cream silk shirt and cream pants, your worries disappear entirely.

You don’t recite vows. You sign the wedding parchment, and then Jimin takes your hand in his, pressing a long kiss to the top of your hand. 

The ceremony is over quickly. And when it is done, you and Jimin go to his father’s gravestone, resting beside his mother’s. You stand there, Jimin’s fingers curl around yours and his eyes well with tears right up until the moment the two of you leave.

Your wedding day is a bittersweet day, and it ends with you in Jimin’s room. Your belongings, as bare as they are, sit in a small box by the door. It still feels a little surreal to be living in the palace, and you wonder if being part of the royal family will ever feel like home.

You excuse yourself to use Jimin’s bathroom, and as you close the door, hearing the click of the doorknob, you let out a sigh. You stand in front of the mirror, biting your lip in uncertainty as you survey your reflection. 

The time that has passed since what happened with Hyungwon has been strange, both slow and fast at once. If anything, it has given you perspective. The time has made you realize that your life, and moreover, Jimin’s, will always have death dangling over it.

The thought of just that has you pulling your dress over your head, leaving it on the floor. You slide off your underwear, and let out a shaky sigh.

You have been naked in front of Jimin so many times, but now you feel a prickle of heat wash over you. You pinch your cheeks experimentally, you are pale, nervous.

It’s Jimin, you tell yourself. Your husband. 

The thought of just that causes a deeper, darker heat to ripple through your body, and your cheeks flush pink. 

It gives you a push of courage.

You step outside of the bathroom. Jimin is sitting on the bed, his hands folded neatly in his lap. You linger by the doorway of the bathroom and look at Jimin.

Rather, you stare – it feels like you can’t drag your eyes away, your gaze controlled by a magnetic force. 

He looks exquisite. His cream silk shirt has been pulled out of his pants, the slippery fabric creased and rolled up carelessly around his elbows. The shirt is unbuttoned just low enough to hint at the curve of his pectoral muscles. His hair, so elegantly swept up during the ceremony, has been mussed, and is stiff with static from his own hand running through it so many times.

Jimin glances up, sensing your stare, and his eyes light up.

“Oh,” He breathes out, his eyes widening as he drinks you in. His gaze doesn’t miss anything. 

Jimin is meticulous in most things, and now, his stare is slow and purposeful. He starts from your legs, his gaze raking over your waist, your breasts, your neck… until finally his eyes meet yours.

You feel a flash of desire, hot and heavy, from how dilated his eyes are, the way his Adams apple bobs up and down in his throat. 

Prince Jimin’s gaze laps all over you, and it’s almost as if you can feel and taste how badly he wants you in the air.

You walk over, and when you are close enough, Jimin’s hands wind around your waist and tug you on top of his body. His fingers massage the flesh of your thigh, giving your leg a firm squeeze. The pressure of his touch causes you to moan, as he pulls your leg firmly around his waist.

You can feel it, him, as he shifts his body. The strain of his hardening cock from beneath his pants.The fabric of his trousers are thin and you can feel him grinding against you. 

You let out a small whimper, as Jimin slowly caresses over your legs with his hands. His hands roam over your shoulderblades, his fingers kissing the slip of your waist. He leaves no inch of you untouched, the whole while his eyes are locked on yours. 

His breaths come out as shuddery, hungry gasps of air and the sound of him makes something inside of you spike in need.

Jimin is touching soft, sensitive areas that aren’t usually erotic to you, but your entire body is coiled like a spring and reacts to each of his touches. The skimming of his skin against yours has you tipping your head back and moaning. His fingers are smoothening patterns over your arms, your belly, and the slope between your breasts.

“Jimin,” You whimper our his name, and Jimin’s eyes darken. 

“You’re so beautiful,” He says, his voice is assured as he leans forward and kisses you. Finally. The kiss is slow, torturous and languid, but is quickly deepened. Jimin’s tongue chases into the kiss as his hands squeeze right under your breasts by your rib cage, then again at the curve of your waist. 

You pull away from the kiss, breathless, and stare down at him as his hands reach behind you to cup your ass. 

He is a vision, lips bitten and swollen, his eyes wide. The softness in his eyes and the hungriness in the way he’s licking his lips has you arching your back and rolling yourself against his cock, your wetness leaving a faint stain on top of Jimin’s cream pants. 

Your fingers are trembling as you reach between your bodies and find the pearl buttons on Jimin’s shirt. You fumble a bit, but Jimin is slow, patient, planting a kiss on your wrist. 

You undo the first button, exposing more of his chest, and he plants a kiss on the inside of your elbow. You shiver, unbuttoning the next button. His shirt more or less falls nearly completely open, and your breath hisses in at the sight of his abdomen. His abs, taut underneath his skin, a few purplish, fading bruises dotted near his ribs. 

The thought brings you to earth for a moment, and fills you with something else. A strange desperation. You don’t want to lose Jimin. Not when he means so much to you.

“Jimin,” You whisper suddenly, Jimin just looks at you. “I love you.”

You don’t know why you need to say the words so badly but they spill out. “I love you,” You repeat. 

Jimin’s eyes just crease into a smile and he murmurs into your upper arm, his breath soft on your skin. “I love you too. So much.” He stamps a kiss on your shoulder and you shiver. 

You undo the final button and shrug the shirt off of him, the silk practically glides off and hits the floor. Jimin’s hands rest flat on the small of your back as he presses a last kiss to the base of your throat. He hums into his kiss and the vibrations of his voice against your neck have you keening into his hard cock yet again. 

You want him. You’ve wanted him before, but this is a new kind of want. You need him. Your legs are wrapped around his waist so tightly that your thighs ache, and you nip at his lips again. 

You lose yourself in a kiss that is so intense, your teeth clash for a moment before you bite at his bottom lip gently, eliciting a groan from his throat. His dick twitches in his pants as he slots his hands underneath your arms and lifts you with ease, turning you and laying you on your back.

Your hair fans out and Jimin’s body is hovering on top of yours in moments. He looks good- his hair falling into his eyes, his arms straining as he carefully holds his body on top of yours. 

You can feel the entirety of his warmth on top of you, keeping just enough of his body weight on you to make you almost squirm with how badly you want him.

At this point, your core is starting to throb, you are so wet it feels messy and slick in your slit as you lift your hips up to press firmly against his cock. You’re so desperate, and his eyes flash at your actions as he lets out a throaty moan.

His fingers find your hips, and you buck uncontrollably under his touch. His fingers dart right where your thigh meets your core, so close yet not quite touching. It’s a tease, a delicious tease - your breaths are ragged, your chest rising and falling. You’re panting, falling all over yourself for him.  

You’re so damn full of want you might implode, and being fully naked underneath Jimin means you are closer to it, to having him. 

He is back on top of you, his face inches from yours, and he captures your lips in another kiss. The moment his lips touch yours, he runs two fingers in a clean swipe down your slit with no warning. You let out a strangled moan, because it fills so good and it fills you with a crackling heat, and then it’s over.

Jimin just chuckles, pulling away, and you watch as he brings his fingers to his mouth. He tastes you, and you can see his eyes dilate, him swallowing.

“Jimin,” Your voice rushes out. “Please…” 

Jimin obliges, and his fingers work their way down your body to your pussy. He starts at your clit, working quick circles on you, and you’re writhing underneath him. 

His touch is intense, it gives you relief but it also makes you more frustrated, because you want more. All you do is want, you want more, you want Jimin, you just fucking want. You’re being so vocal with your want. Mewls, moans, suppressed yelps of pleasure, as your own hand reaches out and cups his dick.

He’s so hard- and you watch in satisfaction as he squeezes his eyes shut and swears under his breath. You’re not able to go slow and lavascious like he is, playing with you. You just want to feel his hard cock in your hands and you hurry to unzip his pants. He rolls off you, pulling off his pants and underwear hurriedly until he’s fully naked and hovering on top of you again.

You wrap your fingers around his cock and your eyes roll back in your head as Jimin suddenly presses his fingers hard and fast against your clit. Fuck. Your hand glides up the shaft of his cock but you can hardly concentrate with how Jimin is touching you. 

