#cursed to never draw them both well if they’re on the same canvas

[ghostofbambifanfiction]

Part 1 of ?????

Started writing this fic a while ago and then lost faith in it. Should I continue? Feel bad for not posting much lately so I thought I'd share this. Read on and weigh in.

COME OUT TONIGHT

NO

You don't have to fucking shout?

Said the pot to the kettle?

Oh you grandmother The caps were an accidental by-product of voice-to-text Blame Siri if you're going to blame anyone

You have a Samsung Galaxy S20.

HAD. It got smashed. Worst luck. Listen, come out with me tonight.

Urghhhhhhhhhhhhhh I'm tired!

https://www.boots.com/wellness/vitaminsandsupplements/vitamins-supplements-shop-by-ingredient/echinacea

Hah (indifferent)

Just come out with me! Isaac has to go see some godawful student performance of the Antigone in wherever the fuck Chichester is and it's Sirius's flatmate's birthday party so I have to go and I don't know any of his weird mates

You don't HAVE to go.

Have to/want to Semantics

I'm not in a birthday party mood. I'm having a stressful week. My arse has been tense since Tuesday.

I will wade into the deep and massage your arse if I have to, just come It's a swank pad in Belgravia! I bet they'll have all sorts of expensive nibbles!

I read that as expensive nipples.

Those too!

Partying it up with the children of wealthy Tories. Sounds super fun.

Just come out with me, for fuck I'll pick you up at 7 and we can steal their silverware if it's boring as the grave

URGH I'll go but I'm NOT dressing up!

You don't have to dress up!

FINE!

*

take the drawings down please i'm begging you i'm actually begging you

Nah mate

siriusssssssss pleeeeeease

Nah

PLEASE

Nah

PLEASE ffs it's MY birthday!!!! there are going to be PEOPLE there! standing around! AT EYE LEVEL

I don't see what the problem is.

EVERYONE will see what the problem is! they literally will not be able to IGNORE what the problem is!

Sounds like a recipe for lively discussion to me tbh

that is NOT what i want people talking about at my birthday!

If I take them down, I'll have to take all the nails out and that'll leave nail marks all over the walls. It would be unsightly.

MORE UNSIGHTLY THAN YOUR DICK, SIRIUS?

My dick is bewitching.

DIE

*

She walks in expecting to find herself the infiltrator of a Made in Chelsea/Royal Ascot/Henley Regatta netherworld, filled with a gaggle of giggling, SW-postcode socialites wielding suspiciously powder-edged Harrods Amex cards in the place of horses and boats, but that's not what actually greets her on the other side of the lacquered front door.

What greets her is really quite ordinary.

Aside from the naked drawings of Kingsley's mate, which aren't.

Otherwise, the whole affair is pretty relaxed. People her age are clustered in their small groups, swigging beers. There's a table of oven-heated party foods, salty snacks and rapidly depleting ramekins of guac. She spies more band shirts than there are dress shirts. There's a round of Fortnite in full swing on the TV.

It's all just...startlingly normal. A normal birthday party.

And that's sort of embarrassing, really.

Where are all the visible Tory toffs, she wonders? Where is the braying laughter? The Eton alumni reunion? The glimpse of hunting-happy tweed and shotgun barrels as a coat cupboard door swings shut? Where's the indelible air of sneering superiority, of "we're richer and more privileged and better than you, so fuck the NHS and death to foxes!" that she'd been expecting? There's a fucking Henry Hoover in the corner of the hall, for Christ's sake. Lily came here to smile through her teeth at them all, to listen to the champagne problems privilege that bubbled from their lips and tell herself that she was the one who knew better, who thought better. Her plain white tee and skinny jeans and scuff-toed, high-top trainers were supposed to be a statement, a subtle setting-apart, but she's not even the most underdressed person in the room.

She pre-judged a house full of people. What's that about?

There's a lesson to be found in this. Perhaps.

*

James covered all of the dicks in Paw Patrol stickers that he bought from the newsagent on his way home from his mum's, but Sirius peeled them all off while he was taking a soothing lavender bath, so what's the bloody point in birthdays anyway?

It's early in the evening, and he's wedged—against his will—between the dining room bar and Shane Ruttle, who has just pointed at one of the many lamentable dicks and asked, "Is this one of yours?" which James kind of wants to thump him for. It's bad enough that he looks like a madman who stuffed his house with naked drawings of his brother, now people are actually assuming that he drew the damn things, even though most of the compositions are appallingly far beneath his skill level. He's a professional illustrator, for the love of god, and Shane is really standing before him like the posturing prick he is, asking him if he's the one who drew Sirius with one arm disproportionately longer than the other.

He knows that he should cheer up.

It is his birthday. There is cake.

Good cake, too, not the kind that gets buried in too-thick fondant that he has to pick off before he can eat what's underneath.

The problem is, there's also a party, and his friends are his friends, Peter and Sirius included, and Peter and Sirius can both get drunk much faster than James can. When Peter and Sirius get drunk, serious injuries tend to follow, Remus tends to fuck off in a flash and James tends to be the one who calls for an ambulance or mothers them back to health—physical, mental or otherwise. He has just turned twenty-six, and these repeated, drunkenly dramatic medical emergency scenes are starting to wear a little thin.

Can't a man get comfortably drunk and have a laugh at his own birthday party?

No, he can't, because Peter's already halfway to trashed, wobbling unsteadily towards the French doors that lead to the terrace, wearing that look on his face that says I'm definitely going to vomit or maybe even shit myself like I did on that one night we all spent in Munich with the Belgian handball team and the creepy tour guide who couldn't keep his sleazy hands to himself. For the sake of sparing the lawn such a punishment, James hastily removes himself from Shane, grabs Peter by the collar, shoves him in the direction of the downstairs loo and retreats to the safety of the living room, where there are, at least, no naked drawings of Sirius gracing the walls.

Most of the people in here are transfixed by Saffy Stephens, who is down to the last three in her Fortnite game and cursing like a sailor, but there are a small pile of birthday cards on the end table where James and Sirius normally keep their keys. He perches on the sofa arm, sets his half-drunk beer bottle on the carpet, pushes his dark, disheveled hair away from his forehead and begins leafing through them. It's a necessity when one lives with Sirius, who thinks nothing of swiping gift cards when the mood strikes him and he's had enough to drink.

They're mostly from his female friends, and all pretty standard, until he reaches the middle of the pile and finds a card bearing a picture of a moustached tabby and the caption: Have a Purr-fect Birthday!

The inscription inside is written in a lovely, swirling hand.

To Jasper/Jack/Jason/maybe Ja Rule?/J-something idk

(see above: everything I've learned about you from the friend* I came here with, verbatim)

(*who can't remember your name)

Happy Birthday! Thank you for (not) specifically inviting me, a stranger, to your party to celebrate this momentous event in your life. Please enjoy this festive card/social nicety/convention from me to you. My friend brought rum which you may prefer.

I'll be around. Not that you'll know.

LE

James lowers the card and twists on the sofa arm at once, eyes darting around the room in search of its author, as if they might be laying in wait to watch him read it and see how he reacts. Nobody appears to have ducked behind the couch, however, so the situation merits further scrutiny.

Obviously, he needs to meet this person.

A mystery! At his birthday party!

He perks right up after that.

*

She's coming out of the downstairs loo when a short, blonde man in a garish Hawaiian shirt barrels past her and pukes all over the chequerboard tiled floor, narrowly missing her jeans.

"Oh no," he moans into his wet hands. "Oh no—"

"There there, mate," says Lily consolingly, never one to judge somebody for getting drunk early at a party. She pats him on the back before squeezing past him and rejoining Kingsley, who is standing in one of this meandering Georgian house's many hallways, chatting to a bloke in a houndstooth sweater vest and holding two glasses of something very, very sparkly that she must try at once.

"It's like...it's like everything and nothing at the same time," Houndstooth Bloke is saying when Lily draws close, gesturing to a huge canvas painting of a rain-soaked fairground at night.

"Is it?" Kingsley asks.

"Mmm. Very." Houndstooth shakes his shoulders like he's slipping out of a robe. "Meant to be esoteric, I suppose."

That sounds suspiciously like pretentious bullshit to Lily, who doesn't find the concept of a merry looking fairground all that difficult to absorb. Kingsley knows more about the art world than she does, but he must agree with her assessment because he grunts and shoves her glass into her hand when she stops beside him, and more roughly than she deserves, as if she's the one who landed him in this mess of a conversation to begin with.

Trust him to find himself stuck with the only dick (not etched by a 4B Steadtler graphite pencil) in the building, and trust her to be stuck with the person who got himself stuck with King.

"What are we talking about?" she asks brightly, just to fuck with him.

"Drink your champagne, there's a good little hen," King mutters, his teeth clenched together, hallway lights bouncing off the smoothly waxed dome of his bald head.

"We've been discussing this piece." Houndstooth nods to the painting, but his limpid eyes narrow on Lily's face. "Christ, you're very redheaded, aren't you?"

It's decided. She'll wait 'til Houndstooth is drunk and trip him up with Henry Hoover's hose.

"Ergo soulless, yes," she agrees.

"And you...enjoy that?" he asks, as if being redheaded is her profession.

"Very much, thanks."

"Hmmp. Well. I came here with Saffron," he announces, pronouncing it Sef-ron. As if Lily is supposed to know who that is. "Platonically, of course. Actually, we're some sort of cousins, I think. What do you think the artist is trying to convey?"

He's very pointedly asking her, so Lily blinks at the painting, her eyes on the outstretched arm of a child on the carousel.

"I like the pretty colours," she decides aloud.

"Right," says Houndstooth, "but that's not—"

"And the lights, too. The lights are really pretty."

"But—"

"I love funfairs, actually," she brightly continues, finding a strange satisfaction in playing dumb in front of Houndstooth and his overbleached fade. Although she does really like the colours. "Haven't been to one in years!"

"Yes, good, whatever, but what is the artist trying to convey?"

"What artist?" comes a voice from behind them.

Lily glances over her shoulder and finds herself looking up at the man whose penis she's spent the past thirty minutes avoiding eye contact with, though he is taller, better proportioned and infinitely more beautiful than any of those crudely drawn depictions could possibly convey. He is also beplumed and bejewelled like a pirate, wearing a sumptuous velvet jacket over a loose white shirt, numerous rings on his fingers and an assortment of silver chains around his slender neck, while his grey eyes and elegantly high-set cheekbones are framed by a tumble of black hair that genuinely looks like silk.

The man is so beautiful, in fact, that Lily immediately wonders why he's been taking sketches home from the life drawing class that he and Kingsley pose for—hence their acquaintance and Lily's presence at this party—when nothing she's seen tonight has done him any justice.

Most happily, his penis is tucked safely out of sight.

"Alright, Sirius?" says King.

"Alright, Marvel?" Sirius claps a hand to the taller man's massive shoulder. Kingley's muscles bulge in a way that cannot be hidden by modern habiliments. "What are we talking about?"

"Not much." Houndstooth looks put out by the arrival of yet another person. "We were just mesmerised by this piece."

Lily refrains from gesturing to the painting with both hands and a "ta-dah!" choosing instead to sip her champagne.

It's very good champagne. Mmm. Yes.

"Oh, yeah, it's really something," Sirius agrees. He brushes past Kingsley and runs a finger over the illegible squiggle of a signature on the canvas. His nails are beautifully manicured. "Local guy, young up-and-comer. I assume you've heard of Algernon?" he asks Houndstooth, fixing him with a steely-eyed stare.

"Er, yes." Houndstooth's gaze slides from Sirius to the painting. "I know him."

Sirius's eyebrows lift. "Know him personally?"

"Well—"

"That's so weird, I heard he never speaks to people."

Houndstooth chews on the inside of his cheek, weighing up the challenge. "How…funny."

"Funny?"

"Oh, nothing. It's just, I know I've spoken to him before, and since you've bought his painting I assumed that you'd have—"

"That is funny, actually," Sirius interrupts, "because the artist is my brother, and Algernon is the name of his cat."

Kingsley has been tugging on his earring and almost rips it out of his ear as his body convulses, champagne spraying from his nostrils, while an alarming red flush sweeps across Houndstooth's face and he begins to sputter on his own self-importance. Sirius has clearly decided that he's done with all of that noise, however, because he turns back to Lily instead, looking her up and down with great and sudden interest.

"Who's this then?" he asks Kingsley, cocking his head to one side. "James's present?"

The champagne glass swings down and Lily fixes him with a deadpan stare. "Excuse me?"

Sirius slants a grin at Kingsley, a quick flash of teeth. "This one's queenly, isn't she?"

Kingsley wipes his nose with the back of his hand and laughs again. "Hardly."

"This is Primark, mate," Lily retorts, tugging on her t-shirt.

"Queenliness is a state of mind," says Sirius, "not a state of wardrobe."

"You had me marked down as a prostitute not ten seconds ago."

"Oh, that. I was only joking," he sighs, and grips her arm at the elbow, his long fingers cool against her skin. "But still, you're far too attractive to stand here talking to this clown. Come with me and I'll find you someone better."

*

James's friends are useless.

And drunk. Useless and drunk—or sort of drunk, in Saffy's case. Remus is certainly already pissed, but Remus is on meds so often that he drinks but once in a blue moon. One cocktail is usually enough to set him off, and he's been hard at the gin since he turned up with Peter at six.

"I don't know anyone with those initials," Saffy declares, once she has read, examined and even sniffed the birthday card for clues. "Except for Lisa Edelstein."

"Who's Lisa Edelstein?"

"Cuddy from House," says Remus, lowering the negroni from which he has been drinking deeply.

James pulls a face. "What the fuck is a Cuddy?"

"Oh, actually, it could mean le?" Remus suggests.

"Yes!" Saffy points at him like he might be onto something. "Like the French word for the?"

"Exactly, like—"

"It doesn't mean that!" James interrupts, unwilling to allow such profanity in his home. "That doesn't make sense, why would somebody sign their name as the?"

