#I kinda wish i spent more time on stilts today

[cowboyishbabe]

Class was kinda wild

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

The Silver Dragon (41/?)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Female Character

Word Count: 8030

Story Summary: Lady Arianwyn Targaryen, the Lady of Runestone, was seeded by her father, the Rogue Prince Daemon Targaryen, in an act of unbridled hatred, and borne of her mother, the late Lady Rhea Royce, as a desperate grasp at revenge.

Ignored by her father, and alone following the death of her mother, she is raised in King’s Landing alongside her cousin, Prince Aemond Targaryen. As they grow, the two find themselves indelibly bonded. But their lives are far from the fairy tales they read, and as tensions in the family rise, they find their paths may diverge.

Will they be pulled apart when the dragons dance?

Chapter Summary: On the first day they have spent apart since they were wed, Aemond and Arianwyn fly far away from each other on missions for the new King.

Warnings: none, unless you count frat-boy-esque characters

Author's Note:

I'm back! And I'm so, SO sorry for the wait!!! Those few days I warned y'all about kind of turned into an impromptu hiatus! But, I hope that the veritable FEAST I'm about to give y'all will make up for it.

The story of what Aria and Aemond get up to on their respective missions was originally going to be just two, regular sized chapters (one for Aria, one of Aemond). But… it kinda turned into a monster as I was writing.

So, instead of two single-POV chapters, y'all are getting a three-parter! Both Aria and Aemond have roughly equal time in each, so you won't have to go without either of them. Today, I'm posting the first part. Part II will follow tomorrow, and part III the day after. Each chapter is longer than any that have come before it. This one is just over 8K, part II is a WHOPPING 18K, and part III should be coming in at around 10K…

Enjoy!

Series Masterlist

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Three Days, Part I

On the 23rd day in the ninth month, 136 years after Aegon’s conquest…

As she soared over the Westerosi countryside, Arianwyn found herself wishing that the Vale and the Eyrie were somehow further away so that she and Emrys could stay in the skies for even longer.

But there it was.

Just coming into view was a great expanse of sparkling blue-green water, bounded on either side by a patchwork of towering sandy dunes, salty marshlands, small fishing villages built entirely upon stilts, and a hundred small streams.

The Bay of Crabs. The border separating the Crownlands from the Vale – her adopted home from the place of her birth and the land of her ancestors.

Some small part of her that still yearned for adventure and unrestricted freedom urged her to turn Emrys from his path. If she turned east, it would only take a few hours to reach Essos. If she followed the water to the west, she would find herself at the mouth of the Trident in the Riverlands.

Perhaps another day, she and Emrys would pick one of the river’s forks on a whim and follow it to its end – with Aemond and Vhagar beside them.

But today, she had a mission.

She hadn’t held Emry’s reins for hours – hadn’t needed to. After they had left King’s Landing, she only needed to direct him once. North and ever so slightly east. Then she had simply let him fly.

He needed no encouragement beyond that. For so long, he had been restricted by Daemon’s threats against him, his cherished rider, and her home. He could hardly go half a mile from Dragonstone’s shores before fear gripped them both, and he had rarely been in the air for more than a few hours. Now, he was flying further than he ever had before.

It was not entirely a blessing.

They had left not long after dawn, and it had only been a short while since the sun reached its zenith, but his wings were aching with effort and overuse. After one particularly strong beat of his wings, to combat the wind he was flying against – a shooting pain went through his right shoulder, and he faltered a bit, causing Arianwyn to sit up in her seat and seize the reins again. He let out an apologetic roar, struggling to right himself and fly steady.

“Issa sȳz, Emrys,” Arianwyn called over the roaring wind. “Iksan sȳz. Issi ao?” It is fine, Emrys. I am fine. Are you?

He grunted in reply, the sound strained.

She sighed and leaned forward to pat the scales of his side. “Iksan sīr vaoreznuni, ñuha byka ossȳngnon.  Iksi va naejot Wickenden. Kessa daor sagon bōsa, se pār kostā emagoniā mība ēdrugon.” I am so sorry, my little dread. We are near to Wickenden. It will not be long, and then you can have a short rest.

Indeed, Otto had anticipated this. That either Emrys or Arianwyn would tire before they reached their destination. The Hand had therefore sent a raven to the Lord of House Waxley, asking if they would host the newest Targaryen princess – and Lady of Runestone – for an afternoon tea as she made her way to the Eyrie.

Lord Waxley had been all too eager to accept. Wickenden had never had the honor of hosting a member of the Royal house before. It had been planned for King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne to visit during one of their many progresses, but an assassination attempt on the Good Queen had ended the tour before they had been able to visit the castle – which was conveniently located just over halfway between King’s Landing and the Eyrie.

As they flew over the Bay of Crabs, Emrys flying valiantly, Arianwyn made a note to thank Otto for his foresight when she returned. She whispered encouragement and praise, laughing at the dragon’s eager yelps as they finally began to descend toward the picturesque town, the humble stone castle that looked over it, and the great fleet of beehives that stood like soldiers in the fields beyond.

A large bonfire had been lit in one of the fields on the western side of the town – the signal for where Emrys should land. He did not need Arianwyn’s encouragement to aim toward it, but she had to pull up on his reins to ensure he didn’t descend too quickly. His tail, tipped with the same horns that ran from the crest of his head down his spine, came dangerously close to tearing through their beautifully thatched roofs and ensuring that a Targaryen would never again be invited to Wickenden.

Lord and Lady Waxley themselves were waiting in the field to receive them with genuinely warm formalities. They were older, bordering on truly elderly, but in good health. Both had a friendly air about them, and their cheeks were flushed as they gazed in awe at the dragon before them.

Every person who beheld Emrys bore that same look.

Regardless of their education, every person in Westeros knew of the Balerion, the mighty black dragon that had won the Seven Kingdoms for Aegon the Conqueror. Whose fires had melted the very stones of Harrenhal and forged the Iron Throne itself. Nearly two hundred years old at his death, he had been the last living creature who had known the glory of Old Valyria.

Though Emrys was smaller, younger, and had no great feats to his name, no one could look at him and not recall the legends of Balerion the Black Dread.

Arianwyn had a sneaking suspicion that he somehow understood why people looked at him with such amazement and that he relished in it. Why else would he always preen as he did now?

Emrys let out a pompous huff as he stood tall despite the ache in his muscles, and Arianwyn was sure he was holding a great breath in his chest to make himself seem larger than he was.

However, his posturing ended when Lord Waxley summoned a wagon full of chained goats and large barrels of water. Emrys, exhausted from their flight, eagerly bounded toward where knights began to unload his provisions. He was so thirsty that he shattered one of the water barrels between his teeth as he hurried to gulp it down.

Arianwyn gave her flustered apologies for his inelegant behavior to her hosts. They were overly gracious and assured her it was unnecessary, seemingly relieved that her fearsome beast was indeed not fearsome, but rather more like an excessively large, frighteningly deadly herding dog. Albeit, one not quite fully trained.

Emrys was fully trained, technically, but still filled with youthful wonder and joy at the world. He was not a creature of war, and Arianwyn was glad of it.

Dragons were not weapons, though her ancestors had so often used them as such. And they were more than beasts of burden or even beloved pets. They were more akin to peers than any other animal. Companions, partners, friends. Viserys had told her something of the like once, not long after she had taken her first flight.

But looking back at her friend as she climbed into the Waxley’s carriage to ride to their castle for a short visit and some refreshments, Arianwyn realized that the mission they were on suggested that neither of them may have a choice.

War was looming. If it came, Emrys might very well be forced to become a creature of war.

Arianwyn was repulsed by the thought. She let that revulsion and fear settle within her, let it become something heavy and sharp in her gut. It made her muscles tense, her heart beat faster, and her mind race.

She savored the feeling. Though it was uncomfortable, it sat well next to her burning desire to bend to Aemond’s wish to go to Runestone together – to leave the court and King’s Landing behind. She had not realized how much it appealed to her until she let herself imagine Emrys in the moorlands of Runestone, flying along its coasts and resting in its Dragonpit.

Emrys would love it there, especially if Vhagar was there with him. The old dragon would, of course, join them as well. And for the first time in decades, she would not be alone.

Smiling at her hosts, Arianwyn silently vowed that she would do anything to succeed in her mission – for Emrys and Vhagar, Aemond and herself, and the peace they all wanted.

-

Vhagar was old, and slower than she once was due to her massive size, but she still loved to fly. Aemond had to laugh each time she trilled joyfully whenever they caught a strong updraft or passed through a group of clouds. At least she could still fly fast enough that the lingering water from the clouds dried within moments.

Still, the flight to Storm’s End was longer than she was used to, and her vocalizations had become less joyful and more irritable the closer they got to their destination.

Her groans of protest as they ascended higher to fly over the mountains of the Crownlands were particularly crass – or they likely would have been had she been able to speak rather than roar. Aemond had no doubt that if Vhagar could form words, she would delight in cursing like a Braavosi sailor.

“Kesi jiōragon konīr aderelo jī toliot,” he shouted to her as he slackened his grip on the reins. “Yn lo ao drējī jaelagon naejot, kosti jikagon grevenka.” We will get there sooner if we go over. But if you truly want to, we can go around.

Vhagar’s answering growl echoed through the stone of the mountains. If anyone below had heard, they would be terrified. Aemond, who knew by now what each noise meant, was only vaguely annoyed.

The sooner I can get you off my back, the better, she had seemed to say.

He rolled his eye and tugged on her reins – not to give any order or direction, but to show her he did not appreciate her sentiments.

“Issa daor ñuha gaomilaksir bona iksā uēpa se ēdrugī,” he laughed. “Se nyke gīmigon ao jorrāelagon nyke, se ao jorrāelagon issare isse se jēdar.  Iksā biare naejot sagon kesīr lēda nyke, se ao daor ruaragon ziry.” It is not my fault that you are old and tired. And I know you love me, and you love being in the sky. You are happy to be here with me, and you cannot hide it.

Indeed, she could not hide it. But she could huff delightedly as she spun herself around, flexing her wings just right to keep her airborne as she crested the mountain peak upside down. She roared with glee when Aemond finally began shouting for her to right herself.

“Vhagar, kesā mazverdagon nyke ropagon lo jā olvie tolī,” he screamed as the blood rushed to his head, and he strained to keep his hands on the horns of the saddle. “Kostilus? Iksan vaoreznuni!” You will make me faint if you go much further. Please? I’m sorry!

Satisfied, she righted herself. She was impressed by how long he had lasted. He was getting better. Soon, he may be able to go longer than even Visenya had. She gave a low roar.

Very good, little Prince. You shall be fierce yet.

Aemond rolled his eye again as he smoothed down his hair, but his heart swelled with pride. If only Arianwyn had been there to see that, she would have proclaimed him the dragonriding superior to the Conqueror then and there.

His chest tightened at the thought of his sweet wife alone on her journey, hundreds of miles away from him. By now, she would be in Wickenden or, ideally, already departed from it. He hoped she would not linger there too long, for the thought of her arriving at the Eyrie in the dark – or worse, getting lost in the mountains at night – was unbearable.

At the thought, his hand drifted to the hilt of his dagger. He had intended to send it with her so he could offer her at least some protection. But Ser Ruban beat him to it, giving her the first dagger he had ever owned as they climbed into the carriage. It was obviously made for a boy not yet grown, and as such, was the perfect size for Arianwyn.

She had protested, insisting that such an heirloom should be passed down to his own sons, but Ruban had vowed he had no intention to marry or sire sons and that it would be the greatest honor of his life for her to wield the blade. Who could have refused that?

Still, Aemond was glad, in the end, to have his dagger with him, for it reminded him of Arianwyn. She had bit down on the hilt so hard when he was buried between her thighs that she had left teeth marks in the leather and dented the gold wire wrapped around it.

Normally, such an imperfection would have frustrated Aemond to no end. But nothing she ever did could ever be called imperfect. He ran his thumb over the marks, his heart lightening at the memories it brought back. If she had thought he was ravenous yesterday, she would be amazed by what he planned to do once they were both back in King’s Landing.

Three days, he reminded himself. Then, gods willing, they would return to each other, having successfully won the allegiance of two of the most powerful houses in Westeros. An alliance that would surely dissuade his half-sister from pressing her dubious claim to the throne.

There would be no war, no death. Nothing to stop them from going to Runestone and starting their lives together.

He only had to wait three days.

Vhagar’s curmudgeonly roar stopped his mind’s wanderings.

Wake up, little Prince, it said. We are nearly there, and you must be ready.

Aemond had been so far into his daydream that he was well into picturing him and Arianwyn walking across the hills of the Vale with their flock of sheep and their small army of children.

He set those wonderful images aside, retaking Vhagar’s reins to guide her down toward the castle perched on the seaside cliff. Its singular tower reminded him of the descriptions he had once heard about Dragonstone, where the bricks used in its construction had been fused together with dragonfire, for even his keen eye could find no seams in the stone.

But Storm’s End was far older than the arrival of dragons on this continent. No, it had been constructed by men – or the Children of the Forest and a demi-god, if the legends were to be believed. The stones were so precisely cut that there were no seams, no vulnerable spaces for the winds that racked Shipbreaker Bay to find purchase.

Storms that Aemond had just noticed were conspicuously absent. Clouds covered the sky, yes. But no rain fell, and no thunder crashed through the sky.

Perhaps the gods were on his side.

-

When they finally left Wickenden – more than two hours later than she intended – Emrys was rested, well-fed, and eager to resume their journey. Lord and Lady Waxley had been so sweet and kind, and so excited that their humble castle was finally hosting a Targaryen that Arianwyn had not had the heart to interrupt the tour they insisted on giving her, along with a detailed history of their house. That part, at least, Arianwyn was mildly interested in.

She had only reached her limit when they began to escort her to the apiary itself, casually mentioning their more than five hundred beehives. Thanks to Helaena, Arianwyn had spent more time around insects, including bees, than most nobles. But the sheer number of bees that would surely be in those fields was too much even for her.

So, she hurried back to Emrys’ side and stuffed the ridiculous number of scented candles Lord Waxley had gifted her with into his saddlebags. She was sure at least half of them would be snapped or smashed by the time she reached the Eyrie, much less King’s Landing.

But she had grand plans for those that survived. A candlelit night with Aemond was precisely how she wanted to celebrate their return – and, hopefully, their successful courting of the Vale and the Stormlands.

That was what she needed to focus on right now. Her mission. Her duty to her family and her King. Her role as a Princess of the Realm.

Although, as the soaring peaks of the Mountains of the Moon loomed closer and the sun set lower behind them, she realized that her delay in Wickenden meant that making it to the Eyrie easily would be difficult – and arriving before sunset was impossible.

Aemond would be so upset. Though by the time he found out, she would be safely back in King’s Landing, he would nevertheless worry retrospectively and fuss over her relentlessly. She smiled at the thought. To all the world, he was such a fearsome warrior, yet he would fall nearly to pieces just from her arriving at her destination after dark.

The fearsome ‘One-Eyed Prince,’ indeed.

By the time they were well within the mountain range, snow-capped peaks extending beyond their view, it was truly dark. It was only thanks to the glow of the nearly-full moon off the snow that Emrys was able to navigate his way through the stony maze.

Though there were several close calls.

Arianwyn was reduced to prayer the further into the mountains they got. She would have to go to the Grand Sept itself to beg forgiveness for the string of curses that interrupted her beseeching of the Crone when Emrys suddenly swerved to avoid a peak he had not seen.

Eventually, there was a light other than the moon beckoning them. Seven other lights, actually. A fire had been lit atop each of the Eyrie’s spires, and every window in the castle was illuminated.

“Kirimvogon se Sīkuda.  Se ao, Emrys. Īlon vēttan ziry,” Arianwyn muttered, as reverently as any of her prayers. “Ao vēttan ziry. Ao gōntan sīr sȳrī, Emrys.” Thank the Seven. And you.We made it. You made it. You did so well.

Though she could still hear the nervousness in his voice, Emrys trilled triumphantly as he rose above the castle’s white walls and lowered himself into its large garden.

Arianwyn leapt off the saddle, grateful to feel solid ground beneath her feet once more. Emrys immediately turned his head to nuzzle her, equally grateful that he had gotten her here safely. He made a soft sound, questioning whether she was alright after their harrowing flight.

“Iksan sȳz. Ao gōntan sīr sȳrī,” she assured him again as she stroked his snout. He was as much of a worrier as Aemond. Now that she thought about it, her husband and her dragon were, in fact, quite similar. I am fine. You did so well.

She looked around the expansive gardens, surprised at the wealth of greenery within. The Maesters must have toiled for years to get anything to grow atop the tallest mountain in Westeros.

While it was beautiful, but all Arianwyn could think of was its rich history.

Leaning into Emrys as she heard hurried footsteps approach from within the castle, Arianwyn whispered gently to calm him. “Vhagar māstan kesīr istin, ao gīmigon.  Lēda Visenya, skori ziry jiōraton se Vāle.” Vhagar came here once, you know. With Visenya, when she won the Vale.

Emrys glanced around the large courtyard as if he would still be able to find a remnant of his new friend, and sniffed deeply to see if her scent lingered after more than a hundred years. But, of course, it did not. And his attention was soon drawn to the small party emerging into the gardens.

“Aria!” Ser Gerold called as he ran to her side and pulled her off the flagstones and into his warm embrace.

She squealed with undignified delight as she hugged him back, laughing with joy at finally seeing him again. He had made many entreaties to visit her at Dragonstone during her time there, all soundly rejected by her father.

But now, he stood before her, holding her at arm’s length as they inspected each other.

Gerold’s hair had gone entirely white in the last six years, and his hairline had receded even further. He was heavier, too, and wearing a different set of armor than he had when she saw him last. There were shadows under his eyes, so like the ones Alicent wore. But his gray eyes were bright and shone with tears of relief as he looked at Arianwyn and cradled her cheek in his large hand.

“Oh, Aria,” he sighed with a half-smile. “You are a woman now.”

She blinked tears from her eyes and laughed sheepishly as she smiled back at him. “And you are an old man, cousin.”

He laughed with her when she ruffled her hand through his hair. “Now we really look like family, don’t we?”

“Next time you come to King’s Landing, we can try and pass you off as a long-lost Targaryen Prince!” Arianwyn snorted, her eyes wide as her mind turned mischievous. “If Aegon is drunk enough, I know he will believe it!”