He is watching you the entire time, peppering kisses down your neck and at the top of your chest, but his fingers don’t relent and you’re so tense that you think you might explode.

“Jimin, please, I need you,” You whine desperately, and Jimin responds by rolling you on your side. He slots his body behind you, his fingers gripping your waist.

His breathing is shaky against the back of your neck, and his hand curves around your front to grasp your chin. He tilts your head back so he can lean forward and kiss you, his other hand guiding his cock to your entrance.

You kiss him, letting out a moan into his mouth, because you want him so badly that it hurts. You can feel the tip of his cock tease at your entrance, and Jimin lets go of your chin and his hand wraps around your breast, pinching your nipple between his fingers as he thrusts.

He didn’t enter you before with his fingers, and you are tight around his cock. The feeling of him stretching you out and sliding inside of you is immense. Your breath locks in your throat, his hand is still massaging your breast as he pushes all of himself inside of your walls. 

“Jimin,” You whimper out, and he responds by kissing down the nape of your neck and moaning against your skin. 

Your lower back is curling, your toes are curling, it feels like your insides and your core are all curling, because it’s sensory overload. You can feel all of him around you. His body is folded around you, he is kissing along the slope of your neck, and then his lips are at your ear as he eases his cock out of you.

“You’re so beautiful,” He murmurs, and then his cock slams inside of you hard.

You let out a choked whine at the feeling of it, he slides out again, the wetness of your pussy making the movement easy and slick and fast. 

“I’m yours.”

With those words, his hand tightens around your breast, his other hand firm around your hips, and then he starts to thrust into you. 

He isn’t hard and fast like the other times you have fucked, full of desperation and urgency and him wanting to own you. This is different. You can feel every ridge of his cock so deep inside of you. 

Your belly is aching deliciously, his lips dragging kisses and bites down your neck. You can feel every inch of him on you. This is so sensual and so intense and so fucking everything that you feel yourself being pulled faster and faster to the edge.

You can hear it, the sound of his hips and the slap of skin as he fucks into you, strong, intense thrusts, his thighs working to ensure every inch of him is buried deep inside of you. 

“Jimin,” You pant out his name. “God!” 

Your voice rises to a cry as he rolls your nipple between his fingers and gives you one particularly intense thrust. You feel your vision start to narrow as you reach the point of climax.

Jimin senses it too, feeling you tighten around him, and he pulls out of you and rolls you onto your back. He’s on top of you in moments, his hands fluttering up to curve around the sides of your face. He pushes inside of you again, filling you up whole, and you moan. 

“Y/N,” He moans out your name, and you whimper. 

“I love you, Jimin,” You stutter out and Jimin just responds by pressing his forehead to yours and rocking his hips against you.

Your core is aching, and you know you’re close, so damn close that every muscle and cell is tensed and waiting for it. You can feel his breath coming out in soft shudders, hear the small whines he makes with each thrust. His hands are roaming over your body, his face inches from yours. 

You feel so connected to him, so aroused, so full that it’s like a wave washing over you. And then it hits.

You let out an incoherent moan, your hips bucking up as your body shakes, your fingers latching into his hair. Your nails rake down his shoulder blades, digging into his soft skin. 

It washes over you, and it’s like a ball of satisfaction and pleasure. White hot and freezing cold. Your orgasm is slow, it melts into every inch of your body.

Your eyes are rolling back into your head and you’re faintly aware of Jimin moaning at the feeling of your pussy tightening around him, your nails digging into his skin, but you barely notice. Your mind is just thumping, with it, how good it feels. Your lips curved around his name and him. Jimin.

The peak starts to fall, leaving behind a glow of warmth, and Jimin thrusts into you. He tilts his hips and grinds, as he lets out a groan. 

“I’m going-” He stutters out, his voice pitches upwards in desperation and then he lets out a moan. 

His voice is husky as he moans, a throaty gasp of air as his body stiffens and twitches. He’s buried deep inside of you as his face falls down beside yours, burying into the pillow. He’s so vocal with his orgasm and you listen to the sounds of his pleasure and feel the twitches of his body as he rides out his own high.

You stay like that for a few minutes, just breathing each other in and enjoying the warm blissful high. Finally, with a grunt, Jimin pulls out of you. 

You hiss in as you feel his cum pooling out of you and onto his sheets, Jimin just watches with a faintly proud smile before he rolls over beside you. 

His hand slips around your waist and pulls you to him, and you smile as he burrows into your side and plants a drowsy kiss on your ear.

It’s crazy, you think, how you’re feeling right now. Happiness, and bliss, and hope. Hope. Who would’ve thought. After a lifetime of violence, of slate grey slashes and blood-red tinged dreams, that this was what your future held all along. This. Drowning in luxurious cotton sheets and the scent of Park Jimin.

Filled with a happiness that you never knew existed.

“It’s kind of crazy huh,” You whisper, and he pulls away a fraction to gaze at you. His eyes are soft as he smiles. “It is.” 

He reads your mind somehow, as he always does. He reaches up and his thumb grazes over your lips, he follows up on his touch with a kiss. It’s tender, a whisper, and as he pulls away it feels like you’re floating.

He doesn’t say I love you, and neither do you. Words aren’t needed because the I love you is prominent between the two of you. 

It’s there, hanging in the atmosphere, and you think to yourself that it always will be.

On the day of the coronation, the air is crisp. 

You are standing inside the palace, by one of the large stained windows. You watch the hordes of people shuffling in to see the coronation ceremony, dressed carefully in their finest clothes. 

A smile toys on your lips as you spot a young woman dressed in training gear similar to yours, her chin held up defiantly as she marches in through the gates.

“I told you that you would be good for this kingdom.” You hear Jimin’s voice behind you, but you don’t move. You purse your lips in thought, still watching the people filtering in. “Inspiring other women to fight. To be strong.”

You feel his palm rest gently at your waist, and you finally turn, looking at him properly. 

Your face, however guarded you tend to keep it, cannot hide your feelings.

Jimin is a vision, his hair coiffed neatly off of his face. He is dressed in swathes of velvet, robes that are dense and luxurious, the collar of a pressed white shirt peeking out underneath. 

What strikes you the most though is the look on his face. His eyes are set, there is confidence in his smile. He looks calm, confident, assured. Regal.

“You look beautiful.” He says softly, and he squeezes your waist gently with his words. 

You glance down at what you’re wearing- a dress in brushed silk, the same shade as the dark blackberry of Jimin’s robes. It’s a bold dress, fabric that is cut to sweep down your body. It is different to what newly crowned queens of the past have worn,  but as Jimin had murmured when you voiced your concerns about your dress to him, “You’re different to queens of the past.”

You are nervous. Nervousness is an emotion you aren’t accustomed to yet, a feeling that you only became truly familiar with when Jimin entered your life. He, as always, senses your shift in mood and his hand moves from cupping your waist to skimming over your cheek, his fingertips grazing underneath your jaw.

“I love you.” He says slowly, his eyes locked on yours. His voice is like satin and it calms you down, settles the way your erratic hum of your pulse as Jimin pulls you into his arms, holding you close. “I am by your side.”

You understand what he is saying, picking up on the darker side of his words. He is reading your fears about the days to come after this one, after the coronation. 

It’s like the air is thick with it, tension. The threat of war, the upcoming social shift of your kingdom, the inevitable consequences to follow.

Jimin’s words settle you, as does this, him holding you in his arms. 

“I love you too.” You whisper back, pulling away to see the smile on Jimin’s face. As always, his smile soothes at the ragged doubts flaring inside of you, and you can’t help yourself. You lean forward and press your lips to his, sighing into the kiss. 

“Your Highness?” A voice interrupts you and your heads pull apart to see Kim Namjoon, the King’s old advisor, standing there, politely casting his eyes downwards. 

“It’s time.”

Jimin nods, standing to his feet. You stand up beside him, falling into step with your husband as you follow Advisor Kim to the main palace room.

The main doors are in front of you, and you inhale shakily. You can hear it, the quiet murmuring of the crowd. 

Advisor Kim is standing to the side politely, as Jimin takes both of your hands in his. He doesn’t speak, neither do you, instead, you push open the doors and walk out.