"Now you're asking me to explain how French people think?" says Saffy derisively, adjusting her bra strap beneath that burnt orange waistcoat she loves, the one that makes her look like she's directing a pornographic movie in the 70s when she pairs it with her tortoiseshell-framed aviators. It clashes wildly with her electric blue buzz-cut. "Am nooooo drunk enough for that."

"They could be one of those one word moniker pop stars, I suppose," Remus pipes up, smiling slyly. "You know, like Madonna?"

They think James doesn't realise that they're taking the piss out of him, but neither of them are sober enough to attempt their gambit with any kind of subtlety or grace.

"You know that's actually her real Christian name?" says Saffy.

Remus turns towards her with interest. "What, Madonna?"

"Yeah!"

"Really?"

"Yeah!" Saffy repeats. "I thought it couldn't possibly be her real name because, I mean, Madonna, yeah? But then I looked it up and apparently that's the name her mummy gave her, just goes to show—"

"I'm sorry," James interrupts, "but is Madonna relevant to this conversation?"

"Yes, always," says Saffy.

"She's an international pop megastar," Remus seconds.

James stares at his friend incredulously. "Drinking really chips away at your wit, y'know?"

"Does it?" Remus grins lazily and jiggles his cocktail in the air. "Oh, well, I'm negronly joking."

Saffy does a spit-take without the spit and clings helplessly to Remus's shoulder as she laughs, knees buckling, bangles tinkling, but James fights his own urge to start snickering.

"It's not that funny," he lies, and Remus eyes him with an alarmingly teacher-like shrewdness, despite the tellingly intoxicated flush that has crept into his thin, freckled face.

James's love of puns is tragically well known.

"You didn't get it." Remus points at his drink. His speech is starting to slur. "This is a negroni, what I said was—"

"Yeah, I got that part, I just—"

"Jesus fuck, look at her!" Saffy suddenly hisses, staggering sideways into Remus and sending him into the wall in a flurry of giggles—Remus giggling?—her voice hushed and urgent. "Who the hell is that?!"

James does look, following the direction of Saffy's gaze. Sirius has just entered the living room, casually clutching the elbow of a……

……goddess.

An actual. Like. Goddess.

A goddess. In James's house. In his living room. In the place where he eats his chocolate boulder cereal and rewatches Scrubs (even season 9, which is hilarious, and very unfairly disparaged by Joe Public) on Saturday mornings.

She's a goddess. A real one, and cleverly disguised as a mortal, sure, with her slouchy white t-shirt and her big hoop earrings and her light blue jeans that are torn at the knees, wearing her shoulder-length red hair half up, half down and slightly messy, but that doesn't hide what she is.

"Oh my god," he murmurs. His heart is pounding all of a sudden, which is so...utterly bloody stupid, but Saffy's right, bloody look at her, Jesus fuck.

"Surely she can't be with Sirius?" Saffy murmurs back.

"No, she—" He watches Sirius lean down to mutter something in the redhead's ear. A ghost of a laugh flits across her beautiful face. "She's not his—he isn't—"

"D'you think—"

"No, I—"

"Good," says Saffy firmly. She lets go of Remus and rises, lengthening her spine. It is a battle stance of some sort, presumably. "Because I saw her first."

"No!" James cries, wounded, and the redhead shoots him a curious look with a pair of eyes that are startlingly emerald green, even from all the bloody way over here. He spins to face Saffy and lowers his voice, face burning. "It's my house!"

"What are you arguing here, ownership rights?"

"No but it—it's my birthday!" James retorts, jabbing at his own chest. "And, actually, and—"

"It's in the bloody post!"

"—you didn't get me a present!" he finishes in triumph, not that he knows what he's arguing for, because the likelihood is that his tongue will glue itself to the roof of his mouth if he even dares to look in her direction one more time. "Plus I set you up with Vanya Petrich, with whom, as I recall, you enjoyed four years—"

"Stop throwing that in my face!"

"—four blissful years—"

"Is it my fault that you've never fancied any girl I've set you up with?!"

"—promised me an Easter ham for setting you up with her and I never got it—"

"So now you'll trade a woman for a ham?" Saffy accuses, though her face is too lit up, her brown eyes too crinkled at the corners—she's having fun with this and she isn't going to fool him and she knows it. "That's so low, even—"

"Don't start with that," James scathingly cuts in. "You offered me Sean Connery's autograph for Bonnie Grogan's number—"

"Which you never gave me!"

"Because you forged the bloody signature!"

"And now she's bloody married!"

"Yeah, well, Isabella wouldn't give me a counterfeit present, would she?" he retorts, and Saffy lets her shoulders drop, smirking. "This is pointless, Saf, we can't—"

"She's just left with Sirius," Remus informs them, and burps.

[jengajives]

wrote some second or third age Maglor for y’all

Maglor sat by the sea with his eyes closed and tried to imagine he was looking not west, but east, that he sat on the shore of Elvenhome on a bed of jewels and cast his eyes across the water to the land he’d never known where ages ago his forefathers had awoken beneath the stars. 

He wished he could still imagine the woods and wild places of Middle-Earth. That he did not have to know them as he did. 

He wished he could walk the streets of Tirion upon Túna having denounced his father and the entire selfish folly of his people. He could have stayed behind. He could still dwell in Valinor’s bliss as if all was still young in the world. 

“You know,” said a voice that throbbed in the waves against his feet. “I always thought your folk belonged over here.”

Maglor opened his eyes. 

In the beginning Ulmo hadn’t done much speaking, but Maglor was familiar enough with the Valar to sense when one was near. It seemed the Lord of Waters had done a lot of hanging around those first couple decades, and Maglor had always been aware of it, but for a long time neither of them spoke. 

By now, though, Ulmo had been the only company Maglor got for years, and for his part he seemed to understand Maglor- at least, he understood that appearing in the form of storm-lashed waves, teeth, and chains wasn’t the best way to put his friend at ease, and had learned to adopt a much more palatable shape when he visited the lonely Fëanorian by the sea. 

The gentle, foaming tide swelled slightly and started to grow, water piling atop itself like droplets gathered on a coin, drawing strings of kelp and broken shells into the gently swirling pillar of seawater until it was seven feet tall and shaped roughly to the outline of a person. It was a hissing sea spray that passed from bottom to top and turned that tower of cold water into an actual being. 

Ulmo was rather scrawny for such a powerful being, with gangly long limbs and a beard tinged green with algae. There were shells and sea stars caught in his tangled dark hair, forming a sort of makeshift crown, and barnacles crusted the sides of his simple canvas clothing. He wore a chain around his waist like a belt, rusty and adorned with colonies of zebra mussels. When he turned his eyes to Maglor, they were very still and the same color as wells of deep water undisturbed for decades. 

Ulmo smiled shyly and rubbed the back of his neck, then he plopped down alongside Maglor with his long legs sprawled in front of him. 

“Middle-Earth is meant to be yours.”

“Yes, well. I’d rather we didn’t have it.”

Maglor made a point of not looking Ulmo in the eye. Last time he had, he’d noticed a gleam of silver and golden luminance shining from the far depths and it had made his hand burn terribly. “We were happy in Valinor.”

Was it strange to sit with one of the greatest powers in the world and feel absolutely no discomfort? Probably. But strange was the normal in Maglor’s experience. 

Ulmo shrugged. After a long silence he said “Your songs weren’t very good.” Then, when he only got another in reply: “They’re much better now.”

“I’m glad you think indescribable suffering has made me a better singer,” Maglor said flatly. “I wouldn’t be inclined to agree.”

Ulmo laughed at that. Misplaced, perhaps, but it was a merry sound and hearty. It stirred up Maglor’s spirit like a riptide tugging at his feet. 

“You belong here, Maglor,” Ulmo said. He almost sounded playful, with his voice coming from both his mouth and the sea itself. “Your home isn’t with the Valar. It never was.”

“You speak rather strangely,” Maglor huffed, “especially for one of them. Aulë never talked like you do. Or Nienna, or Manwë, or any of the other powers I met. None of them talk like you.”

“Am I too casual for your liking?” 

Ulmo’s image fuzzed; for a second his face was lined with age and wisdom and his simple clothing turned to shimmering silver mail patterned like a fish’s scales. His deep eyes grew hostile. Unpredictable. Dangerous. He loomed tall and terrible, fixing Maglor in his stormy gaze. 

“I can take a form more well-suited to my power, if that be thine will.”

Immediately Maglor turned his eyes to the ground and kept them there. 

“No, no. Please. The way you were is fine.”

Ulmo’s laugh was the rushing of the tide as he seemed to shrink back to his previous stature, the scrawny, unimpressive man all covered in barnacles and all the ocean’s little clinging things. He stretched his legs out on the sand. 

“No, I’m not really like the others. Aulë shapes the earth, Varda crafts the stars, Yavannah calls life out of the soil. They love these things, but in the end their domains are things they can make with their hands. It’s not like that for me. I am the water, you see.”

Maglor looked out at the distant horizon and it seemed to him that as Ulmo spoke he saw a glimmer beneath the waves. The same golden-silver luminance that haunted his every thought. He looked back at the sand, but not quick enough to stop his right hand burning with the memory of phantom pain. 

Ulmo watched his companion draw his hand into his cloak and wrap it there. He gazed steadily out at the line of sea and sky for a long moment before he spoke. 

“It’s safe, if you want to know.”

The color drained from Maglor’s cheeks. 

“I don’t.”

“I keep an eye on it.” 

For a while, Ulmo said no more of the cursed Silmaril, and Maglor happily let the silence stand. It could have been hours before the sea spoke again. 

“It’s strange. Manwë said that it would be dangerous, but beautiful and strange beyond comprehension. Yet... to me...” 

Another long pause. Then, abruptly, fingers gentle and warm as a spring bubbling from the earth touched Maglor’s ear, tracing the pearl stud he wore there carefully, reverently. 

“More beautiful than the light of the Silmaril is the son of the one who wrought it.”

At that Maglor started. He turned his head and looked at Ulmo, who was smiling gently, and then in some awful spur-of-the-moment desperation he leaned forward and kissed the Lord of Waters without any provocation to do so.

Ulmo stiffened, just for a moment, but he quickly relaxed, leaned into Maglor, let out a sigh that sounded like the hissing of gentle mist.

He tasted like sweet spring water and rain.

Maglor made a sound in the deep of his throat like a needy groan. He hadn’t touched someone like this in so long. Too long. Ages of the world. Too long since he had been held by another living being and he was breathing in a perfume of brisk sea air.

Ulmo moved. He leaned back, pulled away, his hand slowly falling from Maglor’s cheek and closing to a hesitant fist in front of him. 

There was a bright blush high on his cheeks.

Ulmo exhaled, he laughed lightly and awkwardly, and then at once he was gone in a sheet of icy rain.

Maglor blinked the water from his eyes. 

Had he kissed one of the Valar? He’d just kissed one of the Valar.

His head was spinning with visions of whirlpools and swirling rains. 

He wanted to sing about rivers. 

Maglor looked again to the distant sea, but he didn’t see any glow this time beneath the waves. 

[filmwuju]

[TRANS] Character Introduction: Lee Yeonghwa

- released by writer Park Shihyun on Run On’s DC gallery board -

Lee Yeonghwa (Male, 24) / Art Major Student

He hated hearing the word "genius" since he was young. Not because he's modest, but because it sounded like a curse. This was a trauma about misfortune, which he got from the biographies and biographical dictionaries he knows so well due to his big interest in people. From historical and other perspectives, most outstanding geniuses spend their lives in mental illness or psychiatric hospitals. Adolf Wölfli drew more than 20,000 pieces of his work in a psychiatric hospital and ended his days there. The growth and ending of all the geniuses Yeonghwa likes were like that. He thought, oh no. Am I a great artist good enough to be written into biographies of great men? There's an extremely far distance between them and me. Since he quickly learned his place, he was able to do arts with no pressure. Maintaining the distance was Yeonghwa's homework for life. He can't see if he's too far, thus unable to draw; and when he's too near, his vision gets blocked entirely.

Of course Yeonghwa wasn't a genius. Exceptional talents from all over the country gathered in the university, and Yeonghwa was considered ordinary among them. Ordinary meant moderateness, and he knew from early on how difficult it is to be moderate. It was a satisfying university life. Like a pet phrase, his bestfriend Yejoon always said that he's an over-affectionate gullible idiot*, but he knew deep inside that Yeonghwa isn't someone whom people can take advantage of.

People who are good at pretending to be nice gain benefits. People who are genuinely nice live their lives suffering losses. As for Yeonghwa, benefits naturally came to him even if he lives his life just being himself. Smiling is his custom and being friendly is his habit.**. A senior who's like oxygen, who sweats charms instead of sweat in summer; it's only a matter of time before he became the "pocari sweat" of the school of arts. And since he's affectionate only with words, it also took no time for him to become the affectionate trash. Sigh.. the life of a popular man.

Not sure if it's because his name is destiny, or because he followed his name, but Yeonghwa liked movies. Actually, most people in Korea likes movies. How many movies were there in this narrow territory, that were seen by ten million viewers? Being fond of drawing, carrying his sketchbook and thoughtless wandering out to the streets was part of daily life. When it's raining, he put on a movie in his studio and drew. And when dozens of sketchbooks filled with movie scenes piled up, he suddenly wanted to do the opposite. The path he had in his heart wavered when he thought that it would be nice if his drawings turn into videos, but not doing pure fine arts was an unorthodoxy and breakaway from his major. He's just not a genius, it's not that he didn't want to be an artist. He was at that age of having many dreams. Still, he covered them deep in the canvas with paint. Like the drawing that hid in the hat a boa constrictor digesting an elephant.