Another laughing voice joined them, soft and feminine despite its deep tone. “As much as watching this long-overdue reunion warms my heart,” it said, “I should like to be introduced to my godsdaughter, Gerold.”

Arianwyn peered over her cousin’s shoulder to look at Lady Jeyne Arryn – her godsmother.

Jeyne’s dark eyes were filled with nearly as much pride as Gerold’s, and her thin lips were curved in a hesitant, hopeful grin. She extended a long arm toward the girl, beckoning her forward. “Come, it had been nineteen long years. Let me look at you at last.”

With childlike enthusiasm, Arianwyn obeyed, taking Jeyne’s hand and even giving her a quick twirl as he godsmother looked over her. But her impatience grew as the Lady remained silent, thoroughly examining her – and her bronze armor.

For a moment, she was afraid of rejection, that she would somehow be found wanting. Indeed, Jeyne frowned when she ran a hand along her braided silver hair, but then she lifted her chin to look at her eyes, and beamed.

“You look so like your mother,” Jeyne whispered, her voice breaking.

Arianwyn stifled a sob. No one had ever told her that before. She had only ever heard how unlike her father she was. To know that she resembled Rhea, and not some distant ancestor she never knew, was cathartic.

She was a Royce, in more than just her eyes.

“Oh, but I have forgotten my manners,” Jeyne tutted, releasing the girl as she lowered herself into a curtsy. “You are more than just my godsdaughter, the child of my oldest friend, and the Lady of Runestone. You are now a Princess, if rumor is to be believed.”

“I have told her it must be true,” Gerold added as he came to stand by the girl’s side. “But our Lady has always been hesitant to believe gossip. And since you did not write to confirm any of the rumors…”

Jeyne rolled her eyes. “You would be wary as well, were you the subject of so many whispers over the years. And if the stories were as contrary as what we have heard.”

“It is true,” Arianwyn said, cutting off whatever witty reply Gerold had planned. He was so much less awkward now, here. She liked him like this. “Prince Aemond and I were married. I am so sorry I did not write, but it was… the last few days have been quite strange.”

“They must have been for you to be wed in a secret ceremony,” Gerold reasoned. “Unless that particular detail is untrue?”

He and Jeyne both took Arianwyn’s blushing and stuttering as confirmation.

“Well, I cannot wait to hear the real story,” Jeyne said, looping her arm through the girl’s to lead her out of the garden. “You would not believe what people are saying, my dear.”

Gerold followed close behind. “And I cannot wait to hear what delayed your arrival – you were expected hours ago. I was quite worried, Aria. I was almost ready to send a raven to Wickenden to ask after you.”

“Oh,” Arianwyn gasped, waving a quick goodbye to Emrys, who was already wrapping himself around a smoldering brazier to sleep. “I am so sorry! Lord and Lady Waxley kept me longer than I intended, and they were so sweet that I could not bring myself to stop them.”

She told them the story as they led her through the winding marble halls of the Eyrie, finally depositing her on a blue sofa before a roaring fire. A servant quickly brought her a hot meal, and she was introduced to Jessamyn Redfort, a dear friend of Jeyne’s, before Lady Arryn bombarded her with questions about her childhood and youth.

Arianwyn nearly choked on a piece of her roast chicken when Jeyne asked whether she had first kissed Aemond before or after she had flowered and if their relations had progressed further even than that before they were married.

She looked at her godsmother with wide eyes. “I… we never did anything like that until we were wed. And the bedding ceremony.”

Jeyne laughed so hard she nearly spilled her wine – her fourth cup of the night; she and Aegon would get along famously. “Gerold tells me the two of you were practically inseparable from the time you arrived in the capital, yet you mean to tell me you never even kissed before your wedding?”

“Well, we came close a few times,” Arianwyn said, thoroughly flustered as each memory of their relationship flooded back through her mind, “But I had never felt that way about him until I came back from Dragonstone. At least, I wasn’t aware of it if until then.”

Gerold sighed, “Aria, I can assure you that you were aware of it, though you were too young to know how to do anything about it. When you love someone, you cannot hide it, even from yourself.” He smirked, glancing to where Jeyne and Jessamyn shared a couch. “From what I saw, you have loved each other from the time you could walk, perhaps earlier.”

Jessamyn sighed dreamily, resting her head against Jeyne’s shoulder. “Your story is so lovely… how did those horrible rumors even start?”

The room fell silent, no one meeting her eyes. The hour Arianwyn had been here had been blissful, without a single mention of those rumors, or what happened the morning after her wedding.

They could not ignore it forever.

“It was my father, actually,” she explained. “Lies he concocted to try and have the marriage annulled. He could not stand to see me happy, or more than that, finally free from his control.”

Gerold grimaced. “Daemon Targaryen is a monster. It is simple as that.”

Arianwyn solemnly nodded her agreement, turning to Jeyne. “I actually wanted to talk to you about that. Or rather, something related to it. I don’t know how much the Hand told you in his letter, but…”

“Not tonight, Aria,” she snapped, her wine-flushed face turning stern for the first time that night. Arianwyn could, at last, see the great Maiden of the Vale in her godsmother, the woman who had soundly put down three rebellions against her rule. “I know why you are here, and I will happily listen to your petition – tomorrow. But, for tonight, I simply want to know you. To hear about all I have missed. Will you grant me that?”

Truthfully, Arianwyn was glad not to have to make the case for Aegon’s rule so late at night, when she was tired and already starting to feel quite fuzzy from her wine – Jessamyn had hunted down the sweetest vintage in the Eyrie’s stores to suit her fickle tastes.

She took another sip and looked back to her godsmother. “What would you like to know?”

-

Despite its impressive size, Storm’s End was still not large enough for Vhagar to land within its walls. But, by this point in her life, she was more than used to it. So, she contentedly settled beside the castle walls, where a great number of braziers and chained cattle were already laid out for her.

“Hāre tubissa, Vhagar,” Aemond murmured as he climbed down from her side. “Lēda biarves, kessa daor daomio, se kesā sagon arlī naejot se bāneves hen Dārys Tegorīr gō ao mirre ūndegon iā iōrves.” Three days, Vhagar. With luck, it will not rain, and you will be back to the warmth of King’s Landing before you ever catch a chill.

She only groaned in response, looking up at the clouds above them. Though no rain had fallen, the sky roiled with brewing storms.

Aemond sighed, a bemused grin on his face as he patted her worn scales. “Kesan ūndegon nūmāzma mirri ruaragon syt ao, sepār naejot sagon ȳgha.” I will see about some cover for you, just to be safe.

As he was escorted through the castle gates, he politely requested – he would never presume to give orders to another Lord’s servants, even if he wasn’t so determined to make a good impression – that some kind of shelter be arranged for Vhagar. He didn’t particularly care when the man started blustering about the labor and expense of such a thing. After being on dragonback for more than eight hours, his patience for other people was running dangerously thin, and he would need all of it when he finally met with Lord Borros Baratheon.

His mother and grandfather had warned him that Borros was perhaps the least refined Lord in all of Westeros. Their descriptions painted a picture of a man that, had he the choice, Aemond would have gladly avoided.

But they needed his allegiance. Aegon needed it, if he wanted to keep his throne.

So, Aemond would ensure he had it.

When the servant brought him before a set of dark wooden doors, he willed his face into one of his many masks, this one of pleasant indifference. He did not try to look friendly – he knew he couldn’t manage it, even if he wanted to. He had given that up long ago, even before his scar turned him into something truly terrifying to behold.

Indeed, when the doors opened, every man in the room looked at him with a healthy measure of fear as they stood and bowed their heads to the One-Eyed Prince.

It was not the throne room, where a Prince of the Realm should be received, but some sort of garish trophy room. Each wall was covered with horns and the stuffed heads of boars, deer, and even a few more exotic creatures. A few smaller animals were fully preserved, and posed in poor imitations of how they had been in life.

Aemond found the whole thing revolting. Especially the shadowcat pelt on the floor in the middle of the room, its head stuffed and frozen in an eternal howl. Even in death, such a creature deserved more than being trampled on by countless muddy boots.

Still, he kept his face impassive, not letting his offense at either the disrespect of greeting him here, or his personal disgust at Borros’ crude choice of décor show.

The Lord of the Stormlands was easy to identify, not only by the chain of office around his neck, but by the way every other man in the room looked at him expectantly. He was as Aemond expected – a thick-bodied old Lord with graying hair and a beard. What he hadn’t expected was the keen look in his eyes, though it faded quickly as he took another drink from his cup.

By the smell that pervaded the room, Borros and his entourage had been enjoying their ale for some time.

Ale – not wine. A drink more suited to the slums of Flea Bottom than the castle of a great Lord. It was nearly as vulgar as the décor.

Aemond crossed his hand behind his back and stared at Borros. He had tolerated the slight of his humble reception, but he still expected a formal greeting befitting both their stations. Though, even if he did not receive it, there was little he could do about it.

He would not fail Aegon.

“Prince Aemond Targaryen,” Borros began, his voice somewhat arrogant but respectful enough. “Welcome. You honor us with your presence.”

“The honor is mine, Lord Borros,” Aemond replied with a gracious bow of his head. “You have my gratitude for agreeing to host me with so little notice.”

Borros gave a tight smile. “How could I refuse? Our houses have long been allied, and you are the brother of our new King, after all.”

“Your loyalty to the crown is much appreciated,” Aemond said as he conceded a slight grin. This may not be as difficult as he was anticipating. “King Aegon sends his warm regards, as well as an offer – ”

“Oh, but where are my manners?” Borros interrupted, with an distinct lack of manners. “You have had a long journey, my Prince. Let us eat, and you can entertain us all with the tale of your brother’s coronation, since none of us were present – or even invited to attend.”

Aemond only nodded, for if he said anything, it would no doubt be rude and quash any chance he had of charming this brute of a man.

This would be just as difficult as he thought.

-

Very few of the men seated at Borros’ table were Lords themselves, or even highborn. Only half were even knights. It seemed all they had in common was their love of ale and the favor they held with their Lord.

Aemond had taken note of several who introduced themselves with the surname ‘Storm.’ They were too old to be Borros’ own bastards, though perhaps they could be his half-brothers or cousins. Whatever the relation, if there was any relation at all, their presence at the table was yet another poor omen for Aemond’s success.

He would not be able to argue that Rhaenyra’s bearing of her own bastards, and insistence on their legitimacy, posed a threat to the realm should she press her claim.

The first omen, other than the boorishness of Borros himself, had been the conspicuous absence of his wife and daughters. When Aemond inquired after them, under the pretense of paying his respects to the Lady of the Castle, he was told that they rarely eat with the men, especially before a hunt. Apparently, Borros and his men were ‘too rowdy for the women’ when they were together.

There could be no doubting the veracity of that statement.

More ale was brought to the table, along with a single bottle of wine for Aemond, which he did not drink. Though he had to admit to being tempted. If only to dull his mind and make the meal more bearable.

The food was not terrible, though there was a severe lack of vegetables in favor of nearly obscene amounts of meat. But the company was precisely what Aemond hated about court.

Boastful men telling tales of their exploits, brazenly embellishing their feats to a mythical degree. At least the stories were mostly about hunting and battle, not other, more vulgar conquests.

Whenever possible, Aemond tried to insert himself into the conversation so he could steer Borros to the actual reason he had come. But each time, Borros brushed him aside, calling instead on one of his men to tell yet another tale.

Aemond had resigned himself to silence when, at last, Borros turned to him.

“Tell me, my Prince,” he said, picking the last remaining scraps of meat off the bone he held. “Do you hunt?”

“I cannot say I am accomplished as you or your men here,” Aemond said cautiously, surprised that he was addressed directly. “But I have hunted, though not for some time.”

Borros looked somewhat conspiratorially at the man sitting to his left before turning back to the Prince. “And when you hunt, do you ride your horse or that dragon of yours?”

Aemond was surprised by the question, by its boldness and sheer ridiculousness. “Hunt with Vhagar? Certainly not.” He started, choking on his water as he realized how his words may offend his host. “I… she is far too large for most hunting grounds. And any prey she caught would either be swallowed whole or burnt. There would be nothing left to bring back. It would not be an effective method of hunting.”

“I see,” Borros muttered, refilling his mug of ale. “A shame. I was hoping you would join us tomorrow. I sense you are eager to get to whatever business your brother has sent you on. However, this hunt has been planned for months, and I will not postpone it simply because Aegon wants something of me.”

It took great effort on Aemond’s part to not scowl at what he was implying – that the Prince would be forced to wait until Borros deigned to meet with him.

But he could not wait that long. Rhaenys had no doubt told Rhaenyra of Aegon’s coronation, and by the time Aemond and Arianwyn left the Keep, two Kingsguard had gone ‘missing.’ Dragonstone, that hateful place, was no doubt already buzzing as Daemon prepared for war. Even a day’s delay in securing Storm’s End could have devastating consequences.

Besides, Aemond promised Aria that he would be back, and they would be reunited, before their three days were up.

So, he forced a polite smile and his voice to remain calm. “Then surely it would be wise for us to settle the business tonight, would it not?”

“Is there some pressing need for haste, my Prince?” Borros asked smugly.

“Regrettably, yes,” Aemond bit out. He clenched his hand under the table at the smug look on the faces surrounding him. It would be unwise to give his true reason for wanting the business done quickly.

‘One should never reveal more than is necessary,’ as it was written in the book of warfare he was still reading. The same book he had been reading when Arianwyn climbed atop him…

He gave a short laugh and what he hoped was a charming smile to the men that were watching him. They were so simple, so easy to read. And though he hated to discuss his dear wife in such  a way, he knew precisely how to ply them.

“I am sure you have heard that I have been married,” he explained, knowing he would feel guilty the next time he saw Arianwyn. “It has not yet been a week since that happy night, and I confess I find myself impatient to return to my wife.”

“And her bed,” one of the men further down the table snickered.

Aemond drew his hand into a fist so fast that his nails dug into the skin of his palm, but he said nothing. Instead, he smirked, hoping it would be interpreted as a sign of amusement and not the dangerous rage he truly felt.

Borros rolled his eyes before facing the Prince again. “Normally, I would be happy to accommodate your request. I remember how reluctant I was to let Elenda out of my sight when we were first wed. And our own courtship was not half as…” he carefully assessed Aemond before finishing his sentence, “hasty as your own.”

“Where is your lovely wife now, Prince Aemond?” One of Borros’ men – one of the Storm bastards – asked.

A seemingly innocent question, but Aemond knew what he was really asking. Larys had said that Daemon’s accusations had made their way throughout the realm. How, he had no idea. But this confirmed it. As had the two score sets of eyes that immediately turned to him, waiting for his answer.

“The Princess Arianwyn left the Red Keep just before me this morning,” he said, noting exactly which men looked surprised by his words. “She and her dragon flew for the Eyrie. They should be there now, assuming they were not delayed in Wickenden.”

He could have sworn he saw two men exchanging coins under the table. The payment of a wager on whether the One-Eyed Prince had truly captured his bride – whether he was the monster he was rumored to be.

Aemond took in a heavy, calming breath before he continued. “It was my hope to return to King’s Landing before her, so I can welcome her home when she arrives. Neither she nor her dragon have been on so long a journey before; she is bound to be tired.”

Another chuckle went through the men, and several lewd comments Aemond pretended not to hear as he turned back to Borros. “I trust you can understand my haste, then?”

“I can,” Borros conceded. “But I still cannot postpone the hunt. So, you will join us, and we can discuss whatever business you have then.”

Though he would rather dine with the Stranger than spend time in the woods with these men, Aemond agreed. And hastily excused himself from the meal. If he was to endure the next day without killing or maiming one of the men, particularly the bastard who had made the crudest comments about Arianwyn, he would need his rest.

And no small amount of prayer.

After an hour of beseeching each of the Seven for the strength he would need to survive the hunt, he, at last, settled into his bed. His hand reached for the scrap of periwinkle cloth he had held close to him for so many years, but it was not there.

He had given it to Arianwyn the day after their wedding.

“I have the sapphire,” he had said, tapping the gemstone with his finger. “It is only fair you have a reminder of our love too. Particularly since I have not had the chance to get you a ring…”

She had been so delighted that even now, as he longed for some reminder of her, Aemond could not bring himself to regret it. So instead, he stood from the bed and retrieved his dagger – secure in its sheath – before sliding back between the sheets.

Aemond fell asleep brushing his thumb over the marks she had left on its hilt.

-

Arianwyn yawned – again – in the middle of telling Jeyne the very last details she could recall of her first flight as a dragonrider. “After that, King Viserys threw a small feast in my honor. He also had an auroch sent to the Dragonpit as a treat for Emrys. And…”

She was interrupted by yet another yawn, which was soon echoed by Gerold.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, rubbing at her eyes to try and clear their blurriness. “I must have had a little too much wine. I’m afraid I’m quite tired.”

“Nonsense!” Jessamyn said gently. “It is we who have kept you up too late with our thirst for stories. You have had a long day. Of course you are tired.”

Jeyne signaled to a servant, “Perhaps some tea to wake the Princess?”

Gerold groaned and slid his face into his hand. While he loved listening to Arianwyn, he had already fallen asleep in his chair twice, and had been promptly scolded when his snoring interrupted her stories.

“I think,” Jessamyn insisted, grabbing Jeyne’s wrist and lowering it back down, “that we should let her sleep and recover from her journey. We will have more time to talk tomorrow.”

When Jeyne turned back to her godsdaughter to send her to bed, the girl’s eyes were already closed, and she swayed slightly, even as she continued to hold her wine goblet aloft. Gerold, too, had fallen back asleep.

“I am afraid you are right, my dear,” Jeyne whispered to her companion, pressing a brief kiss to her firey red hair. “Forgive me. I’ve wanted to meet her for years, and I let myself get carried away.”

Jessamyn caressed Jeyne’s cheek and smiled sweetly. “It is perfectly understandable, my love. Though, tomorrow you may want to rein your enthusiasm in – just slightly. I am fairly sure she made up many of the details you asked for. Though I cannot blame her. I can’t remember what I wore on my sixth nameday either!”

“Yes, most of that wasn’t actually that important, was it?” Jeyne asked with a wince. “I just want to know everything I missed. Everything Rhea missed…”

They were interrupted when Arianwyn’s hand went slack, and her goblet fell to the floor with a loud clatter. She and Gerold were both startled awake, the old knight stumbling out of his chair and reaching for his sword.