The hushed chatter of the crowd falls to silence as you walk beside Jimin, stopping in front of the thrones.

There are so many people, a sea of faces, and you swallow as you try and scan through the crowd. 

The archbishop steps forward, speaking to the crowd and to you, but you don’t listen to him, zoning out and focusing on the thrones behind you. 

The King’s throne in particular looks new, untouched, as if the King’s blood hadn’t stained the brass. It feels odd, knowing that Jimin will be sitting in that throne, when the last person to sit there, his own father, had died such a gruesome death. A shiver travels up your spine and you close your eyes.

You vow then to protect yourself, to protect Jimin. You promise that no more blood will be shed unnecessarily over the throne.

You snap back into reality as a young girl comes forward, holding a blue velvet cushion. Two crowns are placed on top of it, side by side.

“Through fire and through darkness.” The archbishop is saying, and you watch as he picks up the crown with delicate fingers and lowers it onto Jimin’s head.

Jimin is kneeled forward, his head bowed. The crown is gold, burnished gold that is dulled with age, but it still gleams in the light. The metal is twisted, consisting of smooth curves, both soft and masculine.

“Through death and through life.”  Jimin finishes, straightening. 

You are lost in him for a moment, standing tall and strong with the crown perched on his head.

The archbishop strides over to you, and you take a shaky breath in.

“Through fire and through darkness.” He begins, and he lifts your crown from the pillow. 

It has not been worn in over a decade, not since Jimin’s mother, and the silver is dull. This close, you can see specks of age on the recently polished metal. Still, it is beautiful. It is different to Jimin’s crown, made up of delicate strands of fine silver. There are hundreds of them, entwined intricately to create something strong and unbreakable. 

The archbishop settles the crown down on the top of your head, it is heavy but not uncomfortable. 

He settles it down onto the top of your head, it is heavy but not uncomfortable.

“Through death,” The words come out of your mouth, and your eyes flicker to Jimin. “And through life.” You say the words loudly, clearly, meaning them. 

The archbishop steps away, and Jimin steps towards you. He takes your hands in his, and his lips brush across your cheek.

He pulls back, staring into your eyes, before he seals your lips in a kiss. 

It’s as soft as the one earlier, his lips gentle, tender. You know what it’s symbolizing. 

The start of a new life together, a new beginning. A new kingdom. 

“My Queen.” He whispers.

“My King.”

amynote: A huge thank you to the person who sent in the original request! I can’t believe I made My Guy hyungwon that person in this fic... But yeah I hope this was enjoyable to read. I really had fun writing it ♡ 

[qdebode]

5 Must Have Chrome Extensions for 2023

Look, we all have cool and impressive Chrome extensions. But from time to time, you come accross hidden gems that will leave you thinking “where have you been all my life?!”. I had the pleasure to discover those by reading about them, so now it’s only fair to return the favor and share five extensions that I absolutely adore.

Momentum

Momentum makes your ‘New Tab’ page look calm and pretty. A new beautiful nature picture every day, it greets you personally (or shares some wisdom), tells the time, a small daily mantra and… That’s it. No noise, no links, nothing but calm.

There are more options to add, such as taking notes, include weather updates, a search function, bookmarks, to do lists and more. I prefer to keep it clean and simple. It’s a more enjoyable experience than the standard ‘New Tab’ page from Chrome and something I have been using for years and years now.

Find it here: https://chrome.google.com/webstore/detail/momentum/laookkfknpbbblfpciffpaejjkokdgca

Wikiwand

Could be just me but the old design of Wikipedia is disaster. Yes, it’s about the information and not how pretty that information is being delivered, yet a bit of freshing up would be welcome. Introducing: Wikiwand.

The extension basically brings Wikipedia into the modern era of webdesign. It doesn’t do much more than that, but this simple idea is brilliant. A sidebar to easily navigate between the chapters, a cleaner design, modern day fonts and no information gets lost. A must have for anyone who is tired of the old looking Wikipedia and needs a refreshing look for the site.

Find it here: https://chrome.google.com/webstore/detail/wikiwand-wikipedia-modern/emffkefkbkpkgpdeeooapgaicgmcbolj

Simplify Twitter Web UI

I personally used to love Twitter. However, today it’s an absolute mess. I’m not going to go into that side of the topic but will instead give you a way to make it more fun and less exhausting.

See, I find that the trending topics are mostly at the source of my Twitter misery. Solution: A Chrome extension that removes the trending topics list from your feed page. No longer will you see triggering topics that will make you click to see the dumbest takes on certain topics, no. It’s just a feed of the people you follow, nothing more. Simple, but effective!

Find it here: https://chrome.google.com/webstore/detail/simplify-twitter-web-ui/pobjlebhmdjbgfjhfdhblilmpjkegbfd

Return YouTube Dislike

YouTube dislikes have been removed over a year ago. Personally, I wasn’t a fan of that decision. Admittedly, there were issues with the dislike button being used in online harassment, but it also had the potential to be something useful.

With a quick glance at the like-dislike ratio, you could see if a video had actual content or if it’s a clickbait situation. (Loads of dislikes compared to likes? Don’t waste your time, move on.) So, a Chrome extension that brings that back? Sign me up!

Find it here: https://chrome.google.com/webstore/detail/return-youtube-dislike/gebbhagfogifgggkldgodflihgfeippi

Colorzilla

Ever saw an image and you were like “that’s a wonderful color, I wish I knew the colorcode of it” — Look no further than Colorzilla. It’s basically the Eye Dropper tool from Photoshop, but then in Chrome!

Simply open the tool, click on the color with your Eye Dropper tool and it shows you the colorcode for that color. It’s also immediately copied, so you can easily copy and paste it somewhere. Bonus: there’s a log of all the colors you’ve selected, so you never lose any pretty colors you’ve selected over the years.

Find it here: https://chrome.google.com/webstore/detail/colorzilla/bhlhnicpbhignbdhedgjhgdocnmhomnp

Your turn!

Got a great Chrome Extension to share? Drop them in the comments!

[theindifferentdroid]

Could you do #73(Height Difference Kisses Where One Person Has To Bend Down And The Other Is On Their Tippy Toes) with Kylo (or Matt the Radar Technician if you write for him), please? I know I don't comment much, but I really do love your writing! :)

73. Height Difference Kisses Where One Person Has To Bend Do Wn And The Other Is On Their Tippy Toes

A/N: Thank you so much! And thanks for the request. I’ve never written Matt before so this was a fun challenge. I’m sorry it took so long! I started writing it right after you requested, but I had a specific place I wanted this to go, so I had to think about it for a bit. Enjoy some Matt/Kylo! (1600+ words)

The new technician on your department caught your eye, quickly. Almost as fast as he appeared, and he seemed to have done so out of thin air. He claimed to have been on a different ship entirely, recently transferred. It was all a load of bantha shit, and you knew it. He was probably demoted, used to hiding that mussy blond mop under a trooper helmet. If that’s the case, he was lucky to not be dead.

But you weren’t going to push the point with him. He was cute.

It didn’t take long for you to take him under your wing. The longer you worked with him the more it seemed you were right. No technician would get transferred to the Finalizer with this little experience. He must have known someone.

While he wasn’t the most talented technician on board, his height made him incredibly useful. As long as you could explain to him what to do, he could do it.

The two of you became attached quickly. Well, you couldn’t speak for him, but you could just feel it, the way he’d look at you. The way he’d crack a (bad) joke and mess with you, his glasses sliding down his nose the harder he’d laugh.

And then there were the days he’d get very attached, clingy even. One evening after eating dinner together, after everyone else had cleared the dining hall, he just wouldn’t leave. Every time an awkward silence would linger, he’d start talking about something else. Eventually, after nodding off, you convinced him it was time to go.

He missed work for a few days after that. He hadn’t mentioned that the night before.

When you questioned him about it, he said he had some additional training, offsite. He must have known you didn’t believe him; he just tussled his hair and got back to work. You saw his eyes grow wide once he thought he was out of your sight.

The clingy disappearances happened a few more times before you became frustrated enough to ask. It was another late night in the mess hall, conversations about broken hyper drives and fuzzy commlinks turning into musings about life back on planet side one way or another.