That was when he met a woman. The ill-tempered woman who laughs at weird times smudged his painting on their first meeting, and asked him to paint a painting on their second meeting. She instantly discovered the hidden drawing, and said she likes that boa constrictor. That basically meant she likes Yeonghwa's desires. His heart wavered again. From that day on, Lee Yeonghwa's desire became Seo Dan-ah. Which is why he couldn't draw well. Because no matter what kind of painting he hides them in, no matter how hard he hides them, his feelings might be discovered.

The woman—who has a lot of money, years of age, and work—owns a lot of things, so she declines to have something more. Just giving the painting is enough so keep your heart, she said. Only adults can make their hearts act the way they want it to. It was an impossible order for a youth in its prime.

Inevitably, in order for us to meet, she has to come down, or I have to go up. The top of the expensive building—a building which he doesn't know who is in, and what they're doing. Seo Dan-ah, who remains there by herself and looks down, was just like Rapunzel who's confined in a tall tower unable to come down. Never mind recognizing the face of Lee Yeonghwa, who's looking at that place high up— his face appears smaller than a dot. It's been a long time since he broke the rule of maintaining the distance, which he gave to himself.

He wanted to see her closer***. So close, even if his vision gets blocked entirely.

T/N: *To give a more in-depth explanation of Yejoon's description of Yeonghwa, "다정도 병인 호구": The first part of the phrase, 다정도 병인 is from ancient Korean poem "Pear Blossoms and Nightingale" by Yi Jo-Nyun. The stanza where the phrase came from is interpreted as "I, who is passionate/sentimental/affectionate, cannot sleep the whole night long as if I'm ill." 다정도 병인 takes up the "passionate/sentimental/affectionate as if ill" part. The second part of Yejoon's pet phrase, 호구, is a slang that is used to call someone stupid, in a way that they get easily deceived or used by other people. If I try to sum everything up into one phrase, it means something like "a gullible idiot who's affectionate to the point like he's ill."

** "Smiling is his custom and being friendly is his habit." This is same as what Yeonghwa told Dan-ah when she asked him why he's smiling during their meeting at the swimming pool: "Because smiling is my custom and being friendly is my habit." The use of "custom" and "habit" may be confusing; actually, the two different Korean words used here usually are translated as "habit." I used "custom" to distinguish between the two just like how it was distinguished in the original text, but I just want to explain a bit more. The first "habit" used along with his smiling is 습관. This usually refers to a habit, a pattern someone formed from doing it everyday. For example, the daily habit of drinking a glass of water after I wake up, the habit of exercising 30 minutes everyday. This term is neutral, it can be used with both positive and negative habits. On the other hand, the second "habit" used along with him being friendly is 버릇.  Habits that are tagged under this one aren't necessarily everyday occurrences. For example, habit of biting my nails, habit of picking my nose in the public. This term is generally used to refer to bad habits. It is also the term used in "drinking habits" and "sleeping habits."

*** There are some implications in this sentence that are difficult (at least for my English level) to express. When it said he "wanted" to see her closer, it's not just simple wanting. There's this implication that he wanted—either compared to how he had no intentions of wanting before, or more than how he wanted before—to see her closer. There is a change in his state, or perhaps degree of wanting? Also, just to be specific, it was written that he wanted to see her closer than "now", closer than the distance of closeness that they have at the moment.

(orig post link)

[wonjaekook]

Request: 63 and 84 from the writing prompts + Renjun if you have the time♥️♥️♥️♥️ 😊

63. “What do you mean? It’s exciting!”

84. “I can’t believe you talked me into this.”

A/N: !! thank you for requesting !! and, oops, I got a little carried away (drabbles are not supposed to be 2k words long,,)

Word Count: 2.0k

Genre: fluff, horror (?)

Warnings: kinda spooky ig? there’s ghosts lol

“No. No, no, no, a thousand times no.”

“Come on, Y/N. For me?” The puppy eyes and slight pout Renjun gives you has you making a pained face, like he’s shooting arrows straight into your heart, because that is basically what he’s doing. Huang Renjun is not the type to act cute and he is not the type to beg, so on the rare occasion that he tries to suck up to you to try to get you to do something you really don’t want to do, it hurts in the best way. Even as his girlfriend, you rarely see this side of him.

“Injun, it’ll be cold and dangerous and-”

“Please? It’s my birthday.”

“Not until the end of the month!”

“Y/N,” he says, straightening up and turning serious, “I’ll go alone if you don’t come with me.” “...I hate you.”

That’s how you find yourself walking up to what is supposedly a haunted house at midnight with Renjun. As the most superstitious person you’ve ever met, his excitement is on the complete opposite level of yours. He even managed to sneak away without his manager noticing.

“I hate this. I hate this so much,” you grumble to yourself, arms crossed tightly over your chest.

“What do you mean? It’s exciting!” Renjun says, hopping the crumbling stone fence surrounding the creaking, decrepit building. He offers you a hand to help you over, but you ignore him, stubbornly climbing after him. As you get closer to the building, you shiver. Did the temperature drop a couple degrees, or is that just you? He stops in front of the door with you just behind him. He glances back. “Ready?”

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” you say. He offers you a sorry-but-not-sorry smile, extending his hand for you to take again, but you frown in response. With a sigh, he reaches out, opening the door. The door gives no resistance, opening with a quiet click before it glides open much too smoothly for an old, worn-down house. A type of resounding silence seems to come from the house, an empty blackness that bids you to step inside. All you can see from your position in the doorway is the outline of stairs, a hallway, and a few pieces of furniture farther in, almost indistinguishable in the dark. It feels wrong being here. However, before you can voice your concerns, Renjun is stepping inside and the door is starting to close behind him. Terrified out of your wits, you quickly follow him. The door shuts. Your breath fogs in the air, but you can barely see it because of how dark it is. Trying to shake off the bad feeling you have, you try to fill the void with your voice, but your question comes out far more timid than you had intended. “Did you at least bring flashlights?”

He digs around in the small bag he brought before producing two flashlights, handing you one. You flick it on as quickly as possible, revealing that the room is covered in dust and cobwebs. To your relief, you don’t see any live spiders because of the season, but spiders are also the least of your worries right now. “Alright,” Renjun says, seeming much too unbothered by the situation, “let’s explore.”

“Why are you so relaxed? Aren’t you the one who believes in ghosts?” You trail after him, watching for floorboards that could trip you up and noting the peeling wallpaper. The flashlight you have in your hand doesn’t illuminate nearly as much as you would have liked.

“That’s exactly why! I’ve never experienced ghost activity for myself, so I wanted to go somewhere that’s confirmed haunted.” He stops, turning towards you. “I heard… that a burglar broke into this house and suffocated the man who lived here. I’ll spare you more details. But! Then, too stricken by grief, the wife killed herself. Both of their spirits supposedly wander the building to this day.” On an ordinary day, you would’ve scoffed at his story. Now, the combined atmosphere of the house and the way he looks far too certain at the tale’s truth makes you bite your tongue and shiver. He turns around, continuing to walk.

“So, are we… looking for one of these ghosts, then?”

“Yeah, or both if we’re lucky.”

Suddenly, from behind Renjun, there’s a clattering sound from deeper in the house and you jump, instantly moving forward to cling to his arm. You ignore the smug look he gives you, opting to just squeeze his hand tightly. “That doesn’t sound so lucky to me,” you whisper. The air is too still.

“It’ll be okay. Come on, let’s go look.” Your boyfriend’s hand in yours is the only thing keeping you grounded right now, a piece of warmth in the cold, scary house. You walk forward slowly, only moving at all because Renjun is pulling you.

“I’ll never understand why you didn’t bring Chenle or Jaemin or, hell, even Mark, instead of me,” you whisper, worried about disturbing the air around you.

He frowns, glancing back at you. “Because I like you more than any of them? You wouldn’t catch me holding any of their hands right now.” Despite yourself, you find your cheeks heating up at his comment. You know that’s his way of showing affection - and you couldn’t love it more. You’ve found that even the smallest things about him fill you to the brim with adoration, even in this dark, terrifying house. Just as you’re about to make a comment back, the hallway you’re in comes to an end and you see what used to be a living room of sorts, old couches, chairs, and a table spread throughout. There are stacks of boxes here and there, as if someone was only half done with packing up the room before they left. On one wall, there’s a fireplace and a painting of a man and woman together hanging above the mantle. Layers of paint are barely clinging to the canvas in places and the color is faded from years of disrepair, giving it an eerie look. Renjun approaches it, trying to get a better look, and you follow, one hand still in his and the other firmly grasping your flashlight, standing next to one of the two couches that rests perpendicular to the fireplace. “Wow,” Renjun breathes, staring at the painting, “that must be them. They were so young.”

“Yeah. That’s… kind of sad.” For the second time since entering the house, the feeling of crippling fear leaves you entirely. You imagine a cleaner, brighter house, with sunlight coming in through windows that are now firmly shuttered. There’s a young man and woman unloading boxes into their new house, where they’re to spend their lives together. They’re laughing and smiling, holding hands much like you and Renjun are right now. You blink and the image is gone and you’re just looking up at an old, peeling painting in a dark room that no light has touched for a long while. “Renjun,” you say, “I think we should leave.”

“I want to look around just a little more, I-” He starts, also tearing his gaze away from the painting and beginning to turn around. You feel him stiffen next to you, so you turn around as well. There, in the next room over, is a glowing man. At least, he seems to be glowing, as his clothes and what skin you can see of his appearance is a chalky white. A sack of some sort covers his head and there’s a baseball bat in his hand, all that same white.

Your heart practically stops in your chest. You wish you hadn’t come here. You wish-

Renjun takes a step forward, in the direction of the ghost. You barely have time to think before you feel a hand on your ankle, trying to pull you to the ground. Whipping your head around, you meet eyes with a woman, that same glowing white, her hand wrapped around your ankle. In her eyes, you see your death. Her ghostly nails dig into your skin, drawing blood, and you yank your ankle out of her grasp, screaming and stumbling into Renjun. “Renjun, run!”

When he sees what you see and the beads of blood starting to form around your ankle, the grip he has on your hand gets impossibly tight and he starts to move, backtracking towards the hallway you had come from, pushing you to run in front of him. You run faster than you had ever run in your life down that long, dark hallway, your blood rushing in your ears, until you and Renjun are ramming straight into something in the parlor you had entered the building through. You both fall, screaming as you do, and shutting your eyes tight.

You realize your throat isn’t being torn out and your limbs are all still intact, so you cautiously open your eyes, seeing that a third body is on the floor with you. Renjun seems to do the same thing at the same time as you and he sits up, looking at the person. “Mark-hyung?”

Mark is on the floor with you, cursing under his breath. “What the hell? Why are you guys running?”

“I… there… we…” You try to say, but you just can’t find the words, your heart practically beating out of your throat. Mark slowly stands up.

“Why are you here?” Renjun asks, starting to get up. You press a hand to your chest, wanting to just curl up and cry, so he offers you a hand. You take it, getting to your feet. You glance behind you, unsure if anything is following you.

“Our manager is looking for Haechan and, apparently, I’m in charge of finding him. He told me he was coming here to “mess with some idiots” yesterday, but I didn’t expect you guys to be here. A haunted house is a little bit of a weird place to have a date.” The new information slowly sinks in and the pieces start to connect. You and Renjun meet eyes before looking back down the hallway. “What?” Mark asks.

A moment later, you hear some very familiar laughter. The three of you fall silent as the sound gets closer until, finally, Donghyuck, Jaemin, and Chenle step out from the hallway and into your flashlight beams. Jaemin is covered in what, at a closer look, seems to be white body paint, and he has a painted baseball bat and sack of some sort in his hands.

“Would you say we got you guys?” Donghyuck says, way too proud of how successful his prank was.

Renjun responds before you can. “I’m going to murder all of you.”

“Please don’t kill me, it was their idea!” Chenle says in quick Chinese to Renjun, who just crosses his arms.

“Hey, you can’t get out of this by speaking Chinese!” Jaemin says, nudging Chenle a little too hard to be considered gentle.

As the boys bicker, Mark just looking on in confusion, your adrenaline starts to slow down, making you realize that your ankle is throbbing. Looking down, little drops of blood are dripping down your skin and into your sock, dying the material red. Reaching down, you wipe at the blood, wincing when it hurts even more. The boys start to quiet down, so you look up, furrowing your brows at them. “Which of you guys grabbed my ankle? It really hurts.”

They look at each other, appearing just as confused as you. “We didn’t grab you? We just did this stuff.” Jaemin raises the items in his hand and the other two nod in agreement.

“Then, who was…”

From deeper in the house, a woman’s tortured shriek rises in the air, the sound resonating deep in your bones. Renjun’s first instinct is to grab your hand again and pull you closer.

“Huang Renjun, you owe me the best present ever when it’s my birthday,” you whisper, shrinking next to him.

None of you spend much longer in that house.

[missbrightsky]

On My Honor

Fics Masterlist

Previous Chapter

Chapter 6: Feyre

“Flynn Archeron reporting for duty, sir,” I stood at rapt attention, trying not to make eye contact with the blond man in front of me. Pine green eyes swept up and down my form; harsh, critical, assessing.

My poor body pumped out even more adrenaline, I’ve got to run out at some point… I snapped off that train of thought as Lieutenant Verdant’s mouth opened.

“How old are you, boy?” his voice drawing my eyes to his unwillingly.

“Eighteen, sir,” I answered.

“Humph,” he grunted, jotting down my name on his list. “You’ve even been in a fight before?”

“No… well, there was one time my arrow didn’t kill a raccoon immediately and I had to pin it to finish the job,” shut you fucking mouth, Feyre, why the fuck are you rambling to your officer about a raccoon you killed.

Tamlin only lifting an eyebrow at the story. I guess he dealt with enough new recruits to know that they tended to talk when they’re nervous. “So you can shoot?”

“Yes sir,” I said, “Usually pretty accurate or my family doesn’t eat.”

“Any experience with a sword?”

“No, sir.”

“Very well. Training starts tomorrow at dawn, you’ll be sharing a tent with Alex.” He pointed me in the direction of my new home for the next several weeks.