“What happened?” he asked, glancing around blearily.

“Nothing,” Jeyne assured her friend, then looked back at Arianwyn. “Nothing but an old woman being foolish. I’m sorry dear, of course, you should rest.”

The Princess was too tired to do anything but nod gratefully as Gerold offered his arm to lead her to her chambers. But Jeyne and her close companion did not mind. They only smiled fondly as she left the room.

Arianwyn had nearly fallen asleep on her cousin’s shoulder when he opened the chamber doors for her, and she stumbled into the room.

“Servants retrieved your things from Emrys earlier. I am told he did not wake once. Do you need a maid to help you?” Gerold asked. “I can find one to wake and send to you, if you wish.”

“I’ll be fine, but thank you,” she said. Then, mustering the last of her strength, she lifted herself onto her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I missed you very much.”

He gazed warmly at her, cupping her chin in his hands to kiss her hairline. “I missed you, too, Aria. Sleep well, and I will see you tomorrow. There is something I would like to give you before you leave. A wedding present, of sorts.”

Her smile fell at his words, but then she laughed bashfully as her cheeks flushed. “I… I forgot that I would be sleeping alone tonight. I have so quickly become accustomed to having Aemond next to me.”

“Oh, Aria,” Gerold pulled her into a tight embrace. He laughed with her as he stroked her hair, tears once more coming to his grey eyes. “I am so blissfully happy for you.”

“I am blissfully happy, as well, and nearly as tired,” she giggled, pulling away from the embrace.

Gerold patted her cheek once more. “Then I will leave to your rest, my dear.” He took a deep breath, and Arianwyn thought he might cry again. “I love you, Aria. And I am so proud of you. Your mother would be, too.”

She brought a hand over her mouth as she held back a sob. Every bone in her body cried out to hug him again, but she knew that if she did, she would cry through the night and not get any rest. She lowered her hand as she nodded furiously and whispered her thanks as Gerold left and shut the door behind him.

Thankfully, her tears had calmed by the time she removed her dress – Jeyne had been only just convinced to let her remove her armor before her meal. She was too tired to cry and too tired to don a nightgown. She slid into the bed, wearing only her chemise to cover her, and holding a small scrap of periwinkle silk in her hand.

Aemond had given it to her after he noticed it on the floor the day after they were wed, to be a placeholder of sorts until he found her a wedding ring. But she had already decided not to give it back to him, even after she had her ring.

It smelled of Aemond. His scent of parchment and steel thoroughly steeped into the fabric after he kept it for so long in either his breast pocket or under his pillow. And somehow, it seemed to retain some of his warmth, as well.

Arianwyn fell asleep cradling that small scrap of silk to her cheek.

Next Chapter

[gffa]

Dude the one response you wrote to another anon about having a hard time being a Real Person ™️ and interacting with others online bc of anxiety and stuff hit me so hard bc like BIG SAME.

I seriously appreciate how honest you are about this, bc I have very similar issues and I try really hard to leave comments on fics or reply to comments on my fics and sometimes my brain just says NO. And then too much time passes and then it's just awkward to reply later?? And then like, if you comment on a fic and the author replies and it opens the way for more conversation... Am I supposed to reply again??? I mean like obvs I know I don't have to, so usually I don't bc STRESS. But. ???? Idk.

What's the worst is that I have this same issue in "Brick Life" (IRL?)... Like, texting/emailing/chatting with friends and aquaintences??? How?? I overthink like EVERYTHING. And I wish I could just say, "yeah hey I have these problems so sometimes I can't reply! Or my reply might come off as weird to you bc I spent an hour rewording it and now I sound like an alien!" But I don't know how??? And I've tried doing like PSAs but ppl are like "oh you're so brave for admitting you have mental health issues. I'm so proud that you're reaching out" and then they go on with their lives like I don't have debilitating anxiety and seem to expect me to interact with them in whatever way they think is "normal" and im like 🙃🙃🙃

Anyway. Socially anxious high five from me to you. And you totally don't have to reply to this at all if you don't want to! I just read what you say sometimes about having anxiety and stuff and my brain goes "!!!!!! SAME HAT!!!!!"

Have a good day/night/time 💞

GOD, I REWROTE THIS RESPONSE LIKE FIVE TIMES, no, I’m not kidding. Yes, it’s funny because that’s what this response is about but also I really did. So, I’m going to start with this: And I wish I could just say, "yeah hey I have these problems so sometimes I can't reply! Or my reply might come off as weird to you bc I spent an hour rewording it and now I sound like an alien!" But I don't know how??? ^ Say exactly this!  Seriously!  It doesn’t have to be a big, huge conversation piece about how you’re anxious, you can just drop that in quick at the beginning, just tell the person, “Hey, brain weasels are really wriggling around up there today, so this took me awhile to cough up, so if it sounds like it’s weirdly terse or something, that’s not the intention, I’m just anxious about it.” and then go right on into the conversation. I’ve found that the shame of social anxiety is a real pain in the ass, but so is letting it define me.  It’s a thing I have!  It sucks massively!  I have to deal with it every day and in almost every conversation!  People want to help, and when I can tell them specifically what I need (usually it’s just that I need some extra understanding if I sound stilted or terse or disjointed, to know that it’s not that I’m being an asshole, it’s that I’m herding cats up there and this was the best I could get out in the moment), it goes a long way, because people are very understanding! Or, for example, sometimes I go on a little too much because I can’t stop myself and then I’ll tack on something like, “LOL GOD SORRY I know this is obnoxious, I just had FEELINGS, I’ll let you go now.” and throw in an emoji something to lighten the mood. Or, if you’re friendly with someone and they’re like, “What’s wrong, you seem off today.” and you can reply with, “[tosses a rock at] SOCIAL ANXIETY SUCKS AND I HATE MY LIZARD BRAIN.  (Okay, I’m being dramatic, but sometimes you gotta be over the top about these things!)” Or even something as simple as “/Social Anxiety Having Nerd Trying To Be Totally Normal Level Of Cool To Interact With” at the start/end of something as a reminder to people. Make it silly, even when the feelings are real, while also letting yourself off the hook for feeling this way! A lot of us are dealing with anxiety or other various forms of mental health issues, many of which are going to be with us for a long time, if not the rest of our lives.  It can be exhausting to carry this shit around, to feel like you have to do so much more work than other people do just to have a goddamned conversation.  And there are absolutely times to be deadly serious about it, especially if you’re having a bad day and need to vent or just need some commiseration.  Figure out what you need from your friends, what they specifically can do to help, but also have some humor with it and remember that, hey, if other people can fake it until you can’t tell they had anxiety, then you can fake it so that others can’t tell you have anxiety. Remember that there almost always will be more chances in the future to interact with someone, another fic will come along, another conversation will come along, another meta will come along, there will be more chances, so if you have to let some pass by because you don’t have the energy to get up over the anxiety hill to comment, then that’s okay, too.  A lot of us are dealing with this stuff and some missed chances are because we’re human. I mean, if you do get up the energy to respond and don’t know where to go from there, it’s okay to not respond back!  It’s okay if they don’t respond back!  People are but blobs floating in the currents of the ocean, sometimes they bob closer, sometimes they bob further away, but they’ll always come back and go away and come back again.  And that goes for you, too.  If responding to something makes your brain go N O P E, then don’t stress about it.  If you’re just kinda nervous, remember that other people can’t tell NEARLY as much about you as you think they can. Everyone is up their own asses about their own stuff, so you can be a trainwreck over here and hardly anyone is going to notice because they’re too busy thinking about their own trainwreck!  I promise you, people are not NEARLY as perceptive as you fear they are, when it comes to piercing the veil of your social anxiety, and so it’s okay to just let stuff slide or be a little twitchy, because you’re a person and so is everyone else.  ♥

[lunamanar]

Off-the-Cuff First-impressions Review: Trials of Mana

I got Seiken Densetsu 3/Trials of Mana in the mail today and am surprised by just how excited I am about it. After the admittedly predictable letdowns of the Secret of Mana “remake” and the FFVIII “remaster,” not to mention the iOS revision of the former, you’d think I’d be jaded at this point. 

But! FFVII remake is Actually Good, and so far it looks like Trials of Mana is, while certainly lower budget, also Actually Good. The voice acting is kinda meh, but not bad enough to detract from the game in my opinion, and considering they are working with SNES-era scripts (the dialogue is 99% word-for-word the same as the more recent translation of the original SD3 game, so it’s going to be a bit stilted anyway) it’s really not bad at all. 

Besides, the actual meat of the game--the world, character and monster design, and the gameplay--is extremely solid and I have had very little trouble acclimating to it. It’s fun to play, it feels good to run around and explore the world and the battles are both very simplistic in a way that is familiar to an old fart like me and very satisfying in the way they function. One of the biggest weaknesses the original game had was absolutely horrendous input lag in some areas due to 1. the sheer size of the loaded map section, such as Rolante/Laurant, 2. The number of on-screen instructions the SNES had to process during battles, particularly during fights where you had massive sprites taking up the entire screen (the awful awful wall-guardian “Genova” [harhar] is probably the single hardest boss in the game purely due to input lag/drops; when you attack an enemy, even assuming your weapon swings when you tell it to, and that’s a big ‘if,’ the monster you are attacking is actually in a state which is several frames ahead of whatever state it visually appears to be in on-screen, making it extremely difficult to time your attacks properly to both defend and do optimal damage to what should have been a relatively minor “miniboss” fight). Trials of Mana, on the other hand, has none of those problems, simply thanks to more modern technology. So far every fight I’ve engaged in has been smooth and responsive as well as very visually appealing.

And wow is this game pretty. It’s not the most amazing example of the best graphical advances in gaming history, to be sure, but I genuinely don’t think that matters, as it’s still beautifully detailed and really does look like they took the original graphics and magicked them into more modern models. The re-imaginings of each area and monster are very faithful to both the aesthetic and the layout of the original design while at the same creatively expanding on them; I've had no trouble finding my way around familiar maps or identifying the bestiary, but I have found a lot of added depth to them, such as the ability to jump down on rooftops and find hidden nooks that were just static backdrops or otherwise out of sight in the original. The areas are more layered and interactive, but very importantly, nothing is missing. Not even the dogs and cats, who still bark and meow at you if you talk to them. I feel like I’m being allowed to see and explore the original maps from angles I didn’t have access to in the past. It really makes the 16-year-old in me unbelievably happy, to be able to finally, actually see and do these things I could only wish for back then. For people who have never played it, it’s probably a very pretty, if otherwise unremarkable experience, but for me it’s the granting of a wish I’ve had for a long time, but never expected to happen. 

Similarly, I think a lot of people will look at the plot for this game and go, “...what?” Because it really doesn’t seem to have been changed at all from the SNES version, aside from a few little tweaks to the dialogue here and there to ease the transition between some sections or correct for differences in game mechanics (of which there are only a few; again, this is definitely a remake--it remains the same game with the same mechanics at its core). This can lead to some pretty awkward interactions between characters, and at times it seems pretty clear that the voice actors weren’t given a lot of direction about the context of their lines. It’s not a bad story, but it’s a very simply told one, and feels more like it’s targeting 12~16 year-olds (which it probably is, to be fair) who might not care so much about nitpicking the semantics of the plot and character motivations. Which is to say, most of the characters who are not main protagonists or villains are painfully cardboard-flat. They do what they do and say what they say because it advances the plot for them to do and say those things. Elliot falls for a “trick” that I’m pretty sure most 4-year-olds would see through. The Bad Guys are 1-dimensionally evil, wanting to either destroy or take over the world, with the possible exception of Lugar and Koren who have slightly more complicated “I’m your rival” reasons. That leaves the complexity up to the protagonists to shoulder, and while I haven’t played that far into the game yet, thus far is is beat-for-beat and shot-for-shot the same as the original, so I expect that character-building will be left largely up to the player to mentally write in, especially since the game features light/dark class-changes as a feature of its progression. (I do kiiiind of hope that your choice in class changes has a more material effect on the ending’s outcome, but I think that might be asking a bit too much from a remake of this sort.) But the somewhat archaic plot and character arcs are not surprising and for me don’t take away any of the game’s charm. Nikita is still the best, the shop owners still dance inexplicably, the fact you can play a werewolf is badass, rabites are still cute, Don Perignon is still kind of a jerk. I’m very nervous/excited to get Busukaboo and Flammie and hope they’ll be as much fun now as they were then. And the whole world is so damn pretty, I’m just glad to be there. 

I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the music. I’m not sure how much of a hand Hiroki Kikuta actually had in this remake, but the synth-orchestral arrangements of his originals are excellent so far. They’re both accessible/adaptable to the game’s sudden scene transitions (”Nuclear Fusion” starts and ends just as cleanly) while being a richer version of the themes, keeping close to the original sound while making better use of all the instruments that the SNES just wasn’t capable of emulating well. It blends very well with the rest of the game and I hope that continues to be true. 

I do have nitpicks; while I know it’s a popular mechanic, I don’t like the “shift-lock” sort of dash using the left analog stick as both directional and a button. I think the camera controls are solid, but I do wish there wan a toggle-option to have the camera just follow over your shoulder wherever you run until you either run into a battle or turn it off. The character models don’t seem especially affected by anything except the most intense/pervasive lighting and sometimes feel oddly out of place, like I’m watching one of those old movies where an animated character comes into the Real World. Some of the monster designs seem cute-ified more than I’d like. And I can’t help but think that if the game can be this nice as a third-tier title for SE, what could it have been if they’d but the resources behind it that they obviously did with FF7? I understand why they didn’t, but it’s hard not to wonder what it could have been if they had.  Seiken Densetsu is one of the most fraught series in the history of home video games and the fact that it’s even still around is something of a miracle, in my opinion. After the last...four?...titles following Legend of Mana, and the disappointment that was SD2′s (second!) remake, I really didn’t go into Trials of Mana with high hopes. I have been really, honestly pleasantly surprised. Even if you’re a diehard old-schooler who really doesn’t like modern JRPGs, if you have any nostalgia left for this series, you should give this one a go. I think it translated really well to 3D models, and what little it loses in the switch, it makes up for in playability. It’s not hard to pick up, it’s easy on the eyes and ears, it’s less grind-y than the original, and it doesn’t try to be more than what it is. I’ll probably always prefer the original, of course; there are too many memories attached to it for me, too many things that were groundbreaking at the time that are now old news or completely obsolete nowadays, and the new game certainly doesn’t push any modern boundaries. But it’s worth checking out, and especially if you’ve spent 20 years feeling let down by the Mana series, this might actually be the game you were hoping for, albeit maybe a decade late. 

[kumkaniudaku]

Nice to Meet You

A/N: Who doesn’t love a good origin story. Not my best, but I think I captured this facet of their relationship pretty well. I hope you enjoy. 

Warm Washington, D.C. sun seared your brown skin as you stood in the unfamiliar territory. Over the weekend, your family left you with teary-eyed hugs outside of your dorm to kiss you goodbye and present you with their final well wishes. It was time to begin your transition from standout high school student to unknown college freshman, and while you were excited as you tossed and turned in bed last night, the excitement was currently dwindling in the summer sun.

“All of these buildings look the same,” you mumbled to yourself in frustration.

For several minutes, you stood in the center of exuberant meetings between old and new friends, trying to find your way around your new campus. So far, you managed to journey from your dorm room to the university center, placing you further from your intended destination. As you shifted your weight on your heels, two things were becoming abundantly clear: you were lost, and the sun wasn’t planning on letting up anytime soon.

Out of your line of vision, a young man wearing overalls and a plain white t-shirt seemed out of place. In a sea of trendy clothing, his outlandish southern flair made him stand out. His eyes slowly scanned the scene in front of him, catching the eye of several women until they landed on you. Your long, pressed hair caught the light breeze and revealed a profile view of your features. He spent more time than would typically be afforded to him to study the way your legs seemed to never end on the way to the hem of your shorts. The jersey on your back, a replica of Chipper Jones’ home jersey, endeared you to him almost as much as your undeniably beautiful features.

He had to know your name.

Before he could stop them, his legs carried him down the short flight of steps to your location.

“You, uh, need some help,” he asked after tapping your shoulder. “I-I just saw you over here by yourself. I’ve only been here a day or two, but I think I know my way around after a little exploring. I could...show you around.”

His sudden invasion of your “privacy” made you jump in shock. One glance at his off-kilter attire let you know that he was either unsure what year it was or clinically insane. Deciding to keep your mouth closed to refrain from coming off as approachable, you rolled your eyes and turned your back.

“Oh-kay,” he scoffed. “I’m only trying to help you, Miss. If you don’t wa-”

“Do you know where the A building is? Since you over here and what not.”

“It’s close the upper quad. If you go to the corner and make a right -” the stranger's directions halted when he noticed the blank stare resting on your face. “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

“Is it that obvious?” A short laugh escaped your lips, making your unknown tour guide smile in response. “I’m not that great with directions.”

“How ‘bout this? I don’t have nothin’ else to do today. I could walk with you. Ya’know, show you around and make sure you ain’t out here gettin’ lost. If that’s alright with you.”

“S-sure. I mean, if you have time. I don’t want to take you away from anything...or anyone.” A random bout of nerves sent your hands up to your head to tuck a piece of hair behind your ears.

Another look at the stranger’s face revealed how handsome he was. Getting past his choice in apparel, his lanky frame carried the height of a basketball player and the muscle tone of a man used to lifting more than his weight. His deep brown eyes twinkled with a sort of sincerity that was reminiscent of the people you came in contact with back home. His crooked smile housed an imperfect gap that added character to his already attractive features. The bushy eyebrows resting above his eyelids rose in expectation as if he was waiting for an answer to a question.

“I’m sorry, did you say something?”

“I asked you what your name was.”

“Oh, I-I’m Tasha. Tasha Greene.”

“Well, Miss Tasha Greene, I’m ready if you are.” His smile widened as he extended his arm in front of him to invite you to lead the way.

The walk was silent initially while you tried to gather words to say. His quiet presence was almost overwhelming for reasons you couldn’t place. He noticed your nervous habit of chewing your lip and bumped his shoulder into yours.

“Where you from, Tasha Greene?”

“Lithonia, Georgia. It's a little city outside of Atlanta. What about you? You sound like my cousins up in North Carolina.”