Finally, you were the one to interrupt the silence. “Do you want to tell me where you’re going tomorrow?”

Matt’s dark eyes glared at you sideways as he poked the remaining food in his plate. His glasses slowly slipped down the slope of his nose with the way he was twisting his features. “Who said I’m going anywhere?” His tone was not convincing.

“Come on, Matt. This happens every time. You keep me up late and then…” you trailed off, taking a deep breath. “Then you disappear!”

You stood up quickly and stormed out of the mess hall. You heard Matt’s chair screech against the floor as he got up, his boots squeaking behind you.

You kept walking, ignoring Matt’s footsteps all the way back to your quarters. You arrived at your door, turning to face him before entering. “What do you want?”

Matt swallowed a lump in his throat before he spoke. “Are you okay?”

You chuckled. “Am I okay? I mean, not really, no. My friend disappears for days at a time and can’t even tell me where he’s going!”

Matt’s breaths grew deeper. He didn’t know what to say. Here you were, worrying about him, and he couldn’t even tell you the truth.

A pang of guilt rushed through your chest. You didn’t mean to yell at him. “Listen,” you began, taking a step towards him. “I like you, Matt. I guess I’m just worried about you.”

Matt adjusted his glasses. He was at a loss for words. He wasn’t going to lie and tell you not to worry. He had been concerned himself. The reports had kept him up nearly all night for the last few days. He had to go back now before things got too out of hand. That mission was far more important than the one he had made for himself here.

He racked his brain. What would he say in this situation? What should he do? What would a normal person do? He was incredibly unaccustomed to how to act in any social situation, much less this one. And especially now that you considered him a friend.

The look in your eyes melted his heart, and he acted out of pure instinct, reaching out to grab you a pull you into a tight hug.

Your face was nuzzled into Matt’s chest. He was warm and comforting and… ridiculously muscular for a technician. He’d been hiding this body under baggy, orange jumpsuits this whole time?

Matt took a deep breath in, his face buried in your hair. “I’ll tell you when I get back. I swear.”

You pulled away and looked up at him, seeing something different in his eyes now.

“Just come back,” you pleaded.

You placed your hands on Matt’s shoulders to steady yourself, propping up onto the tips of your toes to reach his face. Your lips met his cheek quickly, falling away from him as soon as you met his skin.

Matt’s eyes were wide and you barely got to see his cheeks turning red before he made off hastily down the hall.

Weeks passed since Matt had left you, or rather left the Finalizer. In that time, you’d been assigned a new partner, who, admittedly, was more skilled but far less attractive. You’d begun taking dinner back to your quarters; the mess hall wasn’t the same without Matt’s awkward presence or his oversized glasses.

There was a void in your life. And you never felt it as much as you did when you heard about Starkiller base. You’d taken off the rest of the day after you found out about its destruction. There was just some sinking feeling in your gut. Matt had been there, you were sure of it.

You were eating dinner in your quarters a few weeks later when someone knocked on your door. You froze. No one really knew where your quarters were; you didn’t have many friends and you were never in any disciplinary trouble.

That last thought crossed your mind again when you opened your door to be faced with the Commander. You had never been this close to him, but he was just as intimidating as he appeared to be from a distance. What had you done?

“You didn’t do anything,” he said, his voice harsher than you’d expected it to be through the modulator. “May I come in?”

He was shuffling into you room before you realized he had answered a question you were sure you didn’t ask out loud.

You stood by the door as it slid shut, and you felt the Commander hovering behind you. You went on the defensive. “If this is about my dead friend, just tell me and get it over with.”

As you turned to face him, hissing noises emanated from his mask. It moved and clicked and he lifted it off of his head. Why was he doing this?

“I had to let you know I was okay.”

Your heart sunk in your chest. You wanted to say his name, but you couldn’t get it past your lips. It would have felt like a lie. But that’s who this was, right? It was Matt? That was his beautiful nose, his dark eyes. But that scar. That wasn’t his. The hair was certainly the wrong color. But the height, the build.

“It’s me.”

Your mouth fell open. You were floored. There was no way.

“I thought… I thought you were…”

“Dead? Not just yet.” He gave a tight-lipped smile, thinking back on the events that led up to what his face looked like now.

You rushed up to him and threw your arms around his large body. Whatever type of person you had thought Kylo Ren to be before was long gone. You knew who he was beneath all of the black and chrome.

“You won’t be seeing Matt anymore,” he stated.

You loosened your grip around him, concerned. Did he not want this? Was this his way of telling you goodbye? You must have read it all wrong.

“No, Y/N. It’s not that. I just…” he trailed off, moving away so you could see him. “Look at me. It’s going to be difficult for a technician to explain how his face got to be this way.”

You raised a hand to his face, tracing it gently over the mark, thinking about what pain he must have been in when it happened, almost as if to silently say you were sorry.

Kylo pushed those thoughts out of his head. He had already lived through it enough.

“Besides, my schedule has become incredibly busy. I don’t have time for those charades anymore.” He leaned over to kiss your forehead. “But I’ll make time for you.”

You ran your hands through his hair – his real hair, you thought – and grabbed the back of his head to pull yourself up. He leaned over for you, but you still had to adjust your height, your socked feet rising up to the tips of your toes. Certainly if you’d still had your boots on this might not have been so difficult.

But finally his lips met yours and you kissed him. You kissed him like he knew you wanted to kiss him for the last few months.

You chuckled as you pulled away, falling back down to your feet.

“What?” he asked, as if he didn’t already know.

You ran a finger along the bridge of his nose. “It’s a shame, you know. I was fond of those glasses.”

[theeurekaproject]

Parva Rubrum Marmor

The rice plants waved from side to side in the summer breeze, endless viridian green against a landscape of burnt sienna and umber. The sunlight streaming through titanium white clouds was zinc yellow, and it left sparkles of aluminum powder on a pond of cobalt blue. Cressida swirled the paintbrush through American rose and dotted it on the vermillion of the cliffs far in the background, completing the picturesque landscape of the quadrangle.

She leant back and looked at the painting, somewhat dissatisfied with it. American rose might not have been the right color. It was more candy apple red or electric crimson. And maybe diamond dust would have looked better than aluminum powder, to really capture the essence of sun on water, or maybe-

Maybe she was just overthinking it.

She looked at the painting, and then at her pigments. She eyed the chocolate cosmos. Dark, rich, deep red—it would be the perfect opposite of bright, vibrant American rose, especially in a painting where she was trying to create so much contrast. But was chocolate cosmos really faithful to the cliffs of the Mare Acidalium at sunset?

Cressida frowned and walked over to her window. It wasn’t that she wanted photorealism, exactly, but she wanted something that really matched the soul of the place, the heart of the landscape. Colors were important for that. She pulled open the drapes, revealing the real rice plants, and all of the people who worked in them. The cliffs rose up in the background. Chocolate cosmos did kind of match their character, but it wasn’t really super accurate-

“What the hell?”

Something flashed in the sky, momentarily flickering before vanishing into thin air. Cressida squinted. There it was again—a sleek chrome triangle, pulsing in and out of existence. That was advanced cloaking technology, the likes of which she’d never seen outside of crappy sci-fi B-movies they played at the theater on Fridays. Martian ships didn’t look like that.

“Dad?” she called downstairs. “Dad, there’s something weird in the stratosphere.”

“I know,” he shouted back. “They’re with me-“

“The ones in the ship?” she asked, watching all the workers in the field stop their labor to gaze at the cyan sky. “Because there’s a white thing-“

“What?”

“Come take a look at it.”

She heard him murmur an apology to his visitors—Eleutherian ambassadors, probably, but she had long since given up on trying to keep his various guests straight—and run upstairs, his footsteps pounding on the hardwood floor. He joined her at the window still, shielding his eyes with one hand.

“Look, Dad,” she said. “It’s flickering, see? That’s not one of ours.”

“That’s strange,” he said slowly. “That’s a nice ship. A really nice ship.” Even from this far away, Cressida could tell it was expensive; the way the mid-morning light glinted off the metal was unique to fancy Eleutherian cruisers. But why would the space equivalent of a yacht have cloaking technology unless whoever was flying it really, really didn’t want to be seen?