You’ll be sharing a tent with Alex, echoed in my mind. Well, if that doesn’t add another layer to my problems.

There was no room for argument on his face so I had no other choice than to follow his finger and go meet my new tentmate. I trudged over to the small structure. It looked to be standard military issue, several more like it nearby. Unadorned white canvas hung over a frame of poles. Simple and easily transportable. And small. So, so small with no room to hide.

Fucking hell, Feyre, what have you done, I said to myself for the millionth time. Looks like that mantra wasn’t going away anytime soon.

Pushing the flap aside, I ducked in, trying to survey the person inside as quickly as possible.

In the dim light, brown skin soaked up the ray of sun coming into the tent. A man who looked more like a boy sat on his bedroll reading a small book. He looked up when I entered, narrowing his eyes against the sudden light.

I warily stepped in, mentally running through all the characteristics of what I thought a man would do and act like.

“Hi,” I said lamely, trying to pitch my voice low, “I’m Flynn.” The effect of the voice was lost by me having to hunch over to avoid hitting the pole that spanned the length of the tent.

The boy/man looked at me and burst out laughing causing my face and ears to burn red. “Nice try,” he managed to say between chuckles, “but you look the same age as me and my voice is nowhere near to that low.”

I looked to the ground, cursing at my failed attempt.

“Aw don’t look so sad, I was only teasing,” he put his book on his pillow and reached out a hand to shake mine. I dropped my sack at the end of the bedroll that was waiting for me and grasped his hand. Calluses brushed up against mine, another person who was used to work.

“I’m Alex,” he introduced himself, giving me an apologetic smile.

I let myself return it with a small smile of my own. “I know, Lieutenant Verdant said we were to share a tent.”

“Fine by me, but my opinion doesn’t matter. He doesn’t look like a guy I would want to get into an argument with.”

“You’ve got that right,” I blurted. It was probably a bad idea to criticize my commanding officer to another who was under him. To my relief, Alex let out another laugh, agreeing with my tone.

I took the opportunity to sit on the bedroll and sort through my bag.

“So where are you from, Flynn?” the question came.

“Couple of days east of here, a small town that no one knows,” it was already easy to chat with Alex. A few days alone on the road loosened my tongue. “And you?”

“Couple of days south of here, a small town that no one knows,” he echoed my words, bringing another smile to my lips. If I had to share a tent with someone, at least it was someone who was easy to get along with. If I didn’t have to worry about letting who I was slip at any moment, Alex and I would have no problems becoming fast friends. I briefly wondered what would happen if he found out, but I shut that line of thought down. Thinking about it would only distract me from keeping up the ruse.

We fell into easy chatter about our lives back home. He was the fifth of seven children, the fourth boy of the family. They were farmers, corn mostly but his youngest sister loved gardening. Him mentioning that made me bring up Elain and how she loved her garden and flowers. I nearly slipped once or twice but recovered easily, I was getting used to the speech pattern of men and how to pitch my voice into a necessary range.

Outside, I could hear more soldiers pour in and walk by. Snippets of conversation floated in the air, men from all over answering the conscription notices of General Knight. There would be no training tonight, allowing those arriving one evening of rest before starting.

It had been midafternoon when first enter the camp. Alex and I had talked long enough that it had become early evening. The dinner bell rang out across the tents and our stomachs growled in response. We both stood to go answer it.

“You can take off your armor, you must be dying in it. No one will attack here,” Alex pointed out.

“Uhhhhhhh,” I drew out, sounding like an idiot. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I mumbled. I prayed to my ancestors that I could still pass as a boy without the chest plate.

Unbuckling the straps, I slowly slung off the plate and greaves, placing them on my bedroll. I stood and pulled back the tent flap to join Alex where he had stepped outside, chanting a string of half-forgotten prayers. He barely glanced in my direction and started off towards where others were gathering.

Whew. I had also added extra padding to my sides to try and get rid of my curves and it seemed to be working. Dinner would be one more massive test to pass before the day was done.

Alex remained oblivious to my fear and secret, starting up a new conversation of what would be for dinner and what training might be like tomorrow. Bodies streamed in from all directions. This section of the camp seemed to be just for new recruits, fresh faces like mine and Alex’s. Most seemed to be about our age, but there were a few that had their age carved into their face or sprinkled on their hair.

Father, brothers, husbands, everyone has a family that they might never see again. The thought pulled my mind down, down, down, the reality of my situation finally settling in. I wasn’t a girl that had run away from home. I was a soldier in the Imperial army, being trained in combat to be sent to the front to fight and probably die.

Some faces reflected my thoughts, those that knew they will most likely meet their ancestors soon. Others were open and happy, shouting greetings and jokes. Alex hadn’t yet seen my face, giving me time to pull myself out of the dark hole I had fallen into. When he turned back to me, I had hopefully rearranged it into something that resembled the ease of before.

Dinner was a slop of mush onto a dinged-up metal plate with an equally dinged up cup of water and a metal spoon. However, despite its appearance, the mush was surprisingly palatable with a chunk of meat or two hidden in it. Probably a delicacy compared to the food at the front.

I let Alex take the lead as he searched for a fire for us to sit around. Close to where our tent was, he chose a half-full ring of men, taking a seat on one of the logs there with a ‘hello’. A chorus of hellos rang back, as much as permission to sit we’ll get.

In the firelight, more young faces like ours glowed. Introductions were made and I forgot about half of them immediately. I knew the golden-haired one to my left was Will, easy to remember with his missing ear.

“Half crazed wolf tore it right off when I was seven. Killed it myself as retribution,” he declared. A cry of disbelief and jeering rose up in response, calling bullshit on his story.

Elijah right across from me had the most expressive face I had ever seen, seldom without a smile or frown or emotion of his making. His booming voice, deceptive for how young he looked, captured everyone’s attention. His brown eyes were filled with mischief and energy.

Adam was his polar opposite. The only man of the group, he spent the dinner in silence, only answering when spoken to. Even Elijah’s raunchiest stories couldn’t draw a chuckle out of him. But even with his silent demeanor, there was nothing aggressive or rude about him, he was just quiet, content to let the conversation wash over him.

All around the fire were also beneath Tamlin’s command. Alex shared his opinion of him and was met with confirmation. The others had arrived either yesterday or the day before. Tamlin Verdant was a hard bastard who took no excuses and, indeed, was not someone you would want to get in an argument with.

Plates cleared and returned to the kitchen tent, we chatted until the sky deepened from purple into black, the stars overhead watching the new recruits begin to form relationships that could save their lives on the battlefield.

Next Chapter

[vanillacaramelhoney]

Oh My God, they were Roommates (1/6)

Pairing(s): Eleven x Reader

Chapter Summary: Jane and YN learn a bit about each other, and Julia checks in.

Warning(s): None

A/N: In this, Hopper isn’t fucking dead and Jopper is C A N O N. Enjoy.

Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2

December 20th, 1991

YN found herself staring at a blank canvas that sat on her easel.

The girl laid on her stomach on her bed. Her mind was trying to think of something to do for her project, but it was drawing a hard blank. Maybe she really would paint Julia.

With a sigh, YN rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. She messed with the hem of the oversized shirt she wore as pajamas.

Her head lolled to the side to check the clock on her nightstand- 9:38 a.m.

The rink would be open, and because it was so early, there wouldn't be as many people.

Making up her mind, YN rolled off of her bed and quickly changed. She left her room and headed down the short hall to the living room-kitchen combo, but paused at the corner.

She got a side view of Jane, who sat on the couch, watching her usual rom-com. She cuddled up in a pile of blankets, and her hair was pulled back into one of the messiest ponytails YN had ever seen. Still, the girl looked rather bored.

With sudden confidence, YN spoke up. "Jane?" She looked up at her, eyes wide with interest. "I was going to go to the ice rink if you wanted to join me?" YN leaned against the wall.

"'Ice rink?'" Jane asked.

"You know, to ice skate?" YN clarified but was still met with the same look of confusion. "Have you never been ice skating?"

"I don't know what ice skating is," Jane admitted.

YN paused for a moment, pondering what to do. She stood up straight. "Why don't you get dressed and come with me, then? I can teach you."

Jane smiled shyly, and nodded.

YN smiled as she watched her stand and head past her to her room. While she waited, YN put her boots on.

Jane quickly returned, changed.

"Ready?" Jane nodded. "Alright, let's go. I hope you don't mind walking. It's not too far."

They grabbed their winter gear before heading out.

The two walked in silence with YN leading the way. The snow had stopped late into the night, but there was still plenty of snow left everywhere. The roads and sidewalks had luckily been cleared.

It didn't take them long to arrive at the rink. Just as YN suspected, there were only a few other people.

YN couldn't help but find the look of curiosity on Jane's face adorable. YN chuckled as her eyes scanned the area before landing on YN.

"Still wanna do this?" Jane nodded.

With YN's help, they picked out their skates and slipped them on.

Jane stumbled as she tried to stand in them. YN quickly helped her balance.

"Balancing will be a little hard at first, but I'm sure you'll be able to catch on quickly," YN assured her. She helped the girl onto the ice. "Hold onto the side for a bit of balance." Jane didn't hesitate to do as told. She managed to balance once again.

"Do you do this often? You seem to know what you're doing," Jane asked.

"I skated a lot as a kid," YN explained. "Now, I mostly do it around this time of year."

"So, what do I do know?"

"You just kind of," YN paused, "slide, or scoot on your feet." Her nose scrunched up. "Sorry, I'm not very good at explaining things." Jane looked up at her, amused.

Jane kept a good grip on the railing but tried moving forward. YN stayed close in case she slipped. Fortunately, she caught on quickly.

"Seems like you're a natural," YN mused. "Do you think you're ready to let go of the side?"

"Um, I'm not sure," Jane answered.

"It'll be fine," YN told her. "If you start to fall, I'll try to catch you."

"'Try?'"

"Try." YN chuckled at the look on her face. "Here, take my hand."

Jane took it and allowed YN to pull her away from the railing. She wobbled as she skated, still not entirely used to it.

Very quickly, however, the two girls found themselves skating around the rink. Jane proved to truly be a natural at ice skating, not needing help for long.

Most of the time spent on ice was YN trying to teach Jane tricks she had learned over the years. Both would laugh whenever a mistake occurred, seeming to find it funnier than it really was.

A few decent hours passed before they got off the ice to sit for a moment.

"So, how was that?" YN asked.

"Fun," Jane answered, slipping the skates off. "Cold, though."

YN chuckled. "Yeah, that's probably one of the few downsides." She took her skates off as well. "We can head home if you're too cold."

"That'd probably be best," Jane said. "My feet are getting sore anyway." Jane smiled at YN, who returned it.

They put their shoes back on and returned the skates. Then they began their walk back home.

"Did you grow up here?" Jane asked out of the blue.

"Not in the city," YN explained. "But, I did leave nearby in more of a rural area. My family would occasionally come into the city to visit other family members, but that wasn't often. I would ask you where you grew up, but I've already learned that."

Jane hummed. "Yeah, I'm not really used to cities. My dad was protesting me moving out here for college," she said. "Luckily, my mom and brothers were on my side."

"How many brothers do you have?"

"Two. Do you have any siblings?"

"I've got a brother and sister. They're assholes." Jane looked at the girl, surprised.

"Do I wanna ask why?"

"That's a whole other conversation."

They fell into silence for the remainder of the walk.

When they got back, they could hear their phone ringing from through the door.

YN cursed as she unlocked the door as fast as she could. Jane moved quicker than her into the apartment, answering the phone.

She turned to YN as she shut the door. "It's for you." Jane traded the phone off to YN.

"Hello?"

"Have you tried talking to her?" Julia's voice greeted her. YN rolled her eyes.

"We are not talking about this right now," she groaned. From the corner of her eye, YN could see Jane hanging her outerwear up.

"Well, I can guarantee you that we're talking about it when I get back," Julia insisted. "So, have you been in bed all day?"

"No, actually," YN smirked. "I just got back from ice skating."

"Oh?" Julia laughed. "Would you look at that. You're doing something for once!"

"If you were here, I'd flip you off." Julia's laughter rang through the phone.

"Jokes on you, I- hey!" YN's brows furrowed in confusion.

Jane walked past her to the living room, flopping onto the couch. She glanced at YN for a second.

"Hey there!" The familiar voice of Marshall, Julia's brother, came through instead.

"Marshall!"

"Hey, kid. How's college going?" YN could hear his smile, along with Julia demanding for the phone back in the background.

"Pretty good. I'm broke, though."

"So, the usual?"

"Yes, Marsh, the usual."

"Julia looks like she's about to drop-kick me, so I'll give the phone back to her," he chuckled.

"Alright," YN said. "Hey, do me a favor. Flip Julia off for me, will ya?"

"Oh, I can totally do that," Marshall laughed. "Bye."

"Bye, Marsh." There was a moment of silence before Julia's voice came through again, "God, what an ass."

"Ignoring all of that," YN drawled. "Was there a reason you called?"

"I just wanted to make sure you hadn't spent the entire day in your room," Julia answered. "I also wanted to remind you to try talking to your roommate. If you haven't, that is."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever," YN rolled her eyes. "I'm gonna hang up now."

"Bye! Don't stay inside while I'm gone!"

"Bye." YN hung up with a sigh.

"Friends?" Jane asked.

"Yup." YN moved to the kitchen. "Do you want any hot chocolate?"

"Sure!" Shortly after, YN heard the TV switch on with the volume low.

With a chuckle, she began making the hot chocolate.

[the-noblehouseofblack]

Posting the first part of the SPN/SH crossover to see if there is enough interest to continue! Let me know if you guys want to see more!

​“Dean!” Sam’s voice was ragged and panicked over the snarl of the Impala’s engine. Dean’s calloused hand slammed against the steering wheel as he cursed under his breath, his eyes darting between each side mirror and the rearview. “They’re getting closer! We gotta figure something out!”