“You close. I’m from South Carolina. Anderson to be exact. Close to Clemson.”

“Don’t tell me you’re a Clemson fan.”

He chuckled for a moment before giving you a charming smirk, “And if I am?”

“Then I’d have to politely step away from your lovely tour. I’m from Bulldog Country. Where I’m from, we laugh at Tigers fans. Even if they are as nice as you, uh...um…”

“Chadwick.”

“Chadwick,” you questioned with your face screwed in confusion.

“My mama thought it sounded distinguished. I think it’s a strange name for a Black man.”

“I like it.” Chadwick looked at you with a closed mouth smile to match yours. “It sounds like a man that’ll make a bunch of money one day. “

“That’s the plan. Write and direct a few plays, maybe a couple of movies, and travel the world.”

“So you’re a fine arts major? That explains your outfit.”

“My outfit,” Chadwick questioned incredulously. “What’s wrong with my outfit?”

“It’s 1996 in D.C., man. Ain’t nobody wearin’ overalls!”

“Well then, how about you let me borrow that Chipper Jones jersey you got on? I’m a Braves fan, too, you know?”

“A Braves fan, huh? You sure you not just saying that to swindle me out my shirt? You know, this will be worth a lot after we win the World Series.”

“Alright, you got me,” Chadwick laughed, throwing his hands up in surrender. “I am a Braves fan, though. That’s not a lie. You really think we’ll make it all the way this year?”

You shrugged while taking a look at your surroundings, “I don’t know. I hope so. I’ll be the happiest girl in the world if they do. I started playing softball after I begged my dad to take me to a Braves game when I was six. Haven’t looked back since.”

“I took you as more of a basketball player. You know, with your long legs and all.”

“So you’ve been looking at my legs?” You gave Chadwick a stone-faced look that you’d inherited from your mother. Your eyes narrowed to take in the horrified expression that accompanied his nervous stuttering.

“No! I mean, I did, but not like that. I was just saying; you’re...you’re kinda tall for a girl. It’s not a bad thing! I like tall girls. I-I” His stammering came to an uncomfortable halt as he caught wind of your laughter. “Am I missing something? What’s so funny?”

You continued to laugh with hot tears threatening to spill from the corners of your eyes. Doubled over in laughter, you brought the “tour” to a complete stop while cradling your stomach. Though he didn’t understand the humor in the situation, the sound of your unceasing laughter and the pure joy that seemed to light up your face to match the sun hanging in the sky amongst the clouds made Chadwick smile along with you.

“I’m just joking around with you. I’m sorry! I couldn’t resist,” you informed between breaths as you stood. “I like tall girls. Yeah right. How many times have I heard that?”

“You haven’t heard it from me.”

That sincerity that you picked up on when he interrupted your private thoughts was present and magnified in the way he looked at you after such a simple statement. His smirk made you look away for fear of staring too long. Noticing the defensive gesture, he released a quiet chuckle.

“I do play basketball. Shooting guard.”

“I thought so. I played guard in high school. Mostly point.”

“Are you playing here,” you asked, partially hoping he’d say yes.

“Nope. It’s not really my thing anymore.”

“Yeah? Why not?” It was Chadwick’s turn to look away, but not from embarrassment. He needed a moment to gather his thoughts and compose himself. “If you don’t wanna talk about it, I understand.”

“A friend of mine, from AAU ball, was shot and killed not too long ago. Kinda...changed my direction in life.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s fine. You don’t have to apologize, but I appreciate it. I was nice, though.”

“Oh really? Prove it!”

“What?” Chadwick watched you drop your belongings on the asphalt and bend your knees into a defensive stance. Your eyes held a playful twinkle that made him want to see just how far you would take your demonstration. “You really wanna do this right here?”

“Hell yeah. Let’s go! I bet you can’t get past me.”

Contemplating the notion of trying to score against you in the middle of the street with an imaginary basketball, Chadwick took you up on your offer. Turning his back to you, he began to dribble the “basketball” in his hand while backing into you. He tried to fake right, but you didn’t take the bait. His move to the left was exactly what you expected, leading you to mimic the motion you would typically use to steal the ball in a real game.

Chadwick watched you with a crooked smile as you exaggeratedly sunk a “lay up” and turned to face him.

“Okay, so maybe I’m not as nice as you. Damn, girl.”

“You can see that in person this season,” you boasted as you wiped sweat from your forehead. “How come I’m the only one sweating out here? You ain’t hot?”

“I’m from the country. This heat is nothing compared to summers at home. You look like you been melting since I tapped your shoulder. Sweating like a sinner in church.”

“Whatever. I’m burning up,” you exclaimed as you removed your jersey to reveal your tank top underneath.

Chadwick watched you in stunned silence, taking in the way your brown skin made the sun but a minuscule part of the solar system. As far as he could see, you were the golden being lighting up the world around him.

“You got a nickname, Tasha Greene?”

“My dad calls me Pumpkin at home, and my old teammates called me Stilts as a joke. Neither of those is an option for anyone to use in public,” you warned with your eyes cut in his direction.

“Hmm,” Chadwick smiled, before letting the conversation end.

Birds chirped, and cars could be heard in the distance as both of you walked in silence. Occasionally, one of you would steal a glance at the other and smile.

Truthfully, you were uncomfortable around others, especially men. Your awkward stage in high school still haunted you and kept your guard up at all times. It was tough to tell if people were being genuine or looking to hurt you. But, your interaction with Chadwick felt natural. He made talking and laughing with him feel like second nature. Though he appeared to be nice, you refused to get your hopes up. The last thing you needed was another social let down.

A sudden stop broke you from your trance. Your assumption that you’d reached your destination was confirmed when Chadwick turned to face you.

“I guess this is it,” you started, looking down at your feet. “Thank you for...your help.”

“Ah, don’t thank me. It was nothing. I can show you around some more if you’re free. Or…”

“Or?”

“Or you could, you know, hang out with me every once in a while. Hopefully, we’ll see each other around? Only if you want,” he corrected himself as he watched your face change.

“Sure, we can hang out again. If I see you around that is. I’m pretty busy. You know, workouts and games -”

“And school! Can’t, uh...can’t forget school.”

“Right, right. School. That’s what we’re here for right?”

“Of course,” Chadwick added with a smile. He could sense your nerves were causing you to ramble, and he found it endearing. Cute, even. “See you around then, CoCo.”

“Yeah, see you aro-CoCo? What does that mean? Is that a South Carolina thing?”

Chadwick let off a laugh so loud and melodic that you couldn’t help but smile along with him. It was a sound so ridiculously boisterous that you almost didn’t want it to stop.

Regaining his composure, Chadwick left his gap-tooth smile on display. “I’m tired of you acting like we not the same kind of country.”

“Are we though,” you laughed.

“Close enough! Anyway, I thought I’d give you a nickname. You out here melting in the sun like chocolate ice cream, hence, CoCo. Is that cool with you, Tasha Greene?”

“That’s fine with me, Chadwick, uh…”

“Boseman. Chadwick Boseman.”

“Chadwick Boseman,” you repeated to lock the name into your memory. “Well, thank you for the tour and the 'nickname,' Chadwick Boseman. I have to come up with one for you now.”

With a smile, Chadwick began backing away to leave. “We got plenty of time for that, CoCo. I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”

“Probably, Ashy. You really gotta do something about those ankles.”

“Miss CoCo got jokes,” he laughed looking between you and his legs. “Okay, I’ll take for now. I’ll see you around. Come find me if you need me.”

His smile rendered you speechless as you offered a small nod in response to his statement. With a nod of his own, he turned to finish his day’s journey. Your eyes remained fixed on the bob of his shoulders and the back of his head as he walked away. You didn’t even notice you were staring until he turned around one last time to find you watching him.

You were getting your hopes up. For what, it was too early to tell, but you knew you wanted to see him again. You wanted to hear that obnoxious laugh and see those awful overalls again and again as often as he would allow you. Was this a crush or a desire for friendship? You didn’t know, but it was evident that you’d met someone special.

In twenty minutes of conversation, you knew that whatever drew you to Chadwick and him to you was, hopefully, the foundation for something beautiful.

                                  ____________

TAGS: @njadont @k-michaelis @wakandanmoonchild @idilly @texasbama @afraiddreamingandloving @inxan-ity @daytimeheroicsonly @onyour-right @brianabreeze @sisterwifeudaku @ironsquad @killmongerdispussy @90sinspiredgirl @willowtree77785901 @maynardqueen101 @heyauntieeee @halfrican-heat @purple-apricots @lalapalooza718 @blue-ishx @profilia @ljstraightnochaser @girl-wtf-lmao @dramaqueenamby @royallyprincesslilly @melaninmarvel @thiccdaddy-mbaku @lavitabella87 @purplehairgawdess @unholyxcumbucket  @airis-paris14@uhlxis @oshasimone @maliadestiny @drsunshine97 @cozyshack2@zxddy-panther @queentearra @skysynclair19 @retro-melanin @mermaidchansons @misspooh @melanisticroyalty @babygirlofwakanda @wakanda-4evr @sarahboseman @karensraisns @blackmissmarvel @wakandankings @kaykay4454fan @ororowrites @awkwardlyabstract @mixedmelanin @brownsugarcocoabutterwildflowers @sunflowerpsalms @panthergoddessbast @justanotherloveaffair @jaeee-http @iliketowrite1996 @blackpantherismyish @thompettiedatheaux @msincognito67 @reignsxjackson @yaachtynoboat711 @syreanne @ilcb7 @minim236 @yoyolovesbucky

[roxaeri]

hello! your akward family is the best. i wonder... will they ever go to grace? like i belive atreus would be realy curious to know how the rest of his family is? but here are kratos deimos and caliope going into protection mode. or maybe just go there in secret without telling the rest of the horrible family. idk... akward fam vacantion? caliope guiding atreus and aloy through the old ancient city parts. having fun. atreus plactesing more his greek. kratos and deimos building sandcastle?

((This isn’t going to go how you might have thought))(((Trigger Warning: Descriptions of PTSD symptoms. Brief explanations of memories. Correlating Health Issues.)))All Atreus ever knows about his living extended family in Greece is that even thinking about them is enough to put his dad and sister in a bad, closed off mood.But he is extremely curious. How could he not be?Mimir once told him that his aunt was super close to his dad, once upon a time, but that ended when she refused to walk away from their family when shit went down so long ago.Atreus is somewhere in his 20’s, maybe around mid-20’s, and is probably an established online entertainer. I mean, he’s been working this gig since he was 11. Over a decade of hard work.Maybe it’s a video project for a brand deal or something. Would probably be the younger half of DBPG.Atreus, Aloy, Trucy, Efi, and maybe the Brothers M&M for camera work.The idea is to reconnect them with a part of their lives they never really were part of.Like, for Aloy it’d probably be following her mom’s life before Aloy and Rost. Getting to know the people she knew and finding out more about this woman neither she nor her dad knew very well.Trucy–she’s Atreus’ manager but she is one of the public faces of DBPG. She has a half brother she’s never met and has barely spoken to.Efi hasn’t been back to her birth country since she left, but she keeps in regular constant contact with her friends and family there.M&M are there for camera work and translation help when they head north to where Atreus’ mom is from.So this big project has them traveling around discovering pieces of their lives that weren’t really there while they were growing up. A deeper look for their audience into their lives.Atreus is standing there on the island his mom was born on, taking it all in and fucking crying because he misses his mom. It’s getting close to two decades since she died. And he’s blubbering in Faroese, not hiding the fact that he’s a mess and that he’s been in pain and nauseous the whole trip.“I never had to hide this from my mom. And it’s not like I could lie to her. She just knew. She knew everything.”It’s getting towards the end of their stay on the island.“So, baby brother. Your thoughts?”“I’m entirely amazed. She was born here. It’s the first place where she spent her life before she explored the world. Before she settled back home. Before Dad. Before me. It’s easy to forget she had an entire lifetime before the life we had together.”“You’re telling me. I’ll never not be amazed by your parents’ stories. Or at least the ones I know.”“I’ve been entirely lucky with them.”“Alright. I was given this letter and instructed not to open it until today.”“Okay?”“I’m told it’s a surprise for you. Since you’re basically the main star of the show and our boss.”“Nah, Trucy’s our boss.”“Right? Anyways, let’s see what–”The shock on Aloy’s face before she shuts down her emotions has him worried. Everyone starts to worry when she signals for Magni and Modi to cut the cameras.“Aloy?”“I’m not reading this for a show.”And it takes a good while of arguing with the woman before she gives in, handing the letter to Atreus. The cameras are still rolling because even if they don’t show what happens next, their sponsors have to see why it could potentially be a horrible idea. Or it would be the most dramatic part of the series.“Atreus Loki Theodoros-Laufeyson. We would firstly like to thank you for nearly 16 years of dedicated entertainment, in sickness and in health. For all of the years we have followed along, it is obvious your wish to see the homeland of your Father and Sister. So our surprise for you is that we have booked you and company to visit Greece … As thanks for all your hard work.““You okay buddy?”“I just–I don’t know what to think.”Atreus spends their last day before they leave the next contemplating their sponsor’s offer. Magni stays with the main group, taking in the reactions.“How are you doing Aloy?”“I don’t like it. I want to be angry. Look at him. But it’s not my decision to make. Whatever he chooses, I’m there.”“So, got something against the country, or what?”Modi tries not to squirm in the uncomfortable silence as he has his camera trained on Atreus.“Whatcha thinking kid?”“I’m torn. I mean–it was offered as a gift. So I already feel bad about thinking of turning it down.”“Got a problem with the country?”“What? No! God no. I’ve wanted to go ever since I was a kid. This is the closest I’ve ever been to actually doing it.”“Then what’s stopping you? Your dad and your sister are from there.”“It’s just–it’s not my story to tell. Even if I knew that story, I wouldn’t talk about it. All I know both of them and Calliope’s mom swore to never go back. It’s kinda a learned thing for me to–avoid it. To stick to what I know about Greece. And what I know is it makes my family uncomfortable. Well, not really for uncle Deimos. He still goes back now and then.”It fuckin hits him them. Atreus needs to call Uncle Deimos.At this point Atreus is as fluent as he can be in Greek. His family has worked hard to get him to this point.“Uncle, I want to know your opinion on something. We’re recording, by the way, if that’s fine.”“Of course. And that is?”“How fucked up would it be for me to go to Greece?”He’s met with silence and that worries him. (And everyone who’s gathered nearby where they can hear him. (But they can’t understand a word of Greek themselves.))“… Is that where you’re supposed to go next?”“It’s a surprise offer. I have today to decide before we leave tomorrow. We’d be there about a week as well. But–well, you would know better than I do.”“That I do… . Listen Atreus. You’re an adult now. You can make decisions for yourself.”“I don’t want to upset–”“I know, Atreus. I know. I know better than you do about that. And as much as I love them, too, I still go. I never made the promise they did. I never lived their lives. If you can travel to where your mother was born, even with all the negatives in her life, why are you hesitating about going to Greece? What is the one thing your Father always tells you?”“‘Dammit Atreus, you need to sleep,’?”“–the next thing he always tells you.”“'You live your life for yourself. Not for me.’”“Does that help?”“Yeah. It does. But–you won’t tell them if I do it right? I’d rather not have radio silence if they find out. Which you know will happen.”“I won’t tell them. I’ll send you some suggestions on where to go.”“Thanks Uncle.”Atreus is all nerves. Jittery and bouncing and chewing hard on his lip. Atreus is a fuckin mess and when the hell are his meds going to kick in and finally work–its been a long ass flare up and while he’s held himself together pretty well, it’s made the entire project harder for everyone. But they couldn’t keep postponing it for his sake alone. And dammit he’s gonna be there for his friends.They spend the day they arrive resting and making plans for the next day, when they meet their guide who’s supposed to help Atreus with translating and knowing exactly where the places his uncle recommended are at.Atreus is in a balanced state of exhaustion and absolute excitement. He’s read up on Greece any chance he had without his dad knowing. Basically interrogating Mimir and Deimos when his dad wasn’t around to disapprove.“Hi. Atreus Theodoros-Laufeyson. Co-host of DBPG.”“Funnily enough, I know. My name is Athena Theodoros.”“… As in you know me from my work? Or you know me because you’re my aunt from my dad’s side?”“Oh fuck …““Your father is my brother, yes. I was contacted because I am your aunt and the fact that I work as a celebrity guide for all of Greece.”“As grateful as I am for meeting you and you coming out to meet us–I can’t in good conscious do anything else that would upset my family.”“I believed this might happen. I created this itinerary for you based on what you sent to me yesterday. Deimos always knew the best places. And thank you for making it possible to see how my brother is doing.”“Yeah, sure.”Atreus isn’t really sure what to make of the exchange (entirely in Greek), as he looks through the binder. It’s super high quality for being made in such a short time for an entire week.“My contact information is inside if any of you need my help as all.”Athena is nice and the vibe he gets from her tells him why she and his dad were close once. It’s the knowledge that she dropped all contact with his dad after what happened that makes him uneasy around her.Atreus spends the next few days in Greece enjoying his time, even as he struggles and is forced to sleep between destinations or even take a long break at a few.Even as everyone keeps a close eye on Atreus, Trucy and Efi keeping him between them, no one is prepared for when Atreus just fucking drops on the stairs.It’s a childhood nightmare revisited as Efi checks on him, Aloy beside them, unable to get a response. Trucy scrambles for Athena’s card for translation help because Magni and Modi can’t find a single person who speaks English well enough to give them the advice they need as they wait for an ambulance someone tells them they called in stilted English.But the time she has Athena on the phone, there’s more people who can walk them through it. A young woman–a fan that’s passing by–is the exact help they need as they plan to follow the ambulance and meet Athena at the hospital.It’s all over the internet, from fans that spotted them and followed their project quietly in Greece.Calliope can’t be mad that Atreus didn’t say anything about going there. She’s calm and collected as she talks to Aloy and the others. But she’s fucking terrified and on the verge of breaking as she calls her father.“Calliope–”“Call Aloy or Trucy. Atreus collapsed in Greece. I’m on the next flight out.”“I will be as well.”“Send me all the information I’ll need to know.”“I will.”The few hours it takes her to get there are too long. She breaks down on the plane, praying when she’s never prayed before. And it’s not to any god.“Faye, please–”Her anxiety is high and Lena doesn’t let go of her hand the entire flight. Calliope is sure she’d lose it even more if she did. The memories hard and hot and coming back too fast as they land. And she’s not sure which she would rather face: the memories, or the dread of what might be happening to her baby brother.But she doesn’t get a choice.Calliope faces both once she’s at the hospital and Aloy throws herself into her arms, with Athena shrinking away as she’s spotted.Athena isn’t what matters, or even if her grandfather or the family finds out they’re here.“Where is he?”“I don’t know,” Efi speaks up, the only one able to. “Athena said the doctor was waiting for you. Kratos said you would have Atreus’ entire health history.”“Mimir sent it while I was on the plane.”By the time she sees him, it’s obvious something is horribly wrong that they all missed.Atreus is pale–paler than when she last saw him. He’s bruised wherever he’s been handled–the worse in the areas of medical equipment. There’s also a dark bruise on his head where he hit the steps before any one could catch him.“… Calliope–”“You don’t deserve to be here. You don’t deserve to speak to him.”“I only want to help.”“Then leave! You didn’t help my father when Ares nearly killed him. You didn’t help when he set our house on fire trying to kill us! You stayed to work for the man who left us to his tender mercy. You, aunt Athena, don’t deserve to even know Atreus.”Magni’s heard enough, even if he only understands the sound of anger in the woman’s voice. The tears already falling from Calliope’s eyes. He sees how her entire body shakes, and the look on her face tells him that she’s not just seeing her brother in a hospital bed.Were it Modi, and their family, Magni wouldn’t hesitate to swing.He doesn’t say a thing to Athena before he herds her out of the room without touching her. He stays, silent, sure Atreus wouldn’t forgive him if Magni had let his sister suffer. He’s heard unedited footage of Atreus mentioning that Calliope refused to ever step foot in Greece again before he requested Aloy cut that out. The entire situation has to be absolute hell for her.“I almost died from smoke inhalation when I was eight. Both of my parents have burn scars.” He’s seen the ones on Kratos under the tattoos. “My father’s second wife died from cancer. He’s already almost lost Atreus once to childhood cancer.”“And now?”“–I-I’m scared we’re all going to lose him.”Calliope is on the edge of breaking, but holding Atreus hand keeps her together just a little bit more.“I swore I’d never come back. But if he dies, I swear I’ll be stuck here for the rest of my life.”“He won’t die. I’ve never met anyone with more fight in them than that kid.”“You don’t know that for sure.”“Neither do you.”He has to look away as Calliope rests her head on the bed, looking up at Atreus with teary eyes and a blank face, fingers running lightly along his bruised arm, kissing his fingers.“You have to stay, Atreus. Whatever’s wrong, we’ll fix it. I’m selfish. I can’t lose you when you’ve become such a large part of my life. I want to see you live out your dreams as I have. I want to still be apart of your journey. So please, be strong enough to make it through this.”In her scrambled thoughts, she sees her brother as he is, but also as the eleven year old who worked himself into a coughing fit the first time he saw her. The kid who cried the first time he saw her perform live on stage. She breaks, her body hollow and aching and burning and suffocating in more memories than the ones of actual fire.“Please Atreus. Please be okay. I need you.”