“It doesn’t look dangerous,” Cressida said, “but civilian ships aren’t even allowed to have that type of tech. That goes against so many regulations it’s not even funny.”

“You’re right. And it isn’t just cloaking, either.” Her father tilted his head up, shielding his eyes with one scarred hand. “See how shiny it is? That’s not for aesthetic purposes—or, well, it is, but those are shields, like on a military ship.” Cressida’s voice caught in her throat. “Military?” The Eleutherian military was no joke; their fleet outstripped anything Mars had by far, to the point where fending them off was laughable. The last war they’d fought had resulted in patches of nuclear devastation all over Daedalia Planum, and the soil was still irradiated and poisonous even centuries later. And, to Eleutheria, that had been nothing—at the time, their Imperatrix had called it a “skirmish.” Millions of people dead and entire cities leveled, a civilization reduced to radioactive ash, and it barely even registered on Eleutheria’s radar. They could nuke the entirety of Mars and barely bat an eyelash. Cressida was sure that her father’s status would protect her in some way—he prided himself on being annoyingly overprotective, and he was rich and powerful in some sectors—but, at the end of the day, he was just a farmer who had gotten lucky. He was high-ranking, but was he high-ranking enough to save his daughter and his planet from the most volatile empire known to mankind?

“What did you do?” Cressida demanded. “Why is the Eleutherian army coming after us?”

“I didn’t do anything, not really,” he said quickly. “And they wouldn’t send the army after us. They’d send the space force.” “That is literally the opposite of reassuring.” The only thing more terrifying than the sight of centuria of mutant super-soldiers was the sight of centuria of mutant super-soldiers riding indestructible starships.

“Don’t panic just yet. That might not even be a military craft,” he said, though Cressida could hear the waver in his voice. “Military ships are’t sleek and white—more cubic and black and intentionally intimidating.” Cressida squinted, trying to get a closer look. Everyone in the fields had long since stopped working; now, they just stared up at the sky, enraptured. The vessel drew closer, close enough to cause tornadoes of rusty-red dust to swirl up from the ground in jets of spent soil, and then closer still. It was big—admittedly, not as big as a yacht, but big—and Cressida felt a surge of anxiety as she realized just how near it was to the farmhouse. Either it would flatten all the crops and destroy the year’s harvest, which would be a massive inconvenience requiring ten tons of paperwork, or it would completely crush the homestead. Neither were good options, and both were bound to piss off the almighty Algorithm.

But, to her surprise, the ship simply coasted over them with a surprising amount of grace for something so large and unwieldy-looking. It cast a long, dark shadow over the fields as the Martian sun vanished behind glimmering Eleutherian plastic, sending chills down Cressida’s spine.

“Hey, Ace,” her father called to one of his guests. “Can you come up here for a minute?” “Ace?” Cressida asked. That name sounded like it belonged to a frat boy, not a visiting dignitary. “Who the hell is—“ “What?” A teenage boy with wild, curly black hair came barreling into the room in a cacophony of noise. His clothes suggested that he was a soldier, but his demeanor seemed less “military precision” and more “confused.” Maybe Eleutheria’s massive population meant that they were less discerning when it came to their soldiers, since they had so much cannon fodder, or maybe he was smarter than he looked.

“Is that who I think it is?” Cressida’s father asked, gesturing to the ship. Ace considered it for a minute.

“Yeah,” he said. “Oh my god, yeah. That’s Acidalia. We’re so fu—uh, screwed.”

“Wait,” Cressida interjected, “Acidalia? You’re not talking about-“

“You know exactly who I’m talking about,” he replied. “Either that or her psycho mother, because there are only two people I can think of who have rides like that.”

Cressida looked nervously at her father, and his eyes widened slightly.

“You don’t think it could be Alestra, do you?” he asked.

“Alestra Cipher is after you?!” Cressida exclaimed. “What the hell, Dad?” Alestra was the most dangerous woman in the solar system—hell, probably even the whole galaxy. She killed her own citizens on a regular basis, and she did not like Martians, particularly martians from the Mare Acidalium quadrangle. If she saw the opportunity to strike, she’d probably mow down the whole Seren family where they stood.

“I don’t think it’d be her,” Ace said dismissively. “It must be Acidalia. If it was Alestra, she’d have burnt this whole place to the ground already. We’d all be piles of radioactive ash by now. But that’s not the point—it doesn’t matter if she’s on that ship or not, because she’s the hunting dog to Acidalia’s fox. We are so, so, so screwed—and the fact that Acidalia thought it was necessary to come all the way here doesn’t bode well, either.”

“What do you mean, ‘that doesn’t bode well?’” Cressida asked again. “Dad, what’s happening?” Moving away from the window, she knocked over the all-but-forgotten jar of mixed chocolate cosmos, which left a reddish brown stain where it spilled.

She went utterly ignored.

“Yeah, it must be Acidalia’s,” Ace decided. “Alestra wouldn’t have let us live this long—she’s too efficient for that. And Cassiopeia’s an impulsive idiot, but Alestra keeps a leash on her, right?”

“I suppose there’s only one way to find out,” Cressida’s father shrugged.

***

Approximately thirty seconds later, Cressida and her father, trailed by Ace and a strange Eleutherian girl with fluorescent pink hair, stood outside the homestead in a rare patch of grass. Each and every one of them was sweating and tired-looking—something about the heat made standing under the sun exhausting, even when one had barely done anything requiring any sort of labor. Together, they stared at the ship, watching, waiting.

Suddenly, with an odd lack of fanfare, the shields vanished, and in place of their iridescent glow was a set of marble steps that somehow looked as natural on the landscape as the rice plants and the trees. At their very center stood a woman in a white dress and a veil—she could have been a bride, but Cressida knew better. She was flanked by two other women wearing identical gray uniforms, but somehow they gave off the same energy as an entire court full of people, and Cressida felt like she ought to respect this person, whoever she was.

The girl with pink hair, the one who apparently didn’t speak a word of Anglian, dropped to her knees in an awkward sort of worship. Cressida briefly contemplated doing the same thing, but neither Ace nor her father followed the girl, so she did a slight curtsy and remained standing, feeling very small compared to this foreign princess of a person. Even here, surrounded by the spoils of her family’s wealth—a mansion of a farmhouse, fields upon fields of employees, the best technology any Martian could ever hope to buy—Cressida felt like a tasteless hick.

“You know how to make an entrance,” her father said to the stranger, smiling slightly.

She sighed. “Old habits die hard.” Something in her expression was completely humorless, but not in an I-mean-business way, more of a someone-just-died way. Something churned in Cressida’s stomach, and she suddenly got a horrible gut feeling that something had gone very, very wrong.

“Are all the Imperials this dramatic?” her father asked, apparently not picking up on the David-this-is-serious vibes the woman was clearly trying to send his way. It took a moment, but a wave of embarrassment surged through Cressida. Imperials? This woman was an Imperial? Not just an Imperial—if she was standing here, and she wasn’t Alestra, she had to be—

Oh my God, Cressida thought. I’m speaking to Acidaila Cipher. It should have been obvious in retrospect; Ace had identified this craft as her ship, after all, and it made sense that the Imperatrix Ceasarina would be the one person outside the military who would own a ship this nice. But Cressida had been expecting some type of aid or minister to come out first—why would the ruler of the most powerful empire humanity had ever known want to speak face-to-face with the Secretary of Agriculture on Mars, of all people?

“David, I don’t have time for this,” Acidalia said, looking harried, and the tone in her voice made Cressida want to hear whatever she had to say sooner rather than later. She gave off a sort of frantic, panicked aura, even though her stone-cold face was completely calm. It was like chaos and disarray just surrounded her—she wasn’t its source, but it seemed to like her, and Cressida wanted to figure out what the problem was before it turned into a catastrophe.

“Sorry,” her father said. “Generally, when important political figures show up at my house with no explanation or forewarning, I get a little curious.” She glared at him. “There are a lot of things we could be talking about right now that don’t involve dramatic entrances. I’m afraid that I come bearing bad news.”