​Dean mumbled “think” to himself repeatedly until he recognized his surroundings.

​“Oh, come on.” He groused, ripping the wheel to the left. Sam complained absently as he slid slightly on the seat. Dean lead the Impala down a few familiar roads before skidding to a stop in front of the hulking ruins of a church.

​“Uh, Dean?” Sam questioned, panic evident in his voice. “This isn’t exactly a good solution. Demons can still come into churches.”

​“Just trust me, Sammy. Let’s go, move your ass.” Dean threw the door open and sprinted across the uneven cement steps in front of the church. His hand dug into the pocket of his canvas jacket until his fingers closed around piece of cool metal shaped like a pencil. When he withdrew it, the metal had lines cutting along the shaft of it and the top had what looked like a clear crystal attached.

​Dean inhaled a sharp breath and began to draw the tip over his skin, ignoring Sam’s look of shock when stark, black lines began to rip across his skin with the look of burning embers in the wake of the crystal.

When he’d drawn what appeared to be an eye on the back of his right hand, he tucked the metal back into his pocket and pounded his flat palm against the door of the church.

“Open up, you son’s-a-bitches! There are demons out here, come on!” Silence answered him. He slammed his hand against the door again. “You owe me this! Open the damn door! Maryse! Robert!”

“Dean, where the hell are we? Who are you talking to?” Dean pointedly ignored Sam.

“You can’t just ignore your son! I’m a Lightwood and I am requesting access to the New York Institute! Let us in!”

“A Lightwood? What does that--.” Sam was cut off when, suddenly, the church shimmered around the edges like the feeling of waking from a dream and he was suddenly faced with a massive, intricate building that looked like it had been pulled from a painting. “Holy shit…”

Behind them, there was a roar of one of the demons that had been following them and both men spun on their heels, their guns lifting to their shoulders immediately. Dean didn’t flinch when the doors behind them opened and a shimmering whip cracked forward, the glowing strand of it wrapping around one of the two demons at the base of the stairs and tearing through its flesh until it disappeared in a plume of smoke. The other demon reared back with its gnarled teeth bared, but a silver arrow tore through his throat and he was gone as well.

Dean lowered his gun slowly, his green eyes surveying the area for more demons. He barely had a chance to relax when he heard a voice that he hadn’t in years, but one that was still all too familiar behind him.

“Dean?” It was all to easy to remember the voice squeaky with youth and excitement. He took a steadying breath and turned to face the man in front of him with a cocky smile.

“Hey, Alec.” He greeted casually, resting his sawed-off against his shoulder. “You got taller, little brother.”

​******************

​“Dean, what are you…where have you been?” Alec stammered, raking his hands through his messy black hair. After being ushered inside the Institute, Alec had dragged them down the halls to the briefing room where Dean was now leaning against the table with his arms crossed over his chest.

​“Around. Making my way through the country with Sammy, taking out demons that the Shadowhunters are missing.” Sam was staring between the two of them with his jaw hanging open with mild disbelief.

​“It’s been….it’s been fifteen years, Dean. You didn’t call, you didn’t send a fire message. I thought you were dead.” Alec’s voice was tinged with anger as he spoke. Isabelle had been uncharacteristically silent through the exchange, but when Dean’s gaze caught hers, she automatically walked forward and pressed herself to him, her arms wrapping tightly around his waist. Dean’s arms went around her with a shuddered sigh, and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

​“Hey, Iz.” He whispered, breathing in the scent of his sister and letting his eyes close briefly. “I missed you.” Izzy nodded slightly against his chest before she pulled back and slapped the same spot, making him flinch.

​“Don’t run off again. You hear me?” Dean chuckled softly and nodded.

​“Can’t get rid of me twice.” Alec was staring skeptically, his eyes narrowed, and laser focused on Dean. “I’m sorry I left, Alec. I should’ve told you before I went, but I knew that you’d want to come with me, and I couldn’t have taken care of you. Leaving was the best option. That’s not an excuse for not telling you, but it’s why I did what I did. And I’ve missed you guys ever since.”

​Alec’s silence stretched between them for what seemed like an eternity before he stepped into the circle of Dean’s arms, leaning down slightly to hug his brother in a crushing embrace.​

​“Don’t go again. She couldn’t handle it.” Alec’s voice wasn’t loud enough for anyone else to hear, and Dean couldn’t help the clench in his chest when Alec added, “Neither could I.” When Alec pulled back, Dean cuffed him lightly on the chin with a suspiciously damp sounding chuckle.

​“When did you get taller than me? I’m supposed to be the big brother. This is just rude. You and Sammy both. Brothers and adopted brothers are not supposed to outgrow their older siblings, that’s law.” Alec smirked and pulled a half shrug in response. “Speaking of adopted brothers…where’s Jace?” The question was laced with caution. Shadowhunters historically didn’t always live long and Dean was secretly concerned about seeing pain across Alec’s face.

​“He’s with Clary, they’re on patrol.” Isabelle supplied. Dean raised an eyebrow curiously. “Oh! Right! You haven’t met Clary. You’ll love her, she’s great. And Magnus! You have to meet Magnus. He’s a warlock.”

​“And my boyfriend.” Alec added softly, his gaze catching Dean’s with a heavy weight to it. Dean simply smiled.

​“Well, then I have a Shovel Talk to have with this warlock, don’t I?”

​“I’m sorry to break up this…reunion, but can someone please tell me what the hell is going on?” Sam interjected, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

​“I, uh,” Dean scrubbed a hand over his face wearily before looking at Sam. “This is my family. My little brother, Alec, and my little sister, Isabelle. The Lightwoods.”

​“What the hell do you mean your family? I’m your family…I’m your brother.” Dean nodded slowly.

​“You are my brother. My adopted brother. Alec and Isabelle are blood.” Sam stared at him silently, obviously waiting for him to continue. “When I was fifteen, I ran away from my family. My father and mother were trying to convince me to do something that would have been catastrophic, so I left. Alec and Izzy were just kids. And Jace.”

​“But you…I remember you being there my whole life. Dad has pictures of you when you were a kid.” Sam shook his head in disbelief.

​“I worked with a warlock to put that in place. She helped me to make Dad think that I had been there forever. Both of you. I’m sorry that I never told you, Sammy, but you have to know that I would have told you if I could have. If I brought it up, the glamour would’ve worn off.”

​“Glamour? What the hell does that mean? What’s happening?!” Sam was getting louder by the second and Dean reached out a hand to steady the other man. He couldn’t hide the flinch when Sam ripped his arm away and glared at Dean. He pointed at the mark on the back of Dean’s hand. “And that. What’s with the weird tattoo?”

​“It’s not a tattoo. It’s a rune. Shadowhunters use them to enhance their natural abilities to be better, faster, and stronger.” Izzy supplied helpfully. At least Dean was sure that was the intention, instead it earned her a glare from Sam.

​“A….Shadowhunter. What the hell does that even mean?”

​“It’s a race. Humans mixed with Nephilim. They’re a race that was born to protect mundanes from the shadow world.” Alec replied.

​“If you think that explains things, I have news for you.” Dean sighed loudly.

​“Demons, warlocks, werewolves, vampires. Downworlders. That’s what they mean. We’re the race that keeps demons and their BFF’s from chowing down on the average Joes.”

​“Mundanes? We? Dean, this isn’t you. You’re my brother. You’re a hunter.”

​“I am. But, I’m also a Shadowhunter. And I’m also their brother. I know that this is probably hard to understand, but--.”

​“It’s not hard to understand, Dean. Think about all the crazy shit that we’ve seen over the years. There’s not a whole hell of a lot that I would consider hard to understand.” Sam shook his head slightly before turning his gaze back on Dean. “I just don’t know why you didn’t tell me sooner.”

​“It was to protect you. You gotta believe that, man. If you’d known about all this, about what I really am? You’d have been in danger. You and dad.”

​“For once you’re speaking some sense.” Came a voice from the other side of the room and every head turned toward it. Dean froze, the tension in his shoulders obvious.

​“Robert.” He croaked out, cursing the fact that his voice quivered.

​“Robert, is it? I suppose that a decade and a half changes how you view a person, but the last time we spoke, I was ‘father’ to you still, Dean.” Robert walked closer, his arms behind his back when he began to circle Dean.

​“Yeah, well. The last time we spoke wasn’t exactly high up on the good memory list, so you’ll forgive me if I tried to push aside the fact that we share blood.” Robert quirked a brow slowly.

​“I see your mother’s personality still runs through you like wildfire.” As if on cue, Maryse Lightwood emerged from the same door her husband had and she stood stalk still, her eyes laser focused on Dean.

​“Mom.” Dean breathed out, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides frantically. He wanted to run to her, to feel his mother’s arms around him again, but her ridged posture made his feet feel like cinder blocks.

​“Do my eyes deceive me?” Maryse questioned softly, and he wished that he could read her tone better. He shook his head jerkily.

​“No, I,” Dean cleared his throat and tried again. “No. I’m here.”

​“Bold of you to return after abandoning your family the way you did.” Her words stung like a dagger in the gut, but the tears that she was obviously trying to contain gave him hope. “Come here.”

​Dean’s feet were moving before he could convince himself that it was a bad idea, and he was stepping into Maryse’s open arms. He couldn’t remember the last time that she’d held him this way. Perhaps when he’d been sick as a very young child, but Maryse Lightwood was not quite the “warm and fuzzy” type of parent.

​“I missed you.” He mumbled out where his face was pressed to her shoulder, his arms sliding around her and clutching the black fabric of her dress for all that he was worth. He inhaled the scent of patchouli and mint, the scent that he’d always associated with fleeting affection from his mother, and he had to swallow around the lump in his throat.

​“Oh, my boy, I’ve missed you too.” Maryse’s voice was soft against Dean’s temple and her hands trailed his back a bit awkwardly. He clung to her, reluctant to let go after fifteen years without her.

​“Maryse is hugging someone…who died? And who’s the giant?” Dean knew that voice, it had been the one that he had heard through the halls while its own chased Alec through the halls when they were “training”.

​He straightened up and turned to face the doorway, keeping quiet and waiting for a response from the blonde man in front of him. Jace had grown into a tall, broad man (not that he could be surprised, it had been quite a while since he’d seen his adopted brother), but there was still a glint in his golden eyes and the quirked lips of a cocky smile that screamed Jace Wayland.

​The sound of Jace’s gear bag hitting the floor echoed through the now silent room like a gunshot, startling the, admittedly adorable, redhead beside him. His boots thudded loudly as he strode toward Dean, who braced himself for a punch that was sure to knock him off his feet.

​Instead, what he got was a bear hug of epic proportions and a snarled “fuck you for leaving, asshole” with a suspicious sniffle against his ear. Dean folded his arms around Jace equally as tight, not giving half a damn that he couldn’t breathe.

​“Missed you too, pretty boy.” Dean chuckled, his chest warm with affection. He had his family back. His whole family.

@consulalexander @tobythewise

[imnotcameraready]

Enjambment (chivalry au)

A/N: it’s the first not-main-story story!!!! wrote this while tryna figure out how to get from point a to point b, and it doesn’t really fit in with the story’s Flow, so it’s gonna be its own lil part! it’s also got a little bit more character building for the Playwright and the Artist, if anyone wanted that lm a o — they’re good bois, they’re just. really bad at being good bois. 

also i kNOW chapter 11 came out like, last night, but  ,. ., ., .. . ive had this sitting ready for literally a week ., ,. ,..  sorry for bombarding y’all with this au :’’D

WARNINGS: self-deprecation, self-hate, touch starved, threats, cursing/swearing, destruction of property, destruction of art (ewe)

Words: 2085

AO3 link to this story; AO3 link to chivalry’s main plot

MASTERPOST! <-- i dont think this story is understandable without reading the other parts, hence im plugging it so much  ; v; i’m sorry y’all ilu <3 

chivalry taglist: @starlightvirgil​ @forrestwyrm​ @daflangstlairde​ @marshmallow-the-panda​ @askthesnake​ @k9cat​ @patromlogil​

general tag: @jemthebookworm​

hope you enjoy!! <3 <3 <3 

The Playwright didn’t like admitting he was wrong. He often wasn’t. Having the position of an omniscient narrator meant he got to be right a lot, which was one of Roman’s favorite things.

But his argument with the Artist may not have been one of those “right” things. The Playwright leaned on the table, twirling a pencil absentmindedly as he contemplated. He wasn’t entirely wrong, no. The Artist had to keep in mind the safety of the other Sides. If anything happened to any of them, Thomas would be hurt, and Roman would riot. Every bit of him, except for…. The Playwright winced. On the other hand, this in-fighting was exactly what they should be countering. Sure, everyone disagreed and that was the purpose of this dismantling, but the Playwright was above these squabbles. Should be above them, figuratively, because in physical space, he very much was above them.

Apologizing would be the logical thing to do.

He sighed, rubbing his forehead. He didn’t enjoy entering the medieval town, didn’t like going deeper into the Imagination, but it seemed he would traverse there more often.

The sound of a paper flipping caught his attention. His eyes shot open as he looked around the room. No one was there.

But he’d definitely heard movement. The Playwright swallowed down his fear. “Hello?” he called out.

Nothing. None of the costumes had moved, none of the shoes or benches or any of his paperwork.

Wait, no, there was something. The Playwright moved a few scraps to the side and picked up an envelope. This hadn’t been there before.

Cordial invitation of Roman ‘Playwright’ Sanders to the Entry Gala — in celebration of Morality, Logic, Anxiety, and Deceit’s welcome to the Imagination.

The Playwright’s eyes widened. Oh, fuck.

He tore the envelope open and read its contents.

The Artist wept.

He ran his hand along the ruined canvas — ruined by his hand, torn open with his own knife and dirtied with his tears — and pressed it fast to his chest.

Why was he so mean? Why did it hurt so much, for his creations to be picked at like vultures and a carcass? Wasn’t that the point, wasn’t that how artists improved?