[moreracquetball]

Excerpts from “I’d like to believe that I’d do it again”

Hey, so I wrote this Whizzvin College AU (which clocks at about +60k words), and I thought that maybe I could share some of my fave excerpts from this behemoth. It’s a little long, so apologies for that. BUT HEY, JUST WANNA THANK EVERYONE AGAIN FOR SUPPORTING THIS STORY AS SO MANY PEOPLE DID. IT MAKES ME HAPPY.

See, right now, Whizzer's supposed to be the nice guy—tell him that while he's flattered and all, getting into any sort of sexual relationship with him would be wrong and irresponsible. You have a girlfriend, he'd remind him, grasping his shoulder and giving him a significant look, after everything you've been through together, you can't do this to her. He's supposed to help him along this journey of sexual identity by being a simply platonic mentor who watches out for him and lets him discover his own sexuality in his own way and time. Whizzer's supposed to not take advantage of a sad, lonely man who has no idea what he wants.

But Whizzer is not a nice guy, which is why he disregards all these supposed-to’s and leans in, tightening his grip on Marvin’s thigh and giving him a wicked smile, “You and I are going to have so much fun together, Marvin."

“So I’m a game to you?” Marvin asks, his voice carefully neutral.

“Don’t beat yourself up. Everything’s a game to me.” Whizzer sighs and repositions his head, right over Marvin’s heart, “I’ve always sorta liked you, you know. You never backed down from me, even when I made you look like an idiot. You’ve caused me a lot of grief over the years, not gonna lie, but you’ve never bored me. Not yet, anyway.”

Marvin pauses, “I guess you want me to be flattered by that.”

“Feel however you want about it; it’s the truth,” Whizzer draws back and untangles himself from Marvin, prompting, “So same question about me then.”

Marvin stares hard at him for a moment too long, vague emotions flitting across his gaze. He seems conflicted as to what to say, what to admit. Finally, he settles on, “You’ve never bored me either.”

Not even thinking about it, Whizzer takes Marvin in his arms, burying a hand in the man's hair and letting his breathing even out. As he comes back to his senses, he begins to hear the faint hum of traffic from outside, a faint but constant reminder of the world around them.

Whizzer doesn't know what to do with this information, so he stays silent and lets Marvin lament. Instead, he simply watches as the man restlessly rolls his shoulders, the fluorescent lighting above making the sweat glisten on his toned skin. He's alluring in an abstract, unattainable way. No one has really caught him, Whizzer believes. Marvin has always held everyone at arm's reach, closing the shudders within his eyes every time that something becomes too close to home, too real. Whizzer used to contribute the distance as another sign of the man's pretension, as if he believed himself to be too high above everyone to give anyone leverage on him. But now that he's actually spent time with him—has gotten to know Marvin intimately in the dim lighting and tangled bedsheets—Whizzer thinks that maybe Marvin is just scared.

Scared of being vulnerable. Scared of giving someone a map of his weaknesses and trusting them to not destroy him in the end.

No one has really gotten to know the real Marvin. To his friends, Marvin is just the snobbish but harmless kid whose bark is bigger than his huge. To his teachers, Marvin is just a try-hard with so much potential that it seems to choke him at times. To his girlfriend, Marvin is the fulfillment of some unrealistic, romanticized fantasy. But to Whizzer, he's...

Whizzer isn't saying that he himself knows the real Marvin, but he thinks that maybe he's gotten the closest.

"Fuck off. Beyoncé is in Dreamgirls."

That night, Whizzer comes home early from a disappointing fuck and can't sleep, tossing and turning on his shitty mattress and kinda wishing he was in Marvin's comfortable bed. However, he imagines Trina to be in his place right now, tangled in his bedsheets and threading her fingers through his lover's hair. Wildly, he wonders if she could smell his cologne on the pillow just as he sometimes breathes in and gets a faint whiff of her perfume.

And Jesus Christ, Whizzer cannot be pining right now. He refuses to let himself. It's ridiculous. Whizzer does not chase after men—especially not closeted ones with pretty girlfriends and psychological complexes.

"Whizzer, I don't hate you because you're gay," Marvin declares incredulously, like the sheer thought of it baffles him, "I hate you because you're a pain in my ass. I mean, come on, I know I'm a dick, but give me a little credit here."

At his surprising response, Whizzer laughs. He laughs and laughs until his sides start hurting and he's panting for air. He looks over at Marvin and finds the man watching him, his face desperate and hungry—but for what, Whizzer's too drunk and upset to try to figure out.

Whizzer slaps the man on the back, breaking Marvin from his spell, "You're alright, Marvin. Fuck, sober me will hate me for saying it, but you're damn alright." And they stay like that for a little while longer, staring up at the stars in the night sky.

"Passion dies eventually," Whizzer tells him as they lay breathless in the aftermath, "Just because it's not today doesn't mean it can't be tomorrow."

Marvin shrugs, pulling Whizzer into his arms, "We'll deal with it tomorrow then." And it seems so simple right now between the two of them, but Charlotte's words of warning still echo in the back of his mind.

Whizzer admits quietly, "Marvin, that night...I think I wanted to kiss you, too." Marvin’s hold on him tightens, and his smile is blinding in the pale lighting of the room. And Whizzer knows that he is devouring this man and his bleeding heart, but he doesn’t think he could stop even if he tried.

He wonders if this is what love feels like.

“Oh well, I’m sorry that I disgust you so much,” Marvin grits out, mimicking his tone, “You know, for someone who fucks any guy that buys him a drink, you sure act like you have standards!”

Whizzer scoffs, his anger radiating off him like waves, “For someone who swears he’s not a fag, you sure take it up the ass like one!” The heat off of that barb seems to fly across the room and slap him in the face, causing Marvin to redden even further and throw his shoulders back. Whizzer feels dizzy with the satisfaction, can practically taste the blood in his mouth and wants more.

“For someone who likes to brag that he’s nothing like Trina,” Marvin says, his voice softer but no less cruel, “You sure bitch and whine like her.” 

It’s the way that she talks that unsettles Whizzer—the knowing lilt in her voice when she talks about Marvin. Whizzer has always liked to trivialize their relationship—to pretend that Trina is a nameless, robotic mannequin that Marvin simply dresses up and shows off—but it’s ignorant to believe that they aren’t close in at least some ways. Marvin hasn’t shared all of himself with Trina, but he’s given her breadcrumbs of himself—his past, his insecurities—to soothe her desire for any intimacy at all.

They’re sitting at a park bench and absently watching kids play on a swing set and dogs shitting in the bushes. They talk and talk about nothing that really matters, but the hum of organic conversation is soothing. Whizzer has almost lost in the chill that he’d developed earlier when Trina randomly blurts out, “Marvin doesn’t want kids.” It doesn’t take long to connect this line of thinking to the way her gaze has followed the children playing in the park.

Whizzer doesn’t find that hard to believe, “What about you?”

Trina hesitates, “I don’t know. I think I would be a terrible mother. But. Sometimes I think I would really love it, you know?”

Whizzer finds himself shrugging, “I think you’d be a good mom.”

Trina smiles, “Thank you. That means—a lot.”

“Marvin doesn’t like the thought of sharing,” Whizzer tells her, as if she doesn’t already know, “That’s why he doesn’t want kids. He’s very needy—of everyone.”

Trina scoffs, “Trust me, I know. You think being friends with him is bad? Just try dating the bastard.”

Whizzer is thankful that she’s too busy looking at a little toddler in pigtails to gauge his expression. He responds after a beat, his voice sounding stilted even to himself, “No, I don’t think I ever wanna do that.”

Her eyes mist over, a fond sense of wistfulness coating her voice, "We ended up talking for like four of five hours after that, even went to this shitty twenty-four hour diner when the library closed. He talked more, of course. I just listened, mesmerized by how he seemed to command every room he stepped in and the way he talked with his hands." She pauses and adds quietly, "And I wanted him to love me—desperately—so I changed my personality a little just so we could fit perfectly together." She lets out a self-deprecating laugh, "It sounds so stupid to admit it out loud. But I tend to always do that; I warp my own qualities so I can be whoever the other person wants me to be."

“What do you want me to say?” Marvin demands, pulling Whizzer closer and rubbing calming circles into his skin, “Why are you so mad at me, huh? You already know that she means nothing to me. I’ve always been honest with you, Whizzer—more than I have been with anyone. Ever.”

“He’s actually quite good at that,” Trina’s words suddenly come back to haunt him, “At making you believe that you’re the only one who understands him. It’s part of his charm.”

Whizzer is a terrible person. He’s always known this, deep down, but sometimes it hurts to be reminded of the fact.

He doesn’t really know what he was planning to accomplish by coming here. To give Trina some justice? To prove his own decency somehow? But that would require Whizzer to be selfless.

Whizzer kisses Marvin then, ending wherever that conversation was heading. He pushes Marvin back onto the couch and devours him, turning the man into a quivering puddle of shuddering sighs and moans.

Whizzer keeps having to make a choice. But, time and time again, he refuses to make the right one.

Marvin soon appears, hopping off the stage and walking over to him. Whizzer smirks and begins to offer him a harmless taunt about the tights that he wore, but then Marvin seizes his collar and pulls him into a kiss.

In public. With people still around.

Jesus Christ, has he lost his fucking mind?

"No one knows us around here," Marvin whispers against Whizzer's mouth, noticing that the other has been too stunned to reciprocate, "Relax." As if that broke the spell, Whizzer loops his arms around his waist and pulls him closer, deepening the kiss. 

It's incredible, really. Whizzer had forgotten that he'd had pressure wedged in his chest until Marvin kisses him and suddenly releases it.

"What?" Marvin asks when they eventually pull away, eyeing his dazed expression.

Whizzer thinks about blowing it off, but the quiet words tumble out of his mouth anyway, "I think I'm happy."

Marvin smiles, suddenly looking as shy as the day that Whizzer had first introduced himself, "Me too." 

In bed that night, Marvin pushes him to lie flat on his stomach and starts pressing chaste kisses along his spine, mumbling words into his skin that Whizzer can't make out. It's so easy, Whizzer thinks amazedly, to be with him. How can it feel so complicated and fucked up one moment and then feel like this the next?

Whizzer tries not to think about it. He presses his face into the pillow and just enjoys the ride.

Marvin stiffens, "You didn't have to say it."

"Does it still bother you?"

"Of course it bothers me," He snaps, suddenly defensive, "I'm not like—that. I'm not like you."

Whizzer narrows his eyes, pushing out of Marvin's arms, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm not gay," Marvin declares, "Whizzer, you know that." Whizzer knows that that's what Marvin likes to tell himself. It's never stung to hear him say it before though. Until right now.

Maybe because of last night. Maybe because Whizzer had thought that something—anything had changed.

But the air between them has shifted. It took Marvin essentially showing his hand to him to clear the dust from Whizzer’s eyes, but he gets it now. He understands the game that they’ve been playing has been revised; it’s become dirtier, more calculated.

He’s more aware of Marvin now—of the mind games that transcend verbal arguments and offhanded gestures. As if things weren’t already complicated before, both men have now gone straight-up nuclear—so much so that they’ve convinced each other that every word and gesture is a tool to work against the other, is a ploy for domination, is a zero-sum game with nothing off-limits and everything to lose.

It’s fucked up. Whizzer loves in a sick sort of way that has his heart breaking but his mouth begging for more.

Whizzer doesn’t want a fairytale. He doesn’t want glass slippers or talking horses or handsome princes telling him what to do. Whizzer wants passion and bitter fights and rough sex and the taste of heartbreak and loneliness on his tongue. He wants as little as possible, just enough to get his rocks off.

Marvin doesn’t want a trainwreck. He doesn’t want the harsh collision and crushing of bones and shrapnel to the heart. Marvin wants romance and submission and doe-eyed devotion and the cult of domesticity. He wants more, enough to make him choke on it.

Marvin kisses him deliberately, making it clear that this conversation is over.

But the tension hasn’t left his body, so Whizzer pulls back and clarifies, “You sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

Marvin shakes his head, pulling at Whizzer’s shirt, “Help me forget.”

Whizzer doesn’t fight him on this. He knows when to pick his battles.

“What can I say? I have a way with men,” Whizzer says jovially, tasting acid in his mouth when he adds pointedly, “Even the straight ones.” Trina and Whizzer make eye contact, and he sees the real question she desperately wants to ask in her eyes. Why you? What makes you better than me?

Everything, he wants to tell her, an obnoxious sense of pride rising in his throat, everything.

At times like these, their afternoon together seems like such a distant memory. After all, they do share a bed with the same man, and nothing is more polarizing than the desire for attention and the yearning for…for an unspeakable thing. For a four letter word that Whizzer refuses to name.

Marvin tilts his head back and ignores the rising resentments, seemingly tired of more than just his parents at the moment.

"And hey," Whizzer prompts before the other man can hang up, "I just want to remind you...You don't have to change for them, you know? If they don't like you—the real you, they can piss off. You shouldn't have to—you know, wear this mask all the time and put up this huge wall around yourself. It'll get lonely; trust me. I mean, it already is, isn't it?"

There's a pause of silence before Marvin says quietly, "I told you. It's not that easy."

Whizzer sighs, resigned, "Goodnight, Marvin." After he hangs up, he stretches out on his shitty mattress and looks up at his ceiling fan, letting the blur of motion lull him into sleep.

"He seems to know his way around here quite well." Marvin's mother makes the offhanded comment, and it seems harmless enough but Marvin flinches like she's just slapped him.

"We're friends." Marvin explains tightly as he and Whizzer finally make eye contact. Taking one look at the man, Whizzer knows that he didn't take his advice to heart. Marvin has transformed back into his former shell of a self, stapled this ill-fitted persona to his skin as he continually tries to hide the cracks in the façade. Whizzer has spent the last several months mapping each nook and crevice on this man's body, but at this very moment, Marvin might as well be a stranger to him.

Whizzer adopts a chill he just can't shake throughout the entire meal.

Whizzer feels like a passive observer as he watches the dynamics of those around him. Marvin's parents dote on Trina, every word directed in her direction being some form of glowing compliment. By contrast, they are curt and strangely formal with their own son. His mother makes mere small talk with him that reminds Whizzer of how one talks to a stranger. Meanwhile, his father simply stares down at his untouched plate more often than not, his mind far away from here.

Marvin smiles and charms and lies his way throughout the meal, readily putting on this mask that his parents have forged for him. He pretends to be enraptured by Trina and plays along with his mother's unrealistic envision of his future. And he fits into this role of obedient son and charming boyfriend so effortlessly, Whizzer starts to wonder if Marvin could theoretically put up this act for the rest of his life. But then he notices the bags under Marvin's eyes, the edge in every single one of his easy smiles, the tension in his squared shoulders. How exhausting it must be, he quietly marvels, to be so aware and calculated in your every word and movement.

Sensing he's crossed a line, Marvin softens, but he doesn't apologize. He never apologizes. Even when he knows he’s wrong.