“Bad news?” Cressida asked, terrified by the vagueness of the statement. “Bad news” coming from a political figure could mean anything from an unfavorable poll to a famine that killed eight thousand people, and that was just on Mars. She didn’t even want to imagine what had happened in order to make Eleutheria acknowledge that it had a problem.

“We should discuss this inside,” Acidalia said, gesturing quickly towards the ship, which vanished into thin air at the movement of her wrist. Every worker in the fields stared, open-mouthed, but the Eleutherians didn’t look surprised in the slightest. As Acidalia walked to the farmhouse, Martian dirt soiled her elaborate white gown, but she didn’t seem to notice or care. She exuded the same type of confidence as Arlen Tycho—the persona of a leader who knew damn well how powerful and famous they were, and didn’t care what the unwashed masses thought of them.

With surprisingly little fanfare, Acidalia and her companions sat at the low wooden table in the kitchen by the foyer, and Cressida almost laughed at the sheer absurdity of the sight. Even she didn’t sit in the kitchen—they had dining rooms for that. The kitchen was the domain of the help and other people whose social points weren’t high enough to let them sit with the big guns. But Acidalia was the biggest gun in the room, and if she wanted to sit in the kitchen, the Algorithm probably wouldn’t penalize either of the Serens for that.

Acidalia said something low to Cressida’s father before turning to her. She gulped, half-expecting to be struck down or laughed at, but the Imperatrix had an expression of almost friendly neutrality, though she still gave off an underlying feeling of dread and anxiety.

“Um… bonus vesper, celsituda tua,” Cressida said, feeling nervous for a reason she couldn’t place.

“Loquerisne Latine?” Acidalia asked, surprised.

“Scio exigua.” I know a little bit. She’d studied Latin at school, too, but not the complicated, intricate dialect that Eleutheria used, if one could even call it that. Eleutherian “Latin” was really more of a creole of Latin, English, random Romance languages, Greek, and a bunch of drunk people adding -um and -us and -trix to words where they didn’t belong. It was created by a slew of college students armed with online translators and some Church documents two thousand years ago, and it showed. But she could hardly insult Acidalia’s mess of a first language in front of her, so she smiled blandly and tried her best not to cringe at the incorrect declensions and pronunciations.

“Ego Acidalia,” Acidalia said, as if Cressida wouldn’t know who she was. She pronounced her name the Catholic way, like the word acid. “Tu es filia David?”

“Sic. David pater meus,” Cressida replied. “Meum nomen Cressida est.” Yes, I am David’s daughter. My name is Cressida.

“Suave te cognoscere est,” Acidalia. “Pater mecum operatur. Qui dixit mihi multus est de te. Quotos annos habes?”

“Sedecim annos habeo.” I am sixteen years old—well, more like I have sixteen years. She was pretty sure that’s how they said it in Latin. That’s how they said it in Spanish, right? Tengo dieciseis años, not soy dieciseis años. And Latin was like Spanish’s ancestor, sort of. So that had to be it. Cressida was suddenly reminded of the Horus she’d spent in Trinity Court’s Academy for Young Women, staring longingly at the languid summer days just outside the window and trying to remember complex webs of verb tense rules for the sake of grammar quizzes. Was Acidalia trying to test her?

“Libens sum. Possumus, eamus intus?” Acidalia asked.

Before she could reply, Ace interrupted them. “Et arripuerit,” he said. “T Ubi est?”

Acidalia sighed deeply and didn’t meet his eyes. With a sweeping gesture, she announced more than said, “Veni. Nos eamus.”

No one moved.

She did not say anything, but gave them a look that wordlessly said, “this is a command, not a suggestion.”

***

“Et mortuus est?!”

Acidalia’s expression barely changed. “Cassiopeia.”

Looking incredulous, Ace sank down on the table. “Quomodo?”

“Et percusserunt eum. Significatum est enim mihi est…. mea culpa, se nunquam mori. Et ego paenitet.”

“Non utique creditur moriturus!” Ace exclaimed. “Erat tantum septendecim annorum… Ego ei ne ire. Cur non ibimus?” He buried his head in his hands and sunk down to the table, muttering frantically to himself in a whispered Shakespearean soliloquy.

Cressida didn’t know enough Latin to pick up on most of the conversation, but she knew enough to judge that someone had died. Mortuus, mori, moriturus… dead, dying, dying? It was difficult to tell; half their words didn’t make sense in Classical, non-Eleutherian Latin, because they had the wrong declensions or wrong grammar or were in the wrong order. But “mort” she understood enough. And “mea culpa…” that meant “my fault.” Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa was part of the Confíteor. Imperatrix Acidalia was claiming responsibility for someone’s death.

Apparently Ace had asked a rhetorical question, because Acidalia didn’t answer him. Instead, she merely looked down at the wooden table, elegantly mournful. Her eyes were watery, but there was no other sign that she was even remotely upset.

Ace, meanwhile, remained with his head in his arms for a few seconds, and the girl with pink hair looked over at him, concerned. She went to lay a hand on him, then redacted it, swallowing hard and looking at Acidalia.

Suddenly, Ace jolted up, his eyes red. “Et scissis vestibus pergens ad te.”

“Fecit,” Acidalia said softly.

“Et occidit se ipsum pro te,” Ace snapped. “Et occidit se ipsum pro te et tu ne quidem curant!”

Cressida caught the word occido—killed. Et occidit se ipsum pro te—“he killed himself for you.” She was taken aback; who would just say that to the Imperatrix? This random soldier had to have been of extraordinarily high rank to get away with this type of open defiance.

“Hey,” she whispered to the girl in gray, the one with long hair tipped with streaks of red (which the Algorithim would have killed her for if she wasn’t Eleutherian.) “Hey, do you speak English?”

“Um, some?” she whispered back. “I’m Athena.”

“Thank god,” Cressida said. “Do you know what’s going on?”

“The brother of the Imperatrix—uh, the empress?” she asked herself. “No… she who commands? I don’t know if there’s an English word with the same exact meaning-“

“Doesn’t matter,” Cressida said quickly.

“Yeah, I guess it doesn’t. But, um, the brother of the Imperatrix is dead.” She didn’t use the English possessive Acidalia’s brother, which made her voice sound stilted and awkward in a way she probably didn’t intend.

“I didn’t even know she had a brother,” Cressida said. She saw Acidalia and Aleskynn’s faces everywhere, but there was never any boy with them. If Acidalia did have a brother, his image would be on every propaganda poster ever produced.

“I didn’t know either, until about yesterday,” Athena said. “He’s gone now, though.”

“What happened?”

“Acidalia said Cassiopeia shot him—you probably don’t know who that is. She’s, um… insanus. What’s the word for-“

“Insane. It’s the same, pretty much,” Cressida interrupted. “How did she-“

“I don’t know,” Athena said. “I found out about this five minutes ago, too.”

“Oh.” Cressida felt like she shouldn’t be sitting here watching this—Acidalia had just lost a brother, and Ace was clearly upset about it. At the same time, though, she wasn’t sure how she could get away. Surely if the Imperatrix wanted her gone, she’d have told her to leave, but why would she want her here?

She turned to Athena, who looked like she felt just as bemused as Cressida did.

“Non est vestrum erit flagitium!” Ace shouted, suddenly, standing. The Imperatrix looked momentarily surprised before reverting to the same expression she’d worn before—sad, but strong, determined. She looked like a movie character, not someone whose brother had just been brutally murdered by a madwoman.

“Non ea culpa fuit,” Cressida’s father said gently.

“Sic factum est,” Acidalia replied, looking down at the ground. “Et mortuus est in me. Me paenitet, Ace-“

"Ignosce, non satis!” Ace spat. “Quod illi non erit! Et profecta!”

Cressida cringed internally. This man was going to wind up dead if Acidalia was anything like her mother—which, judging by the white and the theatrics, she was. Insulting the Imperatrix was not a good way to become popular in Eleutheria.

But, to her surprise, Acidalia hardly reacted. She closed her eyes and put her hands on her face for a moment, before sighing deeply. “Scio.” I know.

“Acidalia,” Cressida’s father said. “Prohibere. Quid enim sunt ne putasti?”