Ah, who was he kidding. He wasn’t a real artist at all. Just a name he’d selected when they first started this game.

The Artist was so wrapped up in his lamentations that he didn’t hear the soft sound of paper falling onto the floor beside him.

He shouted again, cradling the broken mess of canvas and wooden frames. All good artists got second opinions. No one was safe from criticism, and there was always room for improvement! He should know this, he DID know that, it was reasonable. But hearing it from the others always made him so anxious—

He sniffed, wiping his face with the paw of his sweatshirt. If he was falling apart this bad, it must mean he was losing this challenge thing. But thinking of anxiety and then, well, Anxiety, Virgil…. the Artist wished he’d gotten to meet the two, too. Like every other bit, he did love them.

The sound of debris being scattered, then a surprised yelp. The Artist sighed, curling up tighter. God fucking damnit.

“What—I’ve—Artist?!” the Playwright asked.

The Artist was sat against the wall, cradling a bundle of broken paintings to his chest, previously white sweater dirtied with layers upon layers of paint. All around him, every painting that has previously been neatly stacked in the room was torn to shreds. Broken pieces of wood and canvases halved were strewn around the room in piles, or one thick pile, with only a small circle of ground around the Artist. Sketchbooks were torn, even the drawing tablet was — okay, the Playwright wasn’t going to look at that and think of the physical monetary price, because none of this was real. Holy shit, the Artist had put a hole into the wall of his house. There was a hole? He’d punched a hole into the wall? Good heavens.

The Playwright, in an effort to not damage any of his art, accidentally appeared on top of one of the piles. He fell over, landing on his butt amongst the shreds, and looked around wildly.

“What happened?” he asked once he caught sight of the Artist’s frozen figure in the corner, still since he arrived, “Did Dragon—”

“They weren’t good enough, so I tore them up,” the Artist whispered into his own folded arms.

The Playwright’s brow pinched in worry. That had happened only a few times before, where a single work had been so terrible that the Artist ripped it to shreds in anger, but he’d never done….this. And he especially wouldn’t have done this, since he had numerous pieces he wanted to show the other Sides.

He drew in a breath as his mind filled in the gap.

“Oh, Artist, what did they say?” the Playwright whispered, pushing himself up and slowly making his way closer.

“Nothing. Get away.”

He grit his teeth. The Artist was going to be difficult, wasn’t he? Now, now, it wasn’t a good time to lose his temper. He came with a job to do, and he wasn’t cruel enough to leave the Artist to be upset alone. And he needed his help. This was purely logical.

He wanted to laugh. Being logical was so taxing; how did Logan do it all the time?

“Artist. I’m not leaving,” the Playwright sat in front of him, “I take it that Logic and Morality didn’t take well to your paintings?”

He glanced up at the Playwright, quick enough to now show an expression but slow enough that the Playwright caught a glimpse of his tearstained eyes.

“They–They said my art’s unfinished. Logic did.”

The Playwright frowned. “Wait. That’s it?”

The Artist curled up more, and the Playwright gently put a hand on his forearm. “Wait, wait, I didn’t mean it  judgy. I just….that’s something you’ve complained about, too.”

To that, the Artist shot him a small glare. When the Playwright put it like that, then the Artist’s reaction seemed childish. “Yeah, but,” he sighed, “I didn’t want them to say anything about it.”

“Then why didn’t you warn them about it?” the Playwright asked, confused.

“Look, I don’t–I don’t know!” the Artist tossed the painting he was cradling aside and ran his hands through his hair, “It all happened so fast, and Padre was getting mad at me for not letting Child stay here. It—they both got upset at me, and they interrupted my painting, and Padre kept hugging me and it felt weird.”

The Playwright exhaled. He put a mental pin on the hugging thing — a similar thing had happened to him the other day, and he would have to talk to the others about what may be occurring — and then scooted closer again, sitting beside the Artist.

“Seeing as I wasn’t there, I cannot speak to what your argument may have been about. But I know that Logic and Morality wouldn’t have wanted to intentionally harm us.”

“How do you know, Pencil pusher?” the Artist hissed, though his words held an emptiness that betrayed his disbelief.

“Because they wouldn’t. They’re calloused, but they wouldn’t hurt us. Maybe Prince.”

The Artist snorted. “You really hate that guy.”

The Playwright smiled. Good. He cleared his throat and threw up his hands in the Prince’s signature style. “Hoo hoo, look at me, I’m a Disney Prince and I like singing songs and being an idiot!” he said, mockingly emphasizing a mispronunciation of “Disney.”

That got the Artist to laugh, shoving the Playwright gently. “Hey, hey, Disney’s cool! I’ll defend Disney to the death,” he rubbed the back of his neck.

The tension returned, but only slightly. The Playwright didn’t want to push him, but he was a little impatient for the Artist to pull himself together. His feet gently tapped against the ground in a small, familiar tune.

After what seemed like ages, the Artist let out a breath.

“....I did….overreact. A little,” he said. “The knife was too much.”

“A lot. Wait, did you say knife?”

“Yeah. I, um, I lost it a little.” He rubbed the back of his head again, looking up at the Playwright. “Thank you for sitting with me.”

The Playwright smiled. Wonderful. He patted the Artist’s arm comfortingly. “If I cannot comfort myself, then what am I doing?”

They both shared a small chuckle at that. It was easy to forget that they were two parts of a much more cohesive whole.

It was also easy to forget that the Playwright had something else he wanted to ask. He clapped, sitting upright and startling the Artist.

“Sorry,” he put his hands up, eyes blazing with new worry, “I actually came to ask something else — did you get invited to the party?”

The Artist’s brow furrowed. “The….party? No?”

“Oh, come, you must have,” the Playwright looked around.

The same envelope he’d received prior was sitting beside the Artist, on top of some of the ruined paintings. He picked it up and found two more envelopes beneath. “Great Ben Jonson, you got Logic and Morality’s invitations, too,” the Playwright flipped through the three cards and handed the one addressed to the Artist, to the Artist. “You must not have noticed it earlier. I got a letter similar, this morning. From Dragon.”

“From Dragon? Fuck, how’d he find us?” the Artist read the front and flipped it over again, tearing it open.

“I don’t know. Perhaps he just sent it to the location of whoever said Logic’s name last night. I also don’t know how he got backstage to deliver mine,” the Playwright read over his shoulder, “I honestly came here hoping to find the other Sides. We need to warn them.”

“We do? About what?” the Artist shot him a frown, but the Playwright just gestured to the paper, so he read the invitation.

His eyes scanned through it once. His body slowly tense as he realized what was being asked, and he flipped it over, checking all around the letter and the envelope that there wasn’t more.

“This,” the Artist reread the letter once more before lowering it and staring, stricken, at the Playwright, “This is a fucked up joke, right? Like, it’s gotta be a joke. Dragon’s Disney pranking us, without friends.”

“I don’t want to hazard that,” the Playwright stood up and motioned for the Artist to get up, “We need to find the others and warn them. If Logic and Morality’s invitations are here, then they must not know, and it’s a safe bet that if they don’t know, then Anxiety and Deceit don’t know, either.”

The Artist pushed himself up, rolling his sleeves up and wiping his face slowly. “He wouldn’t hurt them,” he mumbled. “Why’s he mentioning Prince, too?”

“I don’t know. And after what he did to Damsel?” The Artist rolled his eyes as the Playwright continued, “I don’t think Dragon would hesitate to hurt them, and he’s using the concept of Prince as bait.”

Goddamnit, he was probably right. The Artist rubbed his eyes and fixed his glasses. “Alright. I just,” God, he was hideous. “Should I change?”

The Playwright squinted. “Have you not left your house since this all started?”

“No,” the Artist looked at him like he was stupid, “Why would I?”

Alright. Alright, this was a predicament. The Playwright blew out a lot of air, eyebrows raising as he tried to figure out, in the most concise way, he could tell the Artist that he wanted to throttle him. His attire was absolutely not correct for the setting that they’d established, and he couldn’t fathom WHY the Artist wanted to parade around a medieval town looking like THAT.

No, you know what? It was fine. Sleep was walking around in a leather jacket, it’s FINE. Perhaps the Playwright was the only one who cared about the sanctity of the setting.

Meanwhile, the Artist looked around and waved his hand. The torn paintings all disappeared, leaving the room empty, looking larger than ever. The hole in the wall faded away, establishing itself as a solid wall once more. He looked down at his outfit and simply wiped it, the paint stains all disappearing as his hand passed over them, revealing a creamy-white color once more.

“That’s good enough,” the Playwright snapped, grabbing a fist of his shirt and tugging him forward, “Come on.”

[vastderp]

Okage: Shadow King is such a great little game.

been replaying Okage: Shadow King this past week or two and it’s both better and worse than I remember. worse in that oh my lord they released this game too early and it’s buggy as fuck. better as in HOLY SHIT WHAT A GREAT STORY. 

spoilers obviously.

like the part you play is fairly boilerplate RPG, but shit’s just... weird. the world is tiny, supposedly having been spared from a global catastrophe 300 years ago. roaming monsters all look like something a child would draw, except finished by a professional. There are monster paintings that are just crayon scribbles on a framed canvas. There is a floating anteater hanging from a party balloon. it has a scribbly checkered pattern that is only partly colored in, also with crayon. 

NPCs are not named, they’re “classified” by their roles in the story. every now and then a list comes from the King of all the new “classifications” for the inhabitants of the world, telling them what they are. So they’ll be called stuff like YOUNG MAN WHO BELIEVES IN JUSTICE (and who can never shut up about Justice) and SLEEPY TOWN MANAGER (who was merely drowsy until he got "classified” at which point he couldn’t stay awake anymore to do his job). 

the world is small and simplistic and the people are very limited, to the point of sometimes seeming to be sleepwalking. The NPC who watches over the nonfunctional train station is completely brain-fried, because there is no train and no purpose for him to fulfill but hey somebody needed a stationmaster for the train station scene. who is that guy? who was he before he was given his incredibly vague role? did it erase everything else about him? is that why he doesn’t know if he’s met me before?

half the people you talk to seem like fully realized individuals being mind controlled into playing a role. funny thing, that!

even the villains are just doing what a little voice told them. they got “classified” as an Evil King, and boom! evil powers! now the Hero has to go fight them! your character’s family are assholes who have sold your soul to the evil Shadow King (stan for short) in exchange for Stan reversing a pig latin curse on your older sister.

this matters because if your sister is forced to speak in pig latin, she will be “classified” (quotation marks are always around that word per game styling) as a comic relief girl and it will ruin her marriage prospects. we’re told “classifications” matter a lot in this world, as you will see for yourself later. something as simple as being “classified” as a different fictional character trope can and will result in your life and your actual personality changing to match it. It’s played for laughs, but imagine if you were a STRESSED-OUT SOPHOMORE and you went on a bad weekend pub crawl and got “classified” as a STUMBLING DRUNKARD three days from final exams.

anyway, your character has no “classification”. he’s so forgettable it just never happened, i guess? which makes him a perfect vessel for a power-drained demon king that needs to parasitize a person’s shadow to live. so, there you go. your job is to beat up the demons that stole Stan’s power, get him back to his full strength, and then... i dunno, watch your swordswoman companion and newly separated Stan fight to the death, probably. that’s what they plan on doing, anyway. and that’s what you’re told is the plot of the game. but nope, that’s just how you get to the plot. see, the fucked-upness of the world gets more and more apparent as you go. at first you can write it off as the gamemakers screwing up (this is a very rough game, so that is understandable) but it’s more than that.

after a while of truly lousy dungeons, hilarious dialogue and goofy monsters, there is a “joke” that you can hear from various NPCs. This joke is actually not a joke at all, but people can’t stop laughing long enough to tell the whole thing to you. the story is actually very sad, but because it’s “classified” as a joke, people are compelled to laugh at it and think of it as funny.

the story is about a parent turtle and its baby turtle. one day the baby turtle is playing in the safe little yard its parent made for it, and gets lost. while it’s looking for the baby, the parent comes across a pebble that looks like its baby, and takes it home all happy that it’s found its child. the real baby finds its way home, only to see the parent has replaced it with a damn rock. the parent turtle refuses to admit the pebble isn’t its real baby, because if it admits to its error, it would look stupid. deep down, the turtle knows the pebble isn’t really its child, that the real baby is out there somewhere alone because the parent can’t put aside its pride admit it’s been fooling itself all this time. 

that’s basically a fairy tale about a narcissistic parent, isn’t it? it’s also the story of the big bad of this game, who made your world into a toybox for his daughter to play in, until she disappeared into it. not to worry, he made a pebble doll that looks just like his missing child and enchanted it to seem alive. don’t remind him it’s not really her. just don’t.

so.

this game has been pretending up til now to be a cheeky parody of the RPG genre with weird details that makes no sense. now we find out another reason why things are this way: the shitty enemies, the dazed and “classified” NPCs, the weirdly non-threatening child’s drawing monsters, all of these things are the creations of the big bad, and they look this way because they’re meant to be safe, fun game pieces for a little kid to play with. 

“classification” is not just a winking acknowledgement of the genre, it’s an actual magical force used by the big bad to create roles for living human beings who are effectively mind controlled slaves. that’s some dark stuff right there, if you look past the cutesy video game storytelling for a sec and imagine what that must be like for the people. it’s a simple story, hidden inside the decoy RPG plot, but damn if it isn’t good.

so, about the the small world you can explore in the game: it used to be a lot bigger, but it’s been cut out of the much larger real world by magic and turned into a sort of childproofed playpen full of colorful NPCs specifically “classified” (presumably from the residents of the part of the world that got isolated) for the intended player to encounter on an adventure plot. 

You aren’t the intended player of the game, either. your protagonist is a random boring teenager who didn’t get “classified” at all, presumably because everyone, including the big bad, forgets he’s there. He was left off the list entirely, making him very useful to the opponent of the big bad, a former collaborator and “classification” worker who rebelled. this former collaborator is the same guy who originally spread the story of the turtle and the pebble to shame the big bad, by the way. to make the story go away, big bad tried to “classify” it as a joke. ok dude, you do you.