It takes a few seconds for Whizzer to regain control of his voice, but when he does, he makes sure it sounds as cold and brittle as ice, "You think you're so much better than me, don't you? You're so much smarter than me, Marvin. You're so much more successful than me, Marvin. You're so superior at everything," He takes a step closer, bring their chests close together, "But you get on your knees for me again and again. You beg for it time after time—why is that, I wonder?” Marvin’s muscles clench tighter and tighter, but he holds his tongue. Whizzer presses on, wanting something—anything at all that proves he’s gotten under his skin, “And how would Mommy and Daddy react if they saw you like that, huh? Do you think they’d believe me if I told them all about it?" He raises his voice to a yell, "Hey Everybody, Marvin is a fa—"

Finally, Marvin shoves Whizzer against the wall, slapping a firm hand over his mouth. Pain erupts in Whizzer's back, but he barely registers the sting through his fury. He removes the hand as soon as Whizzer cuts off, but he keeps their bodies pinned together. With a pang, he’s reminded of that first time in the small closet at a stranger’s house. It seems like that happened an entire lifetime ago, though he knows it hasn’t even been a year.

Marvin's face is still just inches away from his, and Whizzer feels fear beginning to coil in his stomach, "Enough." 

"Or what?" Whizzer taunts in a low voice, and he wants him to hit him. He wants the sting of a busted lip, needs the distraction to the turmoil brewing in his chest. But Marvin doesn't look as angry as Whizzer feels; he seems heartbroken at Whizzer's words, as if something actually brought the High and Mighty Marvin down a peg. And so Whizzer breaks their silent truce on to never speak of what’s going on between them, but he makes a pointed decision. He lies.

"You think I give a damn about you?" Whizzer whispers, and Marvin takes his words like a punch in the gut, "You're just an easy fuck, Marvin. That's all you are to me. We aren't boyfriends. We aren't even close."

"You mean nothing to me." 

Marvin nods, letting the words wash over him. He straightens his posture, all previous emotions of fury and heartbreak wiped from his face. He's slipped the mask back on. Good, Whizzer thinks to himself, it suits him.

“Stop being petty,” Whizzer snaps, walking towards him and crowding him against the wall of the hallway, “You know that I—“ The words get caught in his throat, so he settles for something easier, “You know that you mean something to me.” He doesn’t say it, but Marvin hears it all the same.

A few hours later, as they lie cramped and entangled on Marvin's shitty couch, naked and sated, they don't talk about what happened before or what will happen later. Maybe they should—after all, several wounds are currently left untreated, exposed to viscous infection that could occur any time in the form of a careless word or barbed insinuation—but they're young and mean and they don't give a flying fuck about the problems that lie just on the horizon. Marvin keeps trying to make him laugh—desperately—and Whizzer refuses to give him the satisfaction, biting his lip to keep the treacherous snickers at bay.

And it isn't perfect, Whizzer thinks as he tries to smother his laughter into Marvin's mussed hair, but right now, it's enough.

Whizzer notices that Trina's hand has entangled in Marvin's hair.

"Yeah," Whizzer agrees faintly, the jealousy choking him, "Let's enjoy it while it lasts."

I love you.

It means nothing to Marvin. It means everything to Trina. 

I love you.

To Whizzer, those words have always been an excuse for mistreatment or a ploy for sex. It's always been his parents' "I'm justifying being the cause of your unhappiness" or one of his lover's "Please give me head later." It's never just I love you. It's always had a double meaning. It's always had strings attached.

The words are never meaningless per se, Whizzer rationalizes; they just never only carry the surface implication.

I love you.

Marvin tells Trina this, but what he’s really saying is a plea for submission, for her to stick her head in the sand and never question him. It's a ploy. It's a deceit. It's a breadcrumb.

I love you.

Sometimes Whizzer imagines Marvin saying those words to him—perhaps mid-sex, or huddled beneath the covers and trying to ignore the rising sun, or in the middle of an argument when Marvin needs a trump card.

Whizzer ponders just what his reaction would be. Would it mean anything to Whizzer? Would Marvin ever mean it in the first place?

"I love you." Whizzer whispers once, alone in his apartment.

The words still feel hollow to him—be it in his mind or mouth.

"Jesus Christ, I can't believe I fell in love with someone like you." As soon as the exasperated words fly out of Marvin's mouth, the man stiffens in shock and horror (Whizzer can't tell if it's being feigned, if this is just one of those theatre workshop activities that he's been obnoxiously doing all the time).

Up until that point, Whizzer had been pretty sure that he knew just how those words would affect him. They would hardly even register, he had reasoned. Whizzer would be mindful of the mind games that Marvin plays, and he would be reminded of the ease that Marvin spouts off those words to Trina, and he would be able to rationally see it as the bullshit that it is. He would be calm and indifferent and unwavering, he had imagined.

He was wrong.

Whizzer's eyes widen, and his mouth goes dry, and his chest does something a little funny that makes his breathing turn stilted. And he feels like his heart is devouring every sense of rational thought. 

"...Whizzer, I love you." Whizzer rips off Marvin's belt and tears open his shirt.

"Don't say it," Whizzer whispers harshly, threading his hands through Marvin's hair and pulling Marvin's head so their mouths are two little words apart, "Prove it."

"And she deserves more," Marvin continues after a pause, "She deserves someone who doesn't tune her out when she starts talking for more than five minutes and likes sleeping next to her and holds her hand when she's sad—"

Whizzer interjects, supplying, "Someone who loves her."

"I do love her." Marvin protests sharply, his gaze snapping into focus. He's on the defensive now, as if he's still trying to cling to that lie as much as Trina. But Whizzer gives him a pointed, knowing look, and after a beat, Marvin softens.

He amends roughly, "Well, I care about her."

"You know that's not the same thing."

"Yeah," Marvin looks at Whizzer, echoing faintly, "I think I’ve realized that now."

Whizzer snorts, "Always the idealist."

"There's nothing wrong with wanting it all," Marvin tells him, leaning in for a kiss, "As long as you can actually achieve it. And I can."

"He told me he loves me last night," Whizzer confesses to her, the words buzzing on his tongue, "He's breaking up with Trina today."

Cordelia watches him, "And how do you feel about all of that?"

Whizzer keeps his eyes on the endless blue above him, smiling in a way that hurts his face, "Happy."

"She's pregnant." Marvin says, measured and neutral.

A lot of things happen at once.

Charlotte sucks in a surprised breath, and Mendel drops the beer that he’d been holding, and Cordelia beams at Trina but squeezes Whizzer's hand tightly, and Whizzer—

For Whizzer, the entire room is spinning. He's surprised that he doesn't throw up.

"Oh." He exclaims faintly, more breath than word.

At that moment, Whizzer and Trina make eye contact, and he wildly expects a gloating expression on her face. After all, she's won, hasn't she? It's over. She's got him beat.

But there is no pride or boast in her gaze. Trina looks at him, and she smiles, and she just looks so genuinely happy. And it makes Whizzer feel disgusted with himself—for that day in the park, for sleeping with her boyfriend, for hating her.

"I'm happy for you." Whizzer tells her, holding her gaze. He doesn't mean it. From the way her smile dims, Whizzer thinks that she kinda knows that.

"You're going to have a family," Whizzer rationalizes, "I don't exist in that world."

"You exist in my world," Marvin says tightly, "That will never change."

In his dream, nothing is awful. He's in a crowded ballroom, feeling tipsy and happy and in love. Across the room, he spies Cordelia and Charlotte, getting drunk on champagne and giggling into each others’ ears. A few feet away from the two girls are Trina and Mendel, holding each other tight as they dance to the melodic melody echoing throughout the hall. Trina looks beautiful and happy in the arms of a man who loves her. Whizzer watches his friends laugh and fall in love, and he's struck with a sense of deep contentment. In his dream, he's happy.

Sturdy arms wrap around his torso, pulling him into an embrace from behind. Whizzer relaxes against Marvin, turning his head so the man can see the unadulterated adoration on his face.

"I love you." Marvin says, and it is beautiful in its offhanded nature. It means nothing and everything all at once.

"I love you, too." Whizzer admits finally, his voice aching with the honesty of it.

When he wakes up, Whizzer is alone in a cold bed.

"You know you can go to somebody whose actual job that is, right?" Whizzer says bluntly, looking down to fiddle with his camera so he won't see Trina's smile dim.

"Well, yes, I know," She admits slowly, caught off guard by his defensiveness, "But I just thought that it would be more special. You know, to be taken by a friend."

Friend. She thinks that they're friends. Well, that’s just—spectacular.

Whizzer nods, swallowing down the lump in his throat, "You're going to marry him." It isn't a question, so he doesn't phrase it like one. Of course Trina will say yes—because she's young and she wants so desperately to pretend that he loves her and she's always wanted the All-American, tight-knit family. 

No, if he were to ask a question, it would be: He's going to marry you?

But that shouldn't be a surprise either. Of course Marvin will propose—because he's gay and he wants so desperately to pretend that he isn't and he's always wanted the All-American, tight-knit family.

Maybe they are perfectly suited together; they're both so willing to play into delusions and pretend that they're happy and everything happens for a reason and a marriage will somehow make things better.

At this point, Marvin and Trina have almost finished digging their own graves, but Whizzer himself still hasn’t broken the ground yet. Right now, he's still holding the shovel, trying to decide if it's all worth it, if he's all worth it.

"Okay." Whizzer says faintly, "I'll take the picture."

Trina hugs him, and even though her grip is light and her body is soft, Whizzer feels like he's being crushed.

This picture is a lot better, though Marvin looks into the camera with a pained smile and Trina is smiling like she does realize that she's delivering herself into a devouring mouth but just can't seem to help herself.

Whizzer makes sure to give her a look of solidarity; he knows the feeling.

Marvin huffs as he walks in, his back facing Whizzer, "It's never meaningless when we do it."

"Speak for yourself."

The muscles in Marvin's back tense, but he doesn't take the bait, "Why didn't you answer me?"

"Because I didn't want to," Whizzer says as he closes the door, sneering, "Is that alright with you? After all, my needs are always subservient to yours, aren’t they?”

"Stop it," Marvin commands, like Whizzer's some lapdog, "I don't want to fight right now."

"Why is it always about what you want, huh?" Whizzer demands, "I'm not just some mindless sex doll, Marvin. I have wants and needs, too."

"I know that," Marvin snaps, turning around to face him, "Of course I know that. You're Whizzer. I love you."

"You're Trina," The memory of Marvin's words hits him like a truck, "I love you."

"Trina was right,” Whizzer says coldly, “You really need to get new material." And the words are so meaningless to Marvin, he doesn't even seem to know what Whizzer is referring to.

"You're ruining her life. You're ruining your life." And once Whizzer has started, he just can't stop. Anger and frustration leak into his calculated voice, thickening it to the point of almost incoherency, "You're ruining the baby's life. You're ruining my life.” He hates pretending that it doesn’t bother him, that nothing has changed, that Whizzer can somehow fit into that family portrait. Because it does bother him and everything has changed and Whizzer doesn’t want to waste his life shadowing somebody else’s family and being fed breadcrumbs by a man too cowardly to be honest about what he wants.

Whizzer is trembling now, admissions and anxieties rising in his throat and gagging him.

But Marvin is perfectly composed, his eyes narrowed and mouth fixed in a sneer.

"How am I ruining your life," He asks sharply, "When apparently you don't love me anyway?" Whizzer doesn't answer. He can't.

"What, you want me to feel sorry for you?" Whizzer scoffs, his voice cold, brittle, ”Fuck you, Marvin. That's just another bullshit excuse. Everyone always has a choice. You're just making the wrong one and trying to blame it on the invisible gun to your head." 

Marvin shrugs, Whizzer’s justifications lost on him, “I only play games that I know I'll win.”

“We both know that that’s not true.” Whizzer points out, smiling, “You’re playing one with me right now.” 

“I said that you mean something to me because it’s the truth,” He scoffs, overwhelming disgusted with the both of them, “But that isn’t good enough for you, is it? You want to mean everything to me. But that will never happen.”

“I did all those things because I’m in love with you,” Marvin says after a long, agonizing pause, unflinching, “And you’re trying to fault me for that? For being nice to you and hoping against hope that you could ever learn to love me back? You call me selfish? You’re the one who’s been using how I feel to get yourself off. You’re the one who constantly reminds me that I am one of a dozen others. You’re the one who took advantage of a closeted guy who had his entire life figured out and ruined everything because you could—because you were bored.

“And now you get pissed at me for trying to get my shit together and be there for the woman who is having my child. What did you expect for me to do? Break up with her anyway so I could still just be one of your many booty-calls?” He scoffs, shrugging, “Maybe I am selfish, but at least I’m honest about it. You want to crucify me for wanting to have it all while you’re trying to pull the same shit by wanting me to abandon my kid and girlfriend when you won’t even tell me that you love me!”

“So, if I did choose you,” Marvin challenges, “Would you choose me? Would you stop fucking other guys and make me dinner and kiss me goodnight and tell me that you love me?”

“No.” It’s honest—brutally so. And it makes Whizzer so shocked at himself, has him forgetting his plan and looking up at Marvin.

Marvin nods like he expected that answer, but he looks like Whizzer broke his heart by confirming it.

“Trina does all those things for me,” He says tightly, “Because she loves me.”

Whizzer does things for him, too. He cooks for him and always gives him his honest opinion and calls Marvin out on his bullshit and challenges him to be better and encourages him to follow his stupid dream of theater and tries to get him to accept himself for who he is.

He does those things for him. Because he loves him.

"I'd love to meet them," Mr. Total-Dick-Face looks at the picture again, "To hear the rest of their story—the things that not even images can show." No, you really don't want to know. 

Because it's a sad story—the kind that keeps getting bad and never gets any better; the kind that only has a few moments of happiness and lightheartedness but is overall fucking awful; the kind that no one really gets a happy ending.

And Whizzer wants to go back to how things were before—when it was just fun, with mouths pressed against inner thighs and secret glances when out with friends and arguing for the sake of getting the other to take his pants off. 

But no, no, no, Whizzer wants to go back to how things were before even that—when they hated each other and it seemed like it would always stay that way, with mouths shooting off snappy retorts and pointed glares when out with friends and arguing just for the sake of hearing themselves talk.

Whizzer wishes that Marvin had never kissed him that day. He wishes that he himself could have been smart and kind enough to not kiss Marvin back.

But Whizzer doesn't dwell on past decisions and wrong choices. He refuses to lament on the past and instead keeps his eyes fixed on the horizon ahead.

Because he'll never be able to fix his mistakes but he can always run away from them.

Whizzer always walks away. And he never looks back.

"Look, I just don't care anymore." Whizzer tells them lowly, keeping his gaze trained on his beer bottle, "About any of it." He says those words with a strange amount of confidence for a man who had to drag himself out of bed and then had a full-fledged break down in the shower this morning.

"Did he cry?" Whizzer blurts out, "Over me?"

"Yes. And it was not a pretty sight," Charlotte hits his arm, "Stop smiling."

"I'm not." He lies stubbornly, turning away from her.

Though Marvin looks away immediately, Trina doesn't stop staring at it for a long time.

"That's not the picture you gave us." She says faintly, her tone and face unreadable. Her eyes are glued to the photograph, flickering from her own terrified face to Marvin's lovesick gaze directed at someone else.

"I took two, remember?" Whizzer says, trying to pawn off any of the tension, "I hope you don't mind." Trina finally looks at him then, and she knows. She finally knows. Whizzer can see it in her face.

Every single one of them wait for her reaction with baited breath.

"Of course I don't," Trina says, steeling her face and voice as her grip on Marvin's arm tightens, "It's beautiful. It shows the beginning of our family. Wouldn't you agree, Marv?" She takes the easy way out, pleading ignorance. For the sake of her relationship. For the sake of her kid. For the sake of her future.

Whizzer is disappointed in her.

"Yes," Marvin is stunned, looking as if he was gearing up to be defensive, “Baby, you look, uh, very beautiful in it. Glowing, even." At the compliment, Trina looks like she's trying very hard not to cry. She kisses Marvin then, slow and sweet and not letting him pull away. And Whizzer watches the two of them, like always. He's the dark cloud over them, the shadow, the observer, the open secret.

"Passion dies and love fades," Whizzer tells him roughly, "It's all just chemicals, isn't it? Come on; Don't be such a fucking romantic."

"You know, I always thought we had nothing in common," Mendel muses bitterly, smiling sadly at him, "But you're pathetic. Just like me."

The insult surprises him, coming from Mendel. Rather than lashing out, Whizzer just looks at him and doesn't say anything for a long time.

"Why did you come out here?" Whizzer asks, "Hoping for a quick screw in the back of an alley?”

"I don't know," Marvin admits quietly, dropping the coyness, "I don't know what I want."

"Stop it. You know what you want," Whizzer scoffs, "You want it all."

Marvin looks away, doesn't deny it. 

He's giving Whizzer a choice, like he always does. Because Whizzer has always said yes. Because Whizzer has always put himself before anyone else. Because Marvin thinks that Whizzer never changes either.

And before this very moment, Whizzer had thought all those things too.

Right now, Whizzer has a choice. And for the first time, he makes the right one.

When Whizzer turns around, he reflexively snaps a picture of him, desperate to suspend this moment in time.

And Whizzer wants to kiss him—one last time. He wants to close his eyes and lick his lips and sigh into his mouth and breathe him in. He wants to memorize the feeling that this man has given him, the love and ache of it all.

He doesn't kiss him. He just sticks out his hand for him to shake.

And he keeps his gaze on the horizon. And he doesn't look back.

His gaze lingers when he gets to one of the nicer apartment buildings, a faint echo of pain igniting in his chest. All of a sudden, he's reminded of slamming doors and yelling in elevators and giggling in the soft glow of the refrigerator light and whispering half-hearted promises in between ragged breaths and moans.

Whizzer wonders if Marvin's old apartment is the same as he remembers it—spacious and messy; a safe haven and a battleground.

Shaking himself, Whizzer continues walking, keeping his gaze stubbornly fixed on the horizon. He doesn't look back at the building. 

But there's a part of him that wants too. Maybe there always will be.

Youth. Ignorance. Selfishness. Whizzer doesn't miss any of it as much as he once believed he would.

"Take a breath and let it out, and swing." Jason finishes, smiling a little, "Thanks, Whizzer." And there's something about that lopsided smile and tilt of the head in that very moment—something that knocks all the air of Whizzer's lungs.

Jason's smile fades, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Whizzer says quickly, looking away, "You just, uh, reminded me of someone." And now that he sees it, he can't unsee it. The wavy hair, the brown eyes, the crooked smile...