The Imperatrix didn’t say anything, but she wiped her eye with the back of her hand so subtly Cressida might not have noticed it if she weren’t so close. Ace just sunk back into the table again, and the girl with pink hair was clearly crying. The whole room filled with a stilted silence for a few minutes. Athena, her friend, and Cressida stood against the wall, bemused. Athena’s friend looked scared and embarrassed, chewing on her lip until blood trickled down her chin.

With a sudden realization, Acidalia abruptly straightened her shoulders, switching from one emotion to another far too quickly for Cressida’s comfort. She couldn’t tell whether the Imperatrix was upset and very good at hiding it or crying crocodile tears for the benefit of Ace, but either way, the transition was too sharp to seem normal. Acidalia looked—and acted—almost like a robot. A creation that had been told what humans liked when it came to looks and personality, and then replicated it, but replicated it wrong. Her oddly symmetrical features, her strange bright brown eyes, her impossible hourglass figure, the way she went from a weepy sister to a strong leader in a nanosecond—it wasn’t right, and it made Cressida slightly anxious. Acidalia was far too deep in the uncanny valley for her liking.

“Aegre fero,” Acidalia said, while Ace continued to look blankly at the wall. Then, addressing Cressida’s father, “David, si necesse est dicere.” We need to talk.

“About what?” Cressida asked, recognizing too late that she maybe shouldn’t have.

Her father’s eyes turned shifty. “Non hic.” Not here.

Acidalia nodded. “Sunt telecameras.”

“Cameras?!” All the times she’d danced around her room singing Vocaloid songs into a brush at top volume flew through Cressida’s head, before she remembered that there were clearly bigger issues at hand. Who would want to bug the Seren farmhouse? Just what types of games were her father playing?

“In Revelatio,” Acidalia said, standing. “Non debeo hic.”

Cressida really wished they would stop speaking Latin—or at least speak normal Latin—but knew better than to say it. She joined her father, glaring at him. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Come with me.”

The stitch in her side returned as her father dragged her back to the ship, which materialized again in order to allow the passengers on. She winced, clambering up the marble steps. They were a lot less beautiful when she was roughly forced up them, and they were steep. Acidalia followed quickly, almost jogging in her seven-inch heels. It was a miracle she didn’t fall. Robotic, Cressida thought again.

The Revelation had entirely too many chairs and too much decor—all blue stones mixed with Greek and Roman art, not like Eleutherians even had any concept of what Greece and Rome were outside of those cool ancient people who made pretty statues. The neon lights immediately gave her a headache, and the architecture was sleek and organic but cold—but not literally, it was about eighty degrees. Everything Cressida disliked was in the Revelation’s sterile insides.

She collapsed on a rounded bench with white LEDs on the edges, blinking at the brightness. None of the other Eleutherians seemed too bothered by the harsh, unnatural lighting, though they’ll all been squinting in the Martian sun. Cressida’s resentment towards them grew suddenly, especially when every last one of them started speaking in rapid Latin, much too fast for her to understand. Who the hell were these people? They could land a ship on her farm, invade her house, make battle plans without her? Who did they think they were?

“Excuse me,” she said.

She was promptly ignored as her father delved deep into a conversation with Athena, the one who spoke a bit of English.

“Excuse me,” she said, louder this time.

They continued their discussion.

“Veniam in me!” she snapped. Six heads turned to look at her. “What the hell is going on?”

They stared at her blankly.

“Quid agatur in infernum?”

Her father sighed, looking worried. “We’re going to Eleutheria.”

“What?”

“Acidalia had a conversation with the Proregina of the Lunar Colonies-“ he began.

“What on Earth is a ‘proregina?’"

“Like a vicereine-“

“A what? None of this makes any sense! You can’t just-“ “Like a female viceroy,” Acidalia added, very unhelpfully. Cressida looked to Athena for help, but she just whispered, “Don’t know either.”

“An important person on the Moon,” her father said slowly, looking like he had a headache. “She said there’s been an uprising in Appalachia—that’s Eleutheria’s capital city. They think Acidalia’s dead-“

“Well, she’s clearly not, unless this chick really is an alien robot,” Cressida snapped, “so I don’t see what the big deal is.”

“I’m a leader of the Revolution,” Acidalia explained, like this was something completely normal to say. “We’re in a difficult spot here. The Novagenetica-“

“The eugenicist crazies,” Athena explained helpfully.

“-have declared a full-out war on us and claimed to have killed me. Obviously, since I’m not on-planet and it’s difficult to contact me out here, many have made their assumptions about my untimely death. The entire reason I’m here is because an assassination attempt that killed my brother forced me to flee, so that likely was a contributing factor in why so many believed the Nova when they declared that I had been murdered. Either way, most people on both sides think I’m deceased, and it’s vital that we correct that in order to preserve the safety of the planet.” “What does that have to do with me?” Cressida demanded.

“Well,” Acidalia said, “meet our Martian contact, David Seren.” She gestured to Cressida’s father. “Ally of the Revolution and close friend to President Tycho.”

Astonished, Cressida stared at her father. “What the hell, Dad? You’ve been in cahoots with a bunch of Eleutherian insurgents and you didn’t tell me?” “Seeing as we’re spearheaded by several members of the federal government, we aren’t exactly insurgents,” Acidalia replied calmly, her tone never shifting. “More like one faction of a civil war. But we need to stop discussing this. Clearly, I’m needed on-planet, and so is your father. For your safety, so are you. Besides, you’re an expert on Martian climate and agriculture and you’ve attended finishing school; the daughter of a Martian aristocrat is valuable.” She smiled in a way that was probably supposed to be as welcoming, but the corners of her eyes didn’t crinkle up like they were supposed to, and she looked too strange for anything she said to come across as genuine.

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere with me,” Cressida said. “I can’t leave Mars. I have a life. I have school, exams are coming up—it’s November, remember? Finals start next month.”

Acidalia looked entirely nonplussed about this. “I can tutor you on anything involving biology,” she said, “and I’m sure you’ll find that there are plenty of educational opportunities on Eleutheria.” “You’re missing the point,” Cressida said, wondering if she was really that thick. “I can’t just not take exams. I need a diploma-" “A what?” Athena asked.

“I’ll write you a recommendation letter,” Acidalia said dismissively. “No school in its right mind would deny you an admission. And, keep in mind, this is only temporary, and for your own safety. Now that I am here and my brother is dead—“ Her voice broke for a second, then she regained her composure so quickly Cressida wondered if anything had even changed to begin with. “Now that my brother is dead,” she continued, “this place is no longer safe for any of us. My mother will find out the truth soon enough, and then we will all be in danger.”

“But I haven’t done anything,” Cressida said indignantly. “I have no part in any of this.” She found it hard to believe that any Eleutherian dignitary could get away with murdering the daughter of an important politician. People would notice that, and then they’d be angry, even if there was nobody left to really mourn the Seren family. Acidalia sighed and looked up at Cressida. “Your innocence doesn’t matter,” she said. “Your father spoke to me once, and that’s enough. She’d murder you in a heartbeat if she thought you were related to a revolutionary, even if you posed no threat to her. I’ve seen her mutilate people for less. And even if the people of Mars rioted in response, there’s nothing they could do to counter Alestra’s immense power. She’d sooner bomb your whole city to ashes than show an ounce of mercy.”

“Acidalia is right,” Cressida’s father said. “That woman is a psychopath, and she doesn’t like Mars—or Martians—very much.”

“But she’s half-Martian!” Cresida exclaimed.

“Yes,” Acidalia finished, “I am. And so is—was—my dead little brother, who my mother’s henchman shot in the head. Nobody is safe from her, I guarantee it.”

A shiver went down Cressida’s spine. “What do you think she’ll do if she finds out—?” “I don’t know,” Acidalia replied. “I can’t say. But if you would like to remain alive—which I suggest you do; it is a dreadful waste to lose somebody so young—I suggest packing and leaving. Once the sirens start blaring, it will already be too late. I’m sure you know what happened to Daedalia.”