People who don’t get “classified” can act however they choose, it looks like. they don’t get stuck in the story like YOUNG MAN WHO BELIEVES IN JUSTICE, who can only stand on the sidewalk and talk about justice. somebody who wanted to fight the big bad, who’s always looking for gaps in the system to drive a wedge into, could really break the game if he could find someone who wasn’t “classified” to work through. he’s done it before (unsuccessfully) but this time around, your player character is that wedge. 

and what a wedge he is!

imagine Link running all those endless, thankless errands in all his endless, thankless incarnations. saving babies, fetching cheese, herding goats, getting no real say in things but always doing the hard work--that’s you. now imagine Link literally fades into invisibility from being ignored so hard. that is also you. as in, your character will disappear from existence at one point when the big bad decides you’re ruining his daughter’s RPG adventure (more like because you make him remember that she’s just a doll and not actually his missing daughter) and writes you out of the story. it’s easy to do because your character’s main trait is that people don’t really pay attention to him. even in the game itself, this character is just your vehicle to play Okage: Shadow King and enact the choices you make. (this game gets super meta and i love it.)

big bad just emphasizes your overshadowed (eh? ehhhh?) nature until you stop existing at all. 

while you’re invisible, you end up in the town of Triste, where ignored people gather. this whole sequence is just amazing--half the businesses are closed, or they’re open and you can hear music and smell food but no one is inside. a lot of people who are inside their homes won’t open the door and might yell at you to go away. some folks hang around outside and will talk to you. everyone is sad but happy to have this place to belong when no one else can see they exist. Triste is well-named (means “sad” in french). it’s basically the town of social anxiety, hesitation, longing and depression. and it’s amazing. 

you can find a closed up house where, when you knock, a guy inside yells “I HOPE IT BREAKS! THAT TINY WORLD OF YOURS!” like. someone’s extra mad at the big bad 0_0

and oh hey by the way, while you’re exploring this beautiful village of forgotten NPCs, you run into the voice of a certain princess who got lost in the world her father made for her to play in who knows how many hundreds of years ago. turns out this poor kid used to play all sorts of fun games in the world, but she ended up in Triste. while the doll version of her has adventures, she can watch through its eyes, so she knows you despite never having actually met. 

man, imagine being that poor baby turtle princess and having to wait around all alone in a town full of invisible sad people because your dad has replaced you, in his grief, with an enchanted doll. but now someone’s come to help her, someone who is also sad and alone because everyone’s forgotten them. your defining flaw as a character, your tendency to be neglected to the point of non-existence, is what allows you to connect with the lost princess. your sorrow brings you to a place where you can plan to make real change and fix your broken ass world. i fucking love that! 

first you have to get people to acknowledge you so you will stop being invisible, and then you have to confront the big bad’s weird grief-crazy reign of terror, bring the real princess back from Triste, and end the “classification” system that keeps the world isolated and its people enslaved. somewhere in all of this, you will also presumably need to deal with the fully-powered Shadow King, but eh. later for that. 

this is the ps4 version, so first i have to get the goddamn Q of Hearts for the platinum trophy. THEN we’ll deal with Stan.

[europeanguy]

Gotta Gogh [Part 1: Tour-guiding for Dummies]

Pairing: Nadia x Maxwell

Genre: Fluff (?)

Words: 1,684

Tags: Canon Divergence, Crossovers, Curse words probably, The Riot Club!AU sort of

- an accompanying fic for this drawing

There were two people looking at the Cordonian Ruby — Nadia assumed they were a couple by the way that they stood a little too close together and the magnetic energy that seemed to spark between them. Like she couldn’t have pulled them apart if she tried.

Two girls. Well, women. One was tall, tan, and toned to the gods. She probably modeled, or played sports professionally. The other one was shorter, medium blonde hair done in a side-braid, pretty enough to be an actress. Neither was Nadia’s type of course. She looked at them the way she looked at Picasso’s paintings — she likes what she sees. It was a nice sight.

The tall one snakes an arm around the blonde’s waist as they walk away and once again, Nadia was alone. Like something in this museum would come alive any second now. Nadia swore that one time that the portrait of the late Queen Kenna Rys blinked at her, but that was probably the result of caffeine withdrawals.

 “Welcome home,” – the letter said. Nadia could never forget the feeling when she received her acceptance letter — it was like getting accepted to Hogwarts — if Hogwarts had exchange programs that would only last for one semester. 

The University of Cordonia had a thriving student population of 5,000 (they were very selective) — composed of the country’s finest minds or filthy rich. You could be either or both. They offered an amazing Fine Arts program, given the country’s own rich history and deep love for the arts. Not to mention the white sand beaches, castles, princes she could bring home and make Kai so jealous with — but the truth is, it’s been two weeks and Nadia had been nothing but lonely. She hasn’t so much as dipped one toe into the ocean, visited a castle, nor met a prince (this one was unrealistic, even Nadia would admit so). So far her only friend would be Otis — the museum custodian — who happens to be sixty-eight and hard of hearing.

 The next day Nadia is greeted by a boatload (literally a boatload – well, cruise ship) of tourists. She was advised by the financial aid admin through a phone call to be prepared with extra research this time as to not repeat the Cordonian Ruby incident.

“Look, I know you try your best, but please be more careful this time,” Nadia could hear the anxiety radiating off of Helena’s voice. “I was advised that the Pierce moneybags would be present today.”

“...moneybags?”

“Yes! They’re looking to invest in the museum.”

Nadia looks around the empty entrance hall from her chair. If there was a speck of dust anywhere she wouldn’t be able to spot it (care of Otis). The rooms were individually temperature-controlled. They even had wifi.

“Do we even need it?”

Helena heaves a sigh so loud that Nadia could almost feel her exasperation herself. “Yes, Nadia, we need it! It can give us access to public collections, long-term maintenance,”

Nadia’s mouth forms into a small “o”.

“And think about Otis, he can retire right now and be at home, not worrying about anything because the museum WILL generously pay for his retirement plus pension!”

“I think Otis wants to live here until he dies.” Nadia whispers.

“Bottomline is, Nadia, you have to know what you’re talking about this time.”

“Yes, I know you’re referring to the Cordonian Ruby incident-“

“Don’t call it that.”

“Anyway, the incident — well, it’s not gonna happen again. Don’t worry.” In hindsight, Nadia’s first lesson should have been The Significance of Apples in Cordonian Culture 101. It would explain so much.

“Right. I trust you,” Helena says. “They’ll be arriving at around eleven in the morning.”

 The tourists arrive right on the clock, they had a tour guide of their own (a giant 6’5 guy who looked like he could bench press three of her, plus Otis) but apparently the boss-man Bartholomew Pierce wanted someone who was more familiar with Cordonian art scene. Nadia was hardly a local, but she had been studying nothing but the country’s art everyday since she got here – she lived and breathed it. Well, for two weeks anyway.

Chaz – the tour guide – hands Nadia a blue flag with “EOS” on it. “You can take it from here,”

The crowd was pretty small, more or less forty people, she wouldn’t need a flag. It’s not like the museum had other people aside from the group. “EOS?” Nadia gingerly takes the goofy flag.

“Ember of the Sea.”

“Shouldn’t it be EOTS?”

Chaz snorts. “No that sounds stupid, now go.”

 Nadia takes her place in front of the group, holding the blue flag above her head. “Hi everyone, I’m Nadia, on behalf of the University of Cordonia, I’d like to welcome you all to the museum,” She takes a deep breath before continuing. God, public-speaking never gets easier. “Firstly, I ask that you do not touch anything, and please do not deviate from the group-“

 The tour goes surprisingly well. Nadia studied up on the Cordonian Ruby (the country’s Mona Lisa – in terms of notoriety). Oil on canvas, commissioned by King Fabian – a direct ancestor of the current royal family, painted by an anonymous artist in 1816. The artist was rumored to be a mixed English noblewoman who became a lover of the young King, resulting into her painting the Cordonian Ruby, a gift to symbolize her love. However, she died of heartbreak since the late King loved his Lythikos Moscato and other mistresses more than her.

 Nadia leads the group to the portraits section – or as she secretly calls it stuffy-rich-people-paintings – and with this she gets to relax a bit. She tells them a few facts, lands one or two (Helena-approved, non-offensive) jokes, and lets the group disperse across the room to let them look at the art without her spewing random information about how Luther Nevrakis from The Crown and The Flame is actually based off of a real Luther Nevrakis who wasn’t a super-villain. Well, an obvious super-villain.

 “Nadia?” A pre-teen girl approaches her, followed by a… twin? Except the second one wore glasses and a slightly embarrassed look on her face. “Who do you think is hotter?”

“We’re trying to settle an argument.” Glasses explained. They gesture to a family portrait of stoic looking parents – the mother’s expression a little warmer than the father’s – and two starkly different brothers. One with black hair and fierce gaze, and a younger one with brown hair and the tiniest smile on his face.

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable talking about boys your age…” Nadia laughs awkwardly.

“Well, they’re dead so it doesn’t matter… right?” The first twin looks at Glasses. She simply shrugs.

“I don’t care I don’t even like boys.” Glasses pushes up her specs on the bridge of her nose as-a-matter-of-factly. “But now that she said it, it is really weird to ask her that.”

Nadia checks the information plate beneath the family portrait. Beaumont, 2004. “Well, this was seven years ago, so I don’t think they’re dead.”

A small, and sudden racket at the other end of the room captures Nadia’s and the twins’ attention. A group of boys (students, probably) were speed-walking through the room, laughing in a way that disturbed the peaceful vibe – and Nadia realizes that they were walking towards the one place that only Otis is allowed in. He explicitly told her to never go there or let anyone in. It was a tall and narrow arch-way that leads to a grand curving staircase, but that was only as far as Nadia saw. She wasn’t the type to break rules anyway. 

The first guy jumps over the velvet rope, followed by a second guy who merely steps over it. Before the last one could lift his feet, Nadia’s onto their heels.

“Sir, you can’t go through there!”

The first one is long gone, already shooting up the staircase like a man child on a sugar-rush. The other two turn around looking like they just became aware of her presence – along with the other tourists. The middle one looks snooty – expensive coat, slicked back hair. He doesn’t acknowledge Nadia, instead he turns to his friend. “Handle this.” With one last judging look at Nadia, Slick turns around to follow the first one up the staircase. “Leo, wait up!”

“Um-!” Nadia could feel the heat rising up her cheeks. Oh, she would follow them up the stairs, damn Otis’ rules, she would like to give these entitled boys a piece of her mind-

Someone clears their throat. Nadia looks up at him, the only guy left, – he was tall and broad-shouldered, brown wind-blown hair, and an amused expression in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything, instead he lifts his gaze from Nadia to a painting on her right. Nadia turns to where he’s looking and it registers on her. Same brown hair as the kid, same smile, only this time he was alone in the portrait and older. The plate said 2010. One year ago, and the man on the portrait was standing right next to her.

Shit.

A small part of Nadia still wanted to climb up the stairs and kick them out the window, but a bigger, smarter, part of her knew that if this guy was important enough to have his portrait hung in the same room as a prince – let alone the fact that he even had a portrait, in this case two – she had better start apologizing.

“I… am so, SO, sorry.” I’ve been here two weeks please don’t have me kicked out of Cordonia or assassinated I’m still young I still have dreams-

“Hey,” he flashes her an embarrassed smile and Nadia’s cheeks heat up. “It’s fine, honestly.”

“Max!!” Someone calls from upstairs. Probably Slick.

“Sorry, I gotta go.” He looks apologetic as he turns around to walk away, but not without looking at Nadia over his shoulder.

 “Whoa, he is hot,” Glasses and her twin suddenly appear beside her. “Okay, Jess, you win I guess.” Glasses shrugs, but Jess’s jaw is still dropped.

“That was… the Beaumont guy…” she says, looking at his solo portrait.

And sure enough, when Nadia reads the plate under his painting, it says Maxwell Percival Beaumont (2010), oil on canvas.

to be continued

FUN FACTS that you don’t have to read but the story will make more sense if you do lol and honestly I just really like fun facts pls read... please?

Title:

- I literally chose “Gotta Gogh” on a whim

Canon divergence:

- This takes place in 2011. Maxwell is 21 (1990) and Nadia is 19 (1992).

- This is inspired by that one scene in the riot club. There WILL be a version of the riot club in later parts, but it will be small since its mostly about Nads and Max.

Names:

- Otis means “keen of hearing”

- Helena the financial aid administrator is just a Cordonian parody of Helen Twombly. Points for creativity lmao honestly i just imagined helen twombly but it wouldnt make sense for her to be in cordonia

The Cordonian Ruby:

- The anonymous artist is the D&D MC and her death is based on the actual wife of the Prince Regent (George IV), Princess Caroline who “died of a heartbreak” - a cold hard fact. Jk, no, but she was in a toxic marriage and it was just a Bad Situation. George IV had several mistresses, fathered illegitimate children, and apparently was a Party Boy and he was an immensely unpopular ruler. This is all based off of my art history professor telling us Georgian Era gossip instead of sticking to the syllabus.

- The mystery of what the Cordonian Ruby Incident will never be solved. That is, until I actually know what happened during the “incident” HAHAHA

Progress:

- I wasn’t gonna post this originally, I just wrote it on my phone during a 3-hour trip (I got inspired by my own drawing LMAO) and I kept updating it during the week every night before I slept and suddenly it just blossomed into something that I kept thinking about so now it’s a fic!

- I will be posting more art and updates on max and nadia’s story in the near future lol I already know how it ends so dw I’ll come thru and finish this! (probably around 4-5 parts)

[kiruuuuu]

Kapkan/Glaz oneshot in which Glaz celebrates his birthday and Kapkan is cocky. (Rating E, explicit sex/fluff, ~2.6k words) - written for @r6shippingdelivery, happy (belated) birthday!! 💖💖 Sorry I’m late in delivering you more Kapkan but he was a little tied up.