“And you didn’t have another job lined up before you quit?” Charlotte asks, ever the practical one.

Whizzer shrugs, “It was kinda like an impulse decision. Like, I was in Ohio and it sucked, and I just didn’t want to be there anymore.”

Cordelia hits him on the arm, “Don’t blame this on Ohio.”

Whizzer rolls his eyes, exclaiming to get a rise out of her, “Fuck Ohio.”

New York hasn’t changed, but Marvin has.

“I divorced her.”

Whizzer stares at him, bewildered at the stranger before him, “Why would you do that?”

“Whizzer, I don’t know if you know this,” Marvin says calmly, straight-faced with zero inflection, “But I’m really fucking gay.”

Marvin reaches out again, threading his hand through Whizzer’s hair and messing up the hour worth of hair products that Whizzer dedicated to make it look just right. Whizzer tries to scold him and push him away, but right now the only thing he’s accomplishing is maintaining measured breathing. As Whizzer and Marvin lock eyes, he knows that they’re both thinking of the same thing—of Marvin pulling Whizzer’s hair all those times during sex, of holding him in place by his hair so Marvin can press tender, hurried kisses to his exposed neck and jawline.

Marvin pulls a little, and Whizzer bites his lip.

“Not wearing a wig, either,” Marvin comments lowly, smiling filthily, “Jesus, Whizzer, would it have killed you to gain a few pounds or lose some hair? You make the rest of us look so old.”

“Jesus, Marv, you’re at a little league game,” Trina scolds, snapping the two men out of their daze, “Keep it in your pants.”

Whizzer looks over at Marvin, who’s watching Whizzer with stars in his eyes.

“What?” He demands, defensive.

“You’re incredible,” He murmurs, almost absently to himself, “You know that?”

At least one thing hasn’t changed about Marvin.

He’s still very, very charming.

It’s like the universe is trying to get him laid. And Whizzer can’t just not do what the universe so clearly wants him to do:

Bone Marvin. The universe totally wants Whizzer to bone Marvin.

“I knew your dad,” Whizzer elaborates, not missing the slight trace of panic on Marvin’s face at the mention of the past, “We went to college together, actually.”

Jason just makes a lighthearted Hmpf, the significance of that time lost on him.

When Marvin finally comes back, Whizzer wastes no time, crowding him against the door and kissing him.

Marvin’s mouth is soft and warm, and just one kiss drives a chill from Whizzer’s bones that’s been there since he walked out of his boss’s office with his head held high and heart racing.

Whizzer kisses him once, chastely, before backing away.

Marvin’s eyes have already fallen shut, and his lips try to chase after Whizzer’s as he pulls away.

“What?” Marvin demands softly, opening his eyes again to stare mystically at him, “What’s wrong?”

It all feels so familiar, so second-nature. Whizzer remembers kissing him like that dozens of times before, whether to shut up his latest arrogant rant or to communicate feelings that he couldn’t with words.

He thought that it’d feel different—that it’d be different. But it’s not. It’s the exact same.

Whizzer doesn’t know whether to find that relieving or troubling.

Whizzer kisses him again, rougher this time—with more desperation and teeth. Marvin buckles against him, letting out a low, guttural groan like a wounded animal. He slips his hands around Whizzer’s waist and grabs his ass, and it’s good—fuck, it’s really good. Whizzer doesn’t so much as kiss him as devour him, his kisses quick and biting and prompting shaky, quivering noises to release from Marvin’s mouth.

Marvin breaks the kiss and turns his face to the crook of Whizzer’s neck, retracting one hand from the other’s ass to slip it down the front of Whizzer’s pants. When he touches him, Whizzer makes a sound so shameless and dirty, it makes Marvin flush even redder.

“Fuck. Fuck,” Marvin keeps repeating, laughing breathlessly, “I’ve missed that sound.” He rotates his wrist and makes Whizzer make it again.

“Take me to bed.” Whizzer says, pleads actually, “Marvin, come on. Take me to bed and fuck me.”

At his demand, Marvin shudders, making a gasping sort of sound almost like he’s drowning.

“Fuck yeah. Okay,” He says shakily as Whizzer impatiently starts tugging Marvin’s pants down, the hunger between them so palpable, it’s all that they can taste, “Okay.”

He hears Cordelia’s phone ring in the kitchen, followed by the blonde’s panicked voice, “It’s Marvin.”

“Answer it.” Charlotte instructs.

“Cordelia, don’t you dare!” Whizzer yells.

The two lock eyes for a split second before both bolt to the kitchen.

As they bust through the door, Cordelia already has the phone pressed to her ear, “Oh, hey, Marv. What’s up?” A pause, and then her gaze flickers to Whizzer, “You’re asking if Whizzer is here?”

Whizzer hurriedly, enthusiastically mouths the word No, No, No, No, No…

“You know,” Cordelia says nervously, biting her lip, “He actually just walked in.”

Whizzer makes an audible noise of surprise and betrayal.

Whizzer sighs, “Look, Marvin, what do you want?”

“What do I want?” Marvin repeats incredulously, “I want you, Asshole.”

It’s a sucker punch to the gut, causes Whizzer’s heart to jump to his throat.

He stutters out, “Will you settle for a cup of coffee instead?”

"During all those years,” Marvin asks suddenly, "Did you ever think of me?" It seems off-subject, but really, maybe it isn't. Because the answer seems important to Marvin, even though it won't change anything.

Whizzer pauses, biting his lip, “Sometimes.”

“All the time,” Marvin says quietly, “I thought about you all the time.”

"What else is there to do?" Marvin demands, and well, Whizzer can't say what he would rather do, right? Just friends may be able to 'compliment each other on their best features,' but they probably can't freely admit, I would really like you to fuck me so hard, I lose my voice from screaming your name.

Marvin huffs a laugh, and because he still never knows when to stop and drop something, he asks, "What's your type then?" It's a stupid, pointless question to ask, and it just seems weirdly uncalled for, given their history and all that Marvin already knows about Whizzer. Marvin knows his type already, but he still asks it. Because he's fishing for a certain answer, one that would assure him that Whizzer is just as silently miserable at being just friends as Marvin noticeably is.

And Whizzer could answer this question in many ways—the slutty any man who buys me a drink; or the coy men who have cruel smiles and nice hands; or the honest the unattainable sort of men; or the pointed the type that lets you hold them and kiss them but never keep them; the type that will always say that they love you and they may very well even mean it, but they'll never be willing to meet you halfway.

Whizzer calmly uncovers his face, calmly sits up, and uncalmly says, "Come again?"

Living with Marvin, sharing a home with Marvin, is easy. They eat breakfast and dinner together, and they watch shitty cable television in the evening, and they bicker about weird domestic things like the electricity bill (Whizzer’s fault) and the mysterious dent in the living room wall (Marvin’s fault), and they entertain Jason on the weekends, and it’s all just so—

Domestic. So disgustingly, repellently, achingly domestic.

“So, you two were good friends?” Jason suddenly asks, causing both men to remember themselves and break eye contact. Whizzer notices that Jason is paying full attention to them now, his phone laying forgotten on the table as he stares pointedly at the two men sitting across from him.

“No, I don’t think we were,” Marvin says honestly after a beat, “That’s what caused the problem.”

And this is why Whizzer has to always look toward the horizon—because looking back leads to nostalgia and sadness and the overwhelming desire to recapture the past.

“You’ve been testing me,” Marvin says, oddly sounding both sad and hateful, “You don’t think I realized that? You want me to prove this preconception in your head that you’ve built up for years. You think everyone else is capable of change except me.”

Whizzer stays silent, not answering. Marvin looks a little broken.

"Then what are you still doing here?"  He demands roughly.

Seeing him shattered like that, it takes awhile before Whizzer can find his voice, and even when he does, it’s small and broken, "Maybe I want you to prove me wrong."

"Bullshit. I've been proving you wrong," Marvin points out, "You want me to prove you right."

"Whizzer, I already told you," Marvin says, horrifyingly calm, "I’m too old to be chasing after people who only want to be chased and not caught." Whizzer belatedly places the vague look on Marvin’s face.

It is one of a man who is ready to let go.

Gripped with shock and fear and denial, Whizzer doesn't respond and walks out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him. Marvin doesn't ask him to wait, to stop, to stay. 

As he walks away, Whizzer doesn’t look at the horizon. With each step, he keeps stopping and turning his head and looking back, expecting Marvin to still—without fail—to chase after him.

But the only thing chasing him is the past, and Whizzer refuses to let that actually catch up with him.

"You've grown meaner." Whizzer notes idly, an undercurrent of appreciation for her in his voice.

"I've had to." Trina says vaguely. 

"Trina, I'm really sor—"

"Don’t. Just—don’t. I don't need your late, guilt-tripped apology." Trina scoffs, exasperation and bitterness clogging her tone, "I don't need this anymore, you know? This—This migraine that you two have always given me. I'm not a side character in the Great Opera of Whizzer and Marvin anymore. I have a child and husband who love me. I have a life where I am happy. I got my happy ending."

"I didn't." The words spill out, accusing and pitiful.

Trina doesn't look sorry for him. She gives him a cool, withering look, "Well, that was your own fault."

"It was Marvin's fault," Whizzer tells her, and he wants back that silent, subtle gaze of hers, that solidarity—he wants her to make him feel less alone, "He ruined us, Trina. He—"

"Us? There is no us. Oh my god, are you serious right now?" Trina looks at him with scathing disappointment, "Jesus, Whizzer, you want me to feel sorry for you? News flash: just because Marvin was a bigger asshole than you doesn't take away from the fact that you were an asshole, too. We are not allies in this, Whizzer—not anymore. And honestly, looking back on it all? I don't think we ever were."

They talk and listen and laugh and cry. And Whizzer wants to say that it had been everything that he thought it would be—renewal of passions, happiness only found within one another, the promise of a future together, the promise of love—but it is not everything. It is only one thing.

It is forgiveness. And Whizzer thinks that right now, that’s more than enough.

Whizzer doesn’t like to look back, to admit to any regrets, but still he needs to know, “Would you do it again? If you—If you knew then all that happened afterwards. Would you have still kissed me that night?”

Whizzer remembers his own response to that question, years ago: "It doesn't matter," Whizzer says quickly, releasing his grip on Marvin's hand, "Just let it go."

“I’d like to believe I would,” Marvin doesn’t hesitate, saying firmly, “That I’d do it again and again. That I would choose you, every time.”

Whizzer looks up at the sky, feels a warm smile spread across his face. He feels happy.

“I’d like to believe that I’d let you, every time.” Whizzer concedes.

Whizzer covers Marvin’s hand with his own, the giddiness and hope rising within him and threatening to split him open. They stare at each other for a long time—adoringly, nervously, disbelievingly—before they slowly turn their gaze to the horizon.

And they don’t look back.

[bts-sky-blog]

Seeing Stars

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader, appearances by the one and only kim yugeyom

Summary: For some reason, being around Jungkook seems to be a hazard to your health. In fact, it all starts with a concussion.

Word count: 4.8k

 You can’t say you hate your job, but sometimes, it can be stressful. As the assistant for the head of JYP entertainment, it’s often your responsibility to retrieve a variety of odds and ends, ranging anywhere from clothing to drinks to various makeup products. Today, you’ve been given one of the longest lists of tasks you’ve ever received, and you’ve been rushing around Seoul all day to try and get everything done.

You park hastily in front of the boba shop, making sure to lock your car before rushing inside. You’re not sure why, but apparently this is GOT7′s current obsession: boba from the world renowned Gong Cha shop.

You read out your list of orders (it’s a long list because apparently Bambam wants to try every drink on the menu thanks a lot man), and sit down in the only empty seat you see, at the window bar. It’s not a big space, so you’re a pressed in between two people; on one side, a girl on her phone, and on the other, a pale man with mint green hair. Glancing around, you notice a familiar face. He’s talking to the man with green hair, and for some reason, you feel like you’ve seen him before. But no matter how hard you try, you can’t seem to figure out where.

Then it clicks. You remember seeing him walking out of the JYP building with Yugyeom a few times, wearing seemingly the same outfit every time you saw him: ripped jeans, a black face mask, and a large white tee shirt. You had assumed he was an idol of some sort, but you never thought to ask Yugyeom about his friends(it is not, in fact, your business).

The thought of him is brushed from your mind as you realize your order is ready. You stand in a hurry to go pick it up- a little too much of a hurry, actually. Your foot catches on the chair, and you’re sent flying, landing hard on your left arm. Your head hits the floor as you go down, and stars dance in your vision.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” You look up to see the same man with the large white shirt, crouching over you, afternoon sunlight spilling over the bridge of his nose and shining in his brown eyes.

“You’re friends with Yugyeom, aren’t you?” Your words are a little stilted, and you’re not entirely sure what you’re saying. “You have a nice voice…”

“She might have a concussion,” you hear another voice from further away.

“Can you get up?” He looks concerned, and you nod quickly. The movement sets your head spinning, and you close your eyes for a minute.

“Yeah, just-” you start to push yourself up, but pain shoots through your left arm before you can get far. Swearing, you drop back to the floor. “Sorry, my arm hurts.”

“What’s your name? Is there anyone I can call to come get you?”

“No, no, you don’t have to do that! I can make it, I’m fine. But I might need some help getting up.” You examine him closely. He looks a little flustered. “You’re kinda red, are you okay? You know, I’ve seen you before. With Yugyeom. Have I said that? Are you friends with him? How come you always wear the same outfit?” You tilt your head to the side at his expression. Mouth parted slightly, eyebrows creeping up. He looks a little funny, and you can’t help but giggle.

“Come on, I’ll help you get up. We should get you to the hospital.”

A little more than a week later, and you can’t believe yourself. “Jimin, what did I do? I totally embarrassed myself. I just wasn’t thinking, oh my god, I am ruined.”

He frowns, sitting down next to you. “Well, in all fairness, you did have a concussion.”

“That’s no excuse! I told him he had a nice voice and asked him- multiple times, even- if he was friends with Yugyeom. And I asked him why he always wore the same thing, which is insulting at best.” Jimin starts to respond, but you cut him off before he can get far. “And you should have seen him, Jimin! He’s so good looking... and with the sunlight shining off his hair...”

“I know the doctors said you’d be back to normal by now, but I’m not so sure you are. You never talk about guys like this, even though yours truly gives you loads of complimentable material. I mean have you seen me? And now you’re gushing over a mystery guy?” He laughs and leans back. “You’ll be fine. Even though your life is over, you’ll probably never see him again.”

“But if I do it’ll be so embarrassing! He’s friends with Yugyeom, who I work with, in case you’ve forgotten. And he was even nice enough to take me to the hospital and make sure I was alright, even after I lowkey insulted his outfit choices. I wish there were at least a way to compensate him for listening to my temporary break of insanity.”

“Well, you could always bring him cookies or something. We all love your cookies over at BigHit.”

You nod slowly, feeling sorry for yourself. “I guess, but isn’t a little weird? I mean, I barely even know him. What if he’s allergic to chocolate or gluten or something? And then I make him cookies and he eats them and has to ironically go to the hospital because of a fatal allergic reaction? What does he even like them? What if I get it wrong and it ends up doing more harm than good? I would end up being more embarrassed than before. Besides, how will I get them to him? It’s not like I see him on the daily. I’ve seen him maybe twice in passing.”

Jimin shrugs. “Ask Yugyeom. You’re close enough, right?”

“That’s a good idea, actually. One second, let me text him.” You pull out your phone, finding your most recent texts. It was a very sad list comprising of your mother, your sister, and the GOT7 group chat that was mostly just a meme distribution ring courtesy of the maknaes, Bambam and Yugyeom. For some reason, they spent all of their time during which they were supposed to practice finding new memes. While you found it funny, it was not so funny in important meetings when your phone buzzed every second with new images. 

You send a quick text to Yugyeom.

you: hey yugyeom, weird question but who is your friend that only owns one outfit?

you: i think i met him a few days ago

yugyeom: oh jungkook? the ultimate meme machine? jeans and a white shirt with tims?

you: yeah?

you: he was the one who helped me when i got a concussion at that boba place

yugyeom: wow what a gentleman

yugyeom: remind me to hold that over his head. i’m not sure how it could be used as blackmail, as it was technically a good deed, but i will find a way. 

you: no ok but i want to say thank you, for like, u know, saving my life and my job by calling the office off my phone so that i wouldn’t lose my job by disappearing and taking me to the hospital

you: does he like cookies?

yugyeom: yeah but not as much as i do

you: i’m not making cookies for you. that is not what this is about.

yugyeom: y nottttt

you: bc i have other, more important things to do other than cater to your cookie cravings, like you know, help u guys prepare for your world tour

yugyeom: pleaseeee i’ll let u in on the premium memes he sends me

you: i’ll think about it. you drive a hard bargain.

you: anyway

you: is he allergic to anything? and if i gave them to you could you pass them along?

yugyeom: well he’s not allergic to anything

yugyeom: about delivering them

yugeom: hmmmmm

yugyeom: maybe

yugyeom: only if u give me some cookies too xx

you: ughhh fineeeee

you: but you better not expect this again in the future

yugyeom: ~~~~ love u

yugyeom: just lemme know when u drop them off and i’ll get them to him when i can

you: thxx

Smiling to yourself, you slide your phone back into your pocket.

“So? Is he allergic to chocolate? Or gluten? Or your personality?” Jimin looks on curiously.

“Funny, Jimin, but no. I think I’ll make them tonight, if I get the chance,” you decide.

“Good idea. Let me know how this goes, okay? I must stay up to date on your embarrassing endeavors.”

“Will do, asshole.” You glance down at your watch, frowning when you realize how much time has passed. “Crap, my lunch break is just about over. Alright, I’ve got to get back to work, but I’ll be around. Let me know if you want to hang out. Or if you’re bored. I have few friends, Jimin, don’t leave me stranded.” He laughs and stands with you.

“Sure, sure. Good luck at work!” You smile and wave goodbye, heading back to work. You’re not really looking forward to facing this afternoon’s tasks, but someone has to do it... You just wish that someone wasn’t you sometimes.

The next morning, you knock on the door that leads to the bedroom Yugyeom and Bambam share before swinging it open, not bothering to wait for an answer. He’s sitting at the desk that’s crammed into the corner of the room, holding a bowl of cereal and looking half-asleep.