“Okay, but…” Cressida’s voice trailed off. She’d be missing school, she realized suddenly, and she’d lose half of her social points if she was absent any more. After that bout of flu in October, the Algorithm was already angry with her, and it would not be merciful if she abandoned her planet without a trace a month before exam season. And then the rumors would start and her reputation would sink even lower—she’d be called a deadbeat and a dropout and all manner of other things, and she’d never be able to go to a good college if she had no status left. The Martian meritocracy didn’t allow for mistakes or variations from the norm, even during a civil war.

But losing merit was still better than being dead.

A surge of fury coursed through Cressida’s veins. There was no way for her to get out of this—if she stayed she’d surely die, and if she left she’d be abandoning the life her father struggled so much to build for her. And none of it was her fault. She wasn’t the one who joined a revolution for the sake of a planet she didn’t even live on, she wasn’t the one who made friends with a woman whose family was insane enough to murder anyone its black sheep of a daughter set her eyes upon, and she wasn’t the one who dragged her friends into a war so violent teenage girls could be shot to death over nothing, absolutely nothing. This was all her father’s fault, and even beyond that, Acidalia’s—Acidalia Cipher, who had the nerve to show up at the Seren home, completely ignorant of the trail of destruction she’d leave in her wake. How dare she? None of this was Cressida’s problem.

But the nuclear war hadn’t been the Daedalians’ problem, either, and they were still the ones who had to pay for it. Such was politics. It was all one big game of chess—you sacrifice the pawns for the sake of the king. And the Algorithm would rather see a game won than save a useless piece.

Still, despite her desire—no, need—to please the Algorithm and her homeland, Cressida was growing tired of being a pawn.

[anthonyguidetti]

Why I Don’t Use Linux

I’m an impulsive person. When I see something new and shiny, there’s generally little thought put into planning to see if it really makes sense for me. Which is why when I read about the ongoing issues Microsoft keeps having with Windows 10 updates, and its overall telemetry, I feel the need to make a change. Since the newest Mac I own is a 2009 MacBook, and I have no interest in Hackintosh-ing, the next step is Linux.

I’ve been messing around with Linux since 2010 when I discovered Ubuntu. I remember installing it on a Asus Eee PC, and was amazed at how much faster it felt than Windows XP. Not to mention, Compiz Fusion, a 3D effect window manager, was built-in to Ubuntu at the time, and it was endless fun turning on the feature that when you close a window, it sets it on fire to get it off the screen. From that moment, I was hooked. Not so much hooked in the sense that it became my daily driver, but I gained a massive amount of respect for Linux. It was fast, and free; both in the sense that it cost me nothing, and I didn’t have to worry about a license.

On the netbook, it worked well because I wasn’t doing much with it besides extremely occasional use. When I set up Ubuntu on my main desktop through Wubi, a defunct program that automatically set up dual booting Ubuntu and Windows through an easily installable and uninstallable wizard, I was conflicted. While it worked fine most of the time, but there were odd bugs that would pop up, and at the time around 2012, there simply wasn’t enough software that could replace what I had been using, like a solid video editor. Since then, I have been using Linux sporadically, with either a flavor of Ubuntu or Linux Mint Cinnamon, and after each initial use, I seem to always go back to Windows. Which is exactly what happened when I attempted to go full Ubuntu last week.

I recently bought a second SSD for my desktop because the primary SSD is only 120 GB, so I was looking for a bit more space. Around that time, the Linux bug got stuck in my mind again, and I figured since I have the second SSD in there anyway, let’s install Ubuntu on that and give the Linux life a shot. I chose Ubuntu because while I feel proficient in Windows and Mac, Linux is a whole new ballgame, and when there’s a 100% chance I will need to Google how to do or fix something, I thought it best to use the most popular distribution. I chose against Linux Mint simply because Gnome 3 looked cool.

Initial Experience

The install went smooth and I installed Chrome, Discord, Steam, and a few other programs I use on Windows with little to no issue. Except for Chrome Remote Desktop, which would cause a login loop bug where when the system boots up and I log in, it would bring me back to the login screen as if I never logged in. The same thing happened when I installed a VNC remote desktop app, but TeamViewer didn’t cause any issues, so I stuck with that. Overall, the initial experience wasn’t so bad, with the only striking issue being that overall animations were not smooth. Expect to see many dropped frames when opening and closing windows (at least on my Ryzen 7 with a Radeon RX 550).

There were a few things I missed from Windows. Office was a big one. While it’s true that Google Docs, Office Online, and LibreOffice are pretty close, nothing beats full Office (in my eyes). I also missed some of the overall ease of Windows. While nothing is quicker than opening the terminal and typing a quick command to install a program, that program better be in the software repository. Otherwise, it’s no quicker when I have to go to a website to download TeamViewer or Chrome. I especially ran into this issue with a video editor I like to use called DaVinci Resolve. The install requires a few changes for the Debian-based Ubuntu, as Resolve is built to run on RedHat or CentOS, two very robust distributions. I can understand this, but going back to the fact that I am very impulsive, this goes hand-in-hand with me being impatient, so if I can’t get something to immediately work, I tend to get just drop it.

Issues I Had

This brings me to my main issue with using Ubuntu as a Windows replacement: tinkering. Don’t get me wrong, I love going into the terminal to fix things. There’s a great satisfaction you get when you feel like David Lightman from WarGames, but I found myself needing to tinker a lot more than I really cared for. One issue that occurred involved my third monitor. When I turn it on while the other monitors are on, Ubuntu then abruptly treats it as if that monitor was unplugged and plugged back in, which causes the windows to adjust. I even ran into an issue where the third monitor never connected properly, and would endlessly readjust the windows as if someone was unplugging and plugging it in, until I turned the monitor off. This may have been what caused the system to lock up numerous times after it sitting idle overnight. I like to keep my computer on all the time, and it seemed like every two or three days, I’d go to use it, turn on the monitors, and the monitors would show no image, and the number lock light wouldn’t toggle.

I had at least one issue on the other two computers I installed Linux on. Every second or third wake up on my ThinkPad X240 running Ubuntu would result in the trackpad and trackpoint not working, requiring a reboot. My cheap Lenovo IdeaPad 11 inch running Xubuntu would tear graphics diagonally, either with moving a window or an animation on screen. Seemingly nothing I did would fix the issue with the ThinkPad’s trackpad, and I just gave up on the IdeaPad.

Are there deeper troubleshooting steps I could’ve taken to fix these issues? Sure. Should I have investigated getting drivers set up prior to use? Yes. However, when I contrast my experience with Ubuntu to installing and setting up Windows 10, there’s far less work with the Microsoft route. I either had to just open Windows Update and let Windows do the rest, or I downloaded the manufacturer’s nifty driver executable and let it do all the work. Now, is it unfair of me to judge Ubuntu’s inability to deal with my specific set of hardware? Of course: Ubuntu and other flavors of Linux have to deal with billions of combinations of hardware. Not to mention overall support has improved greatly, as I remember a time where getting the WiFi to work wasn’t a given. Is this my problem? No. Especially when I simply do not have the programming knowledge to fix these things.

Conclusion

Don’t get me wrong, Linux is great. I really don’t need to say this when Linux is the clear leader in basically every other market outside of desktop. This includes mobile, set-top boxes, IoT devices, and servers. Even Microsoft’s Azure cloud runs on Linux. Linux is robust as hell. But for desktop, the GUI side of Linux seems to requires some love, and that’s not something I’m interested in doing. I could just get a System76 computer, or perhaps build a computer with parts known for being Linux friendly, but I’m not interested in spending money to make Linux run better. No operating system is perfect, and Windows has its fair share of issues, but since I’ve reinstalled Windows, I haven’t had to fix anything.

This doesn’t mean I’m done with Linux. Although my daily drivers continue to be Windows on desktop and Android on mobile, Ubuntu still lives in a virtual machine on my desktop, and I have enabled the Windows Subsystem for Linux, which is very exciting. Admittedly I don’t really have a use for it, but it’s still a massive step forward considering Windows’ past. I’ll continue to keep up with Linux. Perhaps I should’ve installed Pop_OS with its robust graphics drivers, or CentOS for its renowned reliability. One thing is for sure, I’ll continue to keep my eye on the open source side of computing.