“Rise and shine, motherfucker! You’ve got some cookie delivering to do.” You drop the cookie tin in front of him, and he startles at the sound.

“Jeez, don’t do that... you scared me.” He yawns and rubs a hand over his face. “It’s too early for this.”

“It's one in the afternoon, my friend.”

“It's my day off! Give me a break. You know how hard I have to work for this job?”

“No, I don't, because every waking moment of every day you're sending memes in the group text. How is that classified as “hard work”?”

“That's what I'm working on. It's an endless search for memetic immortality. Your new best friend, that you are apparently stealing from me, is the meme master and shares the burden of this quest with me. I hope you put some pepes on the cookies in icing or some shit, because that would be hilarious.”

You roll your eyes, pushing the tin towards him. “Anyway. Will you get these delivered today?”

“Yeah, of course. The man himself is gonna be here later today.” You nod, hoping he doesn’t forget. “Hey. Where are the cookies you promised me?”

You reach into your bag, rummaging around until you find a smaller tin. “These are for you.”

“How come I don’t get as many as Jungkook?” He frowns, reaching for the tin and opening it, examining the contents critically.

“Because I ate some of yours.” He opens his mouth to complain, but you hush him before he can say anything. “But I’m making brownies next week for friend’s birthday. If you’re nice about this, I might bring you a few.” He perks up at that.

“Will there be any good kush in those brownies? Because you know that shit is the bomb.”

You smack him lightly. “Have you ever even seen a blunt?”

“Good point.” He grins at you unabashedly. “And you’ll bring me some brownies.”

You nod, sighing a little to yourself. “Fine, if you’re nice. And if you actually pay attention during practice and meetings this week.”

He nods, waving you off. “Of course I will be. You know me. I’m an angel, right?”

You roll your eyes and adjust your bag on your shoulder. “Sure, Yugie. I’ll see you later.” You make your way over to the door as he pulls his cookies towards him.

“Have fun at work!”

You shoot him a look before closing the door behind you.

A day later, you get a text.

unknown: hi, is this y/n?

you: yes? if this you mark i swear to god i don’t have your chips and if you ask me one more time...

unknown: this is jungkook

you: ok, wait

you: how did you get my number?

jungkook: i asked yugyeom for it

jungkook: i just wanted to say thx for the cookies

jungkook: they were really good! did you make them? i feel like i’ve had this recipe before, but in a good way u feel

you: oh, thanks ,,

you: i did make them

you: but they were supposed to be a thank you in the first place... you don’t have to say thank you for a thank you

jungkook: well, i also wanted to check in and see if you were doing ok

And just like that, you fell a little harder for him.

jungkook: you didn’t look great when i left you at the hospital :(

you: wow you you really know how to charm a woman

jungkook: oh wait that totally sounds like an insult now that i think about it

you: lol no it’s totally fine i was kidding

you: thanks for checking in, i’m doing much better now

you: and i actually wanted to say sorry bc i was really out of it at the time and i didn’t really act the way i normally do

jungkook: no no no you’re good

jungkook: lol it was actually pretty cute

Cute? You raise an eyebrow, a smile creeping onto your face, but before you can respond, you get another panicked text.

jungkook: oh wait no i’m sorryyy i don’t know how to do thisss

you: no you’re fine! seriously don’t worry

you: but

you: would it rly be a crime to call me cute tho

jungkook: oh no i mean you are really cute!

jungkook: i just thought it might make you uncomfortable or something

you: seriously it’s fine don’t worry about it

jungkook: ok but actually the reason i texted you was to see if there was any way i could thank you for the cookies?

you: they were a thank you! you totally don’t have to do anything

jungkook: but what if i want to?

That makes you pause, fingers hovering over the screen.

you: well, you could always buy me coffee?

You’re sitting at a table at the coffee shop, checking your phone repeatedly. You can’t help but be nervous. I mean, this is the first time you’re actually meeting him. In your right mind, anyway.

You glance up when the bell on the door chimes, and he appears in the doorway, wearing the same outfit as ever. He glances around before his eyes settle on you. A smile lights up his face immediately- like sunlight, you think- and he heads in your direction.

You stand to greet him, returning the smile. “Hi! It’s nice to actually meet you. You know, when I don’t have a concussion.” He laughs nervously and nods.

“Yeah, it’s nice to meet you too! I’m glad you’re feeling okay.” He smiles, looking a little unsure of himself.

“Well, would you like to get some coffee?”

“Oh, yeah, of course. I mean, that’s why we’re here, right?” You go over to the counter together, and when you order, of course he insists on paying. You knew that this was supposed to be a ‘thank you’ but you still halfway expected to be paying for your own.

You sit down together at a table in the corner once you have your drinks(and a muffin, in your case). “So, how do you know Yugyeom?”

“Oh, I work at JYP” you explain. “I’m Park Jinyoung’s assistant. JYP senior, though, as Junior doesn’t have his own personal assistant.”

“Oh, really?” He seems surprised. “I thought you might have been an idol in training. I mean, because you’re really prett-”he cuts off, a blush creeping across his cheeks.

You laugh, shaking your head. “I can neither sing nor dance outside of the shower, and it would be a travesty for a company to sign my nonexistent talent. But you flatter me. What do you do?”

“Oh, I’m with Big Hit.”

“So, you’re an idol?” He nods, looking a little embarrassed.

“You know, I have a friend who’s an idol there. Do you know Park Jimin?” His eyes light up, and he nods excitedly.

“Yeah! I love Jimin! I’m in the same group as he is, actually! He talks about you sometimes, I think!”

“Wait. You’re in BTS?” He nods, still smiling. “No way... Jimin hasn’t said anything about you that I remember...” Jungkook’s face falls a little at that, and you scour your memory to try and remember any mention of him. “Wait...” the realization dawns on you slowly. “You- does anyone ever call you Kookie?”

He lights up again. “Yes, that’s my nickname!”

“Oh my god, he talks about you all the time. I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection before this...” you laugh, a little embarrassed. “I can’t wait to tell him about this. He has no idea.”

Jungkook grins and nods again. “Yeah, he’s definitely mentioned you before.”

“All good things, I hope?”

“Yeah, of course. I mean, it’s Jimin. He’s a nice person. Mostly.”

“Well. That’s debatable. But yes, while he is usually the human personification of salt, he has his moments.”

The time flies, and before you know it, he’s dropping you off at your apartment. “You really didn’t have to walk me home,” you say. But you’re glad he did, anyway.

“Well, I wanted to. What if you’d gotten hurt or something? Of course, seeing you with a concussion again probably wouldn’t be the worst thing ever. That was actually really funny.”

“Hey,” you protest, but you’re smiling. “Be nice.” You fall into silence for a brief moment, facing each other in front of the door. The overhead light catches on his hair and shimmers there. “Well, thank you for the coffee! I’ll have to pay you back sometime.”

“Yeah! Yeah, I had a nice time,” he smiles, looking nervous again. For a brief moment, you think he might kiss you. “I’d like to see you again.” You nod, smiling, and he hesitates for an awkward moment. “Um, well, have a nice night!” He clears his throat, stepping away towards the stairs.

“You too! Tell Jimin I say hi!” He nods, smiling, before making his way down the stairs. You’re left standing in front of your door, and you sigh to yourself before reaching forward to unlock the door.

You make your way into your apartment, closing the door behind you and pausing there. You let your head fall forward to rest against the wood.

What have I gotten myself into?

You’re running your hands over the steering wheel anxiously, Jimin sitting in the passenger seat beside you. “Nervous?” He has an irritating smile on his face, and the traffic isn’t helping your mood.

“No, I’m just swell. Perfect. I feel great,” you snap a little bit, not taking your eyes off of the bumper of the car in front of you.

“Seriously, I had no idea your knight in shining armor would be Jungkookie, of all people. Are you sure he’s fit for the job?” he laughed.

“Well, I didn’t know him either. Now that I think about it, why haven’t you shown me pictures of your members to match your stories? All I’ve pictured when you’ve mentioned him was a pig with huge biceps. Anyway, I suppose I’ll meet all of the other members, and there won’t be any more weird surprises down the road?”

“Yes! I’m looking forward to it, actually, I’ve been wanting to introduce you to them for a while now!”

“Yeah, Jungkook said you’d mentioned me,” you shoot him a look out of the corner of your eye, which he pointedly ignores.

“Yup, but I promise, all good things.”

“It better be.”

You finally pull into the parking lot of the cafe, though finding a spot is a bit of a struggle. Eventually, you manage to park and make your way inside.

You spot them almost immediately, at one of the larger tables off to the side. There are six of them, plus Jimin. You notice that one of them, with mint green hair, is the same one you’d seen talking to Jungkook when you’d first met him at the boba shop.

They wave when they see you, grinning and laughing, and you find yourself a little more at ease. At the very least, they look friendly. (If not almost intimidatingly good-looking)

One of them, with pale pink hair(it reminds you of cotton candy) stands up as you approach, smiling and reaching over to shake your hand. He introduces himself as Kim Namjoon, quickly striking up a conversation. He’s clearly well-spoken and intelligent, and you find that you like talking to him. However, he can’t hold your attention for long. Soon, you’re being crowded by curious faces. The names fly by so fast you almost miss them, and even with the support of Jimin’s anecdotes, you’re sure you won’t remember them in an hour. 

Even as introductions are being made, you keep glancing over at Jungkook, and more often than not, you make eye contact.

Once that’s finished, you’re led over to sit between Jimin and Jungkook. The chatter continues, and though you don’t join in that much, you still find yourself laughing along with the rest of them. Every now and then, you look over and exchange a glance with Jungkook. He really lights up when he’s with the rest of the members.

It seems like no time has passed when they say goodbye, heading off in their own separate directions. Jimin leaves last, winking conspiratorially and throwing a very obvious glance over your shoulder at Jungkook, who’s stayed behind.

Once he leaves, you turn back to Jungkook. “So,” he says, “what’d you think?” He seems both eager and a little anxious to hear your response.

“Yeah, they were great! Although, I have to say, I still like you and Jimin best.” He laughs and blushes a little at that.

“Ah, you shouldn’t say that.” You shrug and smile at him.

“Too late. So, are we going to go do something? Or would you rather stay here?” You’d originally planned to spend some time with him one-on-one, but he and Jimin had decided the wedge a meet and greet in there, too.  

“Well, there’s a nice park around here, if you’d like to go there?”

“Sure! I’ll follow your lead. I don’t know this area very well, you know.” The park is, in fact, quite pleasant. Living in Seoul does have its downsides(read: So. Much. City.), so you’re happy to be around actual trees and nature for once. Besides, with Jungkook, you find yourself laughing more than you have all week.

Again, it seems like time flies before it’s getting dark and you have to leave. You have to get up early for work tomorrow, so you unfortunately have to head home. Since you have a car, you drop Jungkook off at the dorms before heading home yourself.

Your apartment seems empty and remarkably quiet when you get back, after the excitement of the day. It’s okay, though, because the warm feeling in your chest chases some of the loneliness away.

Your next ‘date’ with Jungkook (you’re still not really sure what relationship you have, actually) happens to be an ice skating date. You, physically uncoordinated as you are, manage to fall an uncountable number of times, clinging to his arm. It’s still fun, though, and you’re not complaining.

About 45 minutes in, you decide to take a break. You sit on the benches while he goes to get hot chocolate. When he returns, he’s smiling, eyes shining, and you think he looks like sunlight.

“Your nose is a little pink,” he points out, handing one of the cups to you. You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling.

“No, really? I wonder why.”

“Well, at least it’s cute,” he says, almost like it slipped out before he thought about it, and sits down beside you.

You glance over at him. “That’s the second time you’ve called me cute.” He turns bright red almost immediately, looking down at his hands.

“Well,” he’s muttering now. “I mean, you are.”

You smile, but don’t respond, leaning back to watch the ice skaters. Some of them have clearly been skating for years. Others, not so much.

It’s not long before Jungkook swings you back onto the ice, determined to at least get you a little more comfortable with it.

You’re starting to get the hang of it, you think (finally), when suddenly, your blade catches on the ice and sends you flying. You end up landing hard on your left arm again, air knocked out of your lungs, head spinning. You’ve fallen many times before, but this is the most painful one by far.

“Are you okay?” You see him appear over you, looking concerned. He kneels on the ice beside you as you blink to try and clear your vision a little bit.

“Oh, god, that hurts.” Your head is pounding, and you don’t even try to sit up. You look around, brow furrowing. “Sorry, what were we doing? I don’t- you’re- you’re Jungkook, right?” You nod slowly to yourself, “yes, that’s right. You’re friends with Yugyeom, aren’t you? Why do you always wear the same thing?”

Jungkook looks a little stunned, and you can’t help but laugh at his expression. “Sorry, I was just messing with you. But, in all seriousness, this does hurt. Not my head, but my arm.”

“You’re so mean to me,” he pouts, but he helps you up anyway.

He takes your left arm in gentle hands, running his fingers over it. You flinch when he touches it, and he immediately apologizes.

“I think it might be broken,” he says, frowning. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t realize ice skating would be this dangerous.”

You laugh, “I don’t think it is, for the most part. This is just an exception. I’m a clumsy person.”

“Well, I guess we should go to the hospital... again. It seems to be our special place.” You reach out(with your good arm) and squeeze his hand gently.

“Don’t worry about it, okay? I’ll be fine!” He nods, still looking remorseful, and leads the way out of the rink.

When all's said and done, you do end up with a cast. Jungkook still looks miserable, sitting in the corner of the room, alternating between staring at you and at the floor. In short, he looks pitiful. Once the doctor leaves, you wave him over to where you’re still sitting on the examination table.

He examines the cast critically, brow furrowed. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, Jungkook, I’m fine. I’ve said that a million times now- when are you going to believe me?”

He shakes his head slowly, “I just feel bad that you got hurt because of me. I feel like every time you get hurt, I’m with you.”

“You clearly don’t know me very well. I’m a very clumsy person, Jeon Jungkook, you don’t have much to do with it.” The frown softens, but still doesn’t disappear, so you take his hand in yours. “Hey. Jungkook.”

“Yes?” He’s close enough for you to hear his breath, soft and quiet, like morning air.

“Even if it were your fault, I’d still want to be with you.”

“Really?” He looks a little more hopeful at that. You nod, with more conviction this time.

And then(because, really, what else did he expect?) you lean forward and press a kiss to his lips, soft and just a little bit chapped. “Absolutely.”

[madebymixy]

100 days: 64 – 70

“You can learn new things at any time in your life if you’re willing to be a beginner. If you actually learn to like being a beginner, the whole world opens up to you.“

~ Barbara Sher.

100 doodles from 100 photos in my phone. The story continues…

The more years I spend in this life, the more comfortable I am with being a beginner. I’ve been drawing since I was first able to grasp a pencil in one of my tiny uncoordinated mits. Some decades on, the coordination is improving, it’s still a practice.

It’s true what they say – the 10,000 hours, the daily habits, the solid routine – these all help to develop a skill, but not with a finishing point. Beginning doesn’t have an ‘end’.

There was a gap in my 100 day project when I was sick and returning to it felt a bit like starting over. The muscle memory in my drawing hand was wonky, the sense of pen line following eye following outline felt stilted and unsure. So, stilted unsure lines is what I worked with. And I began again.

And beginners are cool. (Ever spent time with a kid? Ever been a kid? yeh, they’re cool, they ‘get’ what being a beginner is all about, cos there’s no pretence at being anything else. They’re cool with it. And so am I).

Here’s the next instalment of daily drawings, the photos that inspired them, and some thoughts that went alongside.

Week 10:

day 64

I saw this guy amongst a family of curious metal creatures on my travels somewhere in Washington last summer. Irresistible! Now I’m humming Pigs on the Wing quietly in my head again.

day 65

I’m not so much a hearts n flowers kinda gal. I’m not so much the pinkypurple gal either. So something contrary is about me today and it manifested like this. The photo I doodled this from is the corner of a photo frame that is home to my delightfully mad mother on my mantelpiece. She’s been away causing her own special mayhem and confusion in the afterlife almost 6 years now. But she’s also everywhere. And firmly fixed inside my head with all the good and not-so that brings. Like everyone’s mother is.

day 66

This guy is one of a family of about 7 or 8 similar characters, each one a little carved drawer in a tall skinny cabinet, home to the inevitable bits & bobs that accumulate in a house. (The original Instagram post of this drawing was missing the original photo as I’d mislaid it in a way that shouldn’t happen with digital files. It was there, then it vanished, and now it’s back. Tricksy little dude.)

day 67

It’s a world of contrast. I picked up this image on a happy sunny day, laughing with friends, midway through my holiday and about to go on an adventure across the US. One year on and it all seems so different. Causes for alarm and fear seem to be ramping up everywhere, my friends across the other side of the world are in fear as large parts of their country are either on fire or under water.

And this is on top of the 21st century spin cycle we’re all hurtling through, and the bruises we get along the way. So if your ride is more bumps and bruises than beautiful right now, I wish you well.

day 68

Like many of the photos I take, it’s often the shadows formed by shapes and surfaces that catch my eye. Today’s photo is the detail of a fancy bit of architecture in Barcelona. Gotta love those wavy lines. And circles! Oh my, I always got time for circles!!

  day 69

My inner magpie is also drawn to all the shinies as well.

Only when I see these two (yesterday & today) drawings and their photos side by side now, I notice how I translated gold into turquoise for the drawing in both. Like a reverse alchemy.

  day 70

Today I’d like to introduce you to a couple of the inhabitants on my bookshelves: Tiger came from London Zoo last year, and Stripy Cat was a gift from a friend many years ago (he since acquired a single googly eye, at a glance it looks like he’s wearing a monocle, he’s that kinda cat yknow).

They live together in a wicker basket in a copper bowl along with some spare bootlaces and some other odds and ends. Of course.  Welcome to another corner of my world 😉

  Join me back here next week (-ish) for the next exciting instalment!

If you missed the previous parts, you can find them here:

Week 1 ~ Week 2  ~ Week 3 ~ Week 4 ~ Week 5 ~ Week 6 ~ Week 7 ~ Week 8 ~ Week 9

  If you want to follow along this project day by day I’m posting on Instagram (where you can also see more WIP & detail pix) & Facebook

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100 drawings: still beginning. 100 days: 64 - 70 "You can learn new things at any time in your life if you're willing to be a beginner.