.

Oddly enough, Glaz’ first impulse is to draw. His birthday present is neatly wrapped up in front of him, presented in an aesthetically pleasing way and looking so blindingly beautiful a part of him is tempted to postpone the obvious in favour of immortalising the view on paper. The contrast between black lines crisply cutting across the pale canvas is stunning, impulses making the fair surface move, seemingly shying away from Glaz’ intense gaze yet having nowhere to go. Digits twitch in vain, rendered useless by the dark rope holding the masterpiece together, functioning both as restraints and decoration.

His eyes travel over the broad back only visible in segments where the ropes don’t cover it, arched as well as adorned with two strong arms whose wrists have been tied to the opposite elbow, incapacitating this otherwise wild creature Glaz has only begun to tame recently. Toned thighs and calves are also bound together, effectively making any sort of escape and most kinds of movement impossible. A towel between teeth and another strip of fabric over eyes rob the face with the sharp features of its vision and ability to communicate verbally, part of it pushed into the sheets of Glaz’ bed as if it was trying to hide its reddened cheeks.

Before him, Kapkan lies on his knees, powerless and completely at his disposal, his most intimate spot exposed, shaft pointing downwards and, just like the testicles, also encased in braided cotton and visibly excited. It’s a sight for the gods. Glaz can’t help himself anymore, reaches out and encircles the hot flesh with his fingers, gives an experimental tug which prompts a small noise he decides he likes a lot and therefore repeats the motion a few times, cock jumping eagerly in his grip. As he thought – Kapkan is enjoying this immensely.

They worked up to it. In the beginning of their tentative relationship, Kapkan was the one pushing for more, seemingly dictating the course their affections are supposed to take, smiling whenever Glaz tripped over himself and teasing him whenever he could. Despite adapting to Kapkan’s wishes, allowing him to choose for the both of them and essentially be the superior party, Glaz was far from unhappy – though now that he’s started to be more confident, actually believe Kapkan when he says or implies how much Glaz means to him, the initial power imbalance has shifted. They’re on the same level now, Glaz daring to say no when he doesn’t feel like doing something instead of accepting just to appeal to Kapkan and in turn, Kapkan seeks him out for advice or his opinions more often. By now, they’ve worked out an equilibrium which both of them wholly enjoy.

This change over time is represented in their sex life as well, began when Glaz’ hand slipped from Kapkan’s cheek to his throat at some point, didn’t even press down, merely caressed the vulnerable spot and made Kapkan come in seconds, accompanied by a vicious growl and a few heartfelt curses. Glaz was intrigued. Further experimentation revealed that Kapkan gets off on relinquishing control while simultaneously requiring absolute trust in order to feel safe while doing so, which led to a series of extremely satisfying ventures, the result of which is currently displayed for Glaz to consume. His birthday was the perfect excuse not only for him but really for the both of them, and so he takes his time to explore the familiar body in front of him anew, not having to worry about Kapkan complaining or staring at him impatiently as he strokes over his plump behind.

After a particularly dismayed sound, Glaz sighs, slaps the skin lightly in response and picks up the bottle next to him. Kapkan always wants it hard and fast and now, often disregarding Glaz’ desire to prolong their lovemaking – at least in the cases where he has the power to do so. Right now, he doesn’t, so Glaz promises himself to take his time while warming up the lube poured onto his fingers. When he touches the pad of one of them to Kapkan’s ring of muscle, he flinches before relaxing into it seeing as all Glaz does for the moment is to massage gently, smear some of the viscous liquid around it to ease later activities. He’s sensitive and Glaz drinks in all his reactions while working him open with endless patience, smiles at the blissful hums and the way his lover tries pushing back against the intrusion after a while.

Like this, Glaz feels unobserved, less inhibited and therefore rakes his gaze over the naked body at his mercy unashamedly, looks and feels his fill, digs his fingertips into the hard muscles of Kapkan’s back and legs, pulls lightly on the ropes, strokes over his ass while the digits of his other hand plunge deep into the impossible heat. It’s tight, it’s been a while since they’ve done this, and so he takes extra care to scissor his fingers, push a third one inside, and grins when Kapkan lets out his first moan. “You look so good like this”, Glaz tells him earnestly and earns a grunt in return. Kapkan gets flustered by compliments, especially in bed, but he can hardly complain now. “Absolutely stunning.”

Kapkan’s fingers twitch again when Glaz brushes over his sweet spot, curl in when he keeps stroking over it and it only takes a few seconds for him to start rocking against Glaz’ hand, whimpering quietly and making Glaz’ own erection throb. It’s incredibly erotic to have this confident and assertive man in the palm of his hand and so he doesn’t give in even when he’s sure Kapkan is prepared enough, instead massages his prostate a little longer and decides to taste his skin. He sucks a deep purple lovebite onto the side of Kapkan’s thigh, adds another when his reward is an angry growl and even marks the spot right above the hipbone with his lips – he’s normally not allowed to do this but hey, it’s his birthday.

Upon pressing a kiss into Kapkan’s palm, cool fingers brush over his cheek gently, making him smile and convincing him the other man has suffered enough. He’s even more beautiful now, face flushed, glistening hole contracting hungrily, drops of precum leaking from the tip of his cock and Glaz considers licking it off. Desire is thrumming in his veins, however, a dull throb enticing him to claim Kapkan for himself, and so he slicks up his own dick, the few strokes leaving him even more eager. He scoots closer, touches his tip to the ring of muscle and asks: “Are you ready?” His response is a nod. Not good enough. Kapkan automatically strains towards him but Glaz moves with him, denies that which he wants so badly. “You sure?”

A pitiful whine and another attempt at finishing the job himself, so Glaz grabs the base of his erection and rubs the tip over Kapkan’s hole, circling it, brushing over it but never pressing in. It’s sweet torture for himself as well and he can only imagine how desperate Kapkan must feel, hands grabbing at air and eyes forcibly kept blind so every sensation is sharpened, every other sense of his heightened. “Maxim, darling. Answer me.” This time, he doesn’t only receive a nod in return but also a muffled uh huh which gets repeated more and more frantically the longer he teases him.

“Alright”, he says finally and chuckles when Kapkan sighs in relief, “happy birthday to me.”

Despite all the preparation, Kapkan is still tight around his dick, his walls gripping Glaz fiercely and slowing down progress as he pushes in, mind reeling from how insanely good he feels. He can’t get enough of his lover as it is, his dry wit, generous displays of affection and neverending curiosity, so this is the cherry on top. He allows a few groans to escape his throat as he bottoms out and feels Kapkan squeezing around him. “Stop – stop doing that. I’m already -” The cheeky bastard is not, in fact, stopping, quite the opposite, instead he clenches harder and seems to expel all the air in Glaz’ lungs with it as well. “Maxim, don’t. I want – I want to -” Kapkan continues all the same, is probably grinning to himself gleefully and that’s it. That is it.

Glaz grabs the intricate pattern spanning Kapkan’s shoulder blades, withdraws and slams back into him, making both of them gasp and rocking Kapkan’s entire body. If this is what he wants, he can have it; to hell with taking his time, the only thing he’s going to take now is Kapkan.

The rope turns out to be perfect for this; holding Kapkan in place or dragging him onto his cock to meet his harsh thrusts is remarkably easy with the added benefit of making him squirm under him, revenge for the unintelligible noises coming from Kapkan which quite clearly express his delight upon having gotten under Glaz’ skin. With every motion, Glaz buries himself deep inside, relishing the feel of his lover and hoping Kapkan, in turn, can feel every ridge of Glaz’ dick.

Normally, he’d slow down after a while but the fact that Kapkan can’t see him, can’t remark on anything he’s doing is strangely freeing, inviting him to let himself go fully without considering the consequences – after all, this is his present and he should be allowed to do with it what he wants. And so he simply concentrates on all the sensations washing over him, the lovely friction which is dragging him closer and closer to the edge, Kapkan’s muscles dancing below where his fingers are pushed between his skin and the restraints, and the heat pooling in his stomach. Kapkan’s hands are balled into fists now, his thighs shuddering with every fierce motion and each thrust forcing a small moan out of him. He’s on cloud nine, judging by his reactions, willingly moving against Glaz and panting into the mattress; fortunately the knot in the towel stops him from drooling everywhere or else there’d be two wet spots afterwards.

Glaz never lasts long like this, it’s too deep, too intense, so he experiments with different angles until he’s found the one that has Kapkan cry out helplessly. He keeps at it, rubs over that special spot inside him with every movement and reduces him to a shaking mess in no time, by now unable to keep up and merely letting himself be pulled back onto Glaz’ cock over and over again while his hole contracts viciously around it. It’s carnal and frantic, Glaz chasing his climax which draws nearer with each time he reaches deep inside and then Kapkan starts mumbling something that sounds like his name, repeats it like a mantra and it’s pleading, hopeful, and too much.

He comes with a relieved groan, his body curling up against Kapkan’s back as his orgasm hits him suddenly, knocking the air out of him. His cock pulses and releases spurts of semen into Kapkan’s insides, fills him more with every throb while elating pleasure rushes through his entire body, all the way into his fingertips and toes. Glaz shudders when Kapkan milks him with a few more squeezes, moaning quietly at the feel of his lover coming inside and it’s exhilarating, sweet release after a much too fast build up but it’s more than worth it, leaves him giddy and satisfied.

Now, while sobering up, Glaz realises that he once again got caught up in Kapkan’s pace – even tied up, blindfolded and gagged, the man still manages to get the upper hand over him. He pulls out gingerly while enjoying the pleasant aftershocks zapping through him and heaves a contented sigh. He can’t even be upset, not when it felt this amazing and even less when seeing how wrecked Kapkan looks, some of the ropes slipped aside, a fine sheen of sweat covering his bound body and heavy breaths causing his ribcage to push against the restraints. His dick is rock hard and twitching under Glaz’ gaze, so he decides to take pity on this pathetic yet somehow adorable man.

Gently, he pushes two fingers into where his own dick has just been, prompting a groan from Kapkan, and softly prods at his prostate once more. He could just get some more lube and jerk him off like this but an idea takes hold in his mind which is extremely tempting. Reaching deeper and coming into contact with his own sperm, he realises that he can’t scoop it out without help. “Push it out”, he says and would never be this bold if Kapkan had the chance to retort something – even the disbelieving noise he makes has Glaz’ cheeks darkening in embarrassment. “Come on. You do want me to finish you off, don’t you?”

When Kapkan obliges, Glaz catches most of it in his other hand and bites his lip at how fucking hot the sight is – not that he’s going to admit that to Kapkan later, definitely not – before wrapping it around his shaft, using the warm liquid as lube as he continues to stroke over his prostate. He’s ambidextrous enough to fulfil both tasks more than just satisfactorily and not even a minute later, Kapkan is so close his entire body is tensing up. Now, however, Glaz is taking it slow, stops the hand on Kapkan’s cock several times while the other continues massaging him mercilessly, nudging moan after moan out of him and making him shake. Glaz memorises the view and considers sketching it later but dismisses the thought; he wouldn’t want anyone to find it. Probably not even Kapkan.

Eventually, he’s generous enough to allow Kapkan to come, speeds up his strokes and squeezes the head until he orgasms almost violently, tenses up even more which can’t be comfortable and rides his climax out by thrusting into Glaz’ proffered fist as much as the ropes allow it. He’s probably crying at this point – a downside of the blindfold, Glaz can’t be sure – and the sounds ripped from his throat are both blissful and fierce. Only when he’s stopped shuddering does Glaz remove both his hands and inspect the mess on the sheets almost proudly. Kapkan came a lot.

The clean-up gets postponed to later seeing as they both need a shower, and so Glaz merely unties him, helps him remove the gag and massage the feeling back into his arms and legs, exchanging a few affectionate words with Kapkan who appears slightly dazed. The warm water helps him back into full consciousness and for a while, they do nothing but kiss under the steady stream of water drumming onto their heated skin. Kapkan is never more cuddly than after sex, his hands never once leaving Glaz’ body while they wash the sweat, come and lube off of them and it almost makes up for him always trying to best Glaz.

“Next time, it’s my turn”, he murmurs into Glaz’ ear, “see how you like getting teased like this.” His submissiveness is completely gone and replaced by his usual attitude, and yet they both know how it’s going to go: Kapkan will boast about all his plans and set Glaz on fire with his words alone – only he won’t be the one carrying them out. Glaz will suggest they switch instead, with him taking control once more, and Kapkan will pretend to fight it but ultimately relent, and the whole cycle begins anew. He’s looking forward to it. “Happy birthday, my love. I wish you all the best.”

Glaz just smiles at the idiot in his arms and thinks: I already have it.

[falcon6]

Learning to Create

It’s really difficult for me to admit that I’m an artist of any capacity. A lot of times, I consider that sort of term to be dedicated only to the working artist. You know, the ones who actually get paid for their work. The ones who end up creating things for everyone. The ones I admire greatly, to the point that I consider them to be living on Mt. Olympus while I’m stuck at a temple waiting for a chariot up a very steep road.

The place I work at now is a place where I don’t get to really create for myself. I create for other people. When I’m done there, I seldom get to make things for myself at home. There is an effort, of course, when I’m able to do so, but it’s hard to be that focused after toiling a retail job for 7 hours a day. You end up taking the opportunity to decompress and that ends up becoming an 8-hour decompress and you need to go to bed. That’s how it is for an adult, I guess. Don’t recommend growing up.

And that “9-5 Job, Now Do Nothing For Hours” mindset is something I need to work on, to be sure. In my mind, I see myself as someone who needs to be able to do something. I can’t make art to decompress, because art is supposed to be something important. I toil and toil, thinking about the process I need to decide on doing. “How do I become an artist like my favorite artists?” “What is the correct methods of learning it?”

How do I climb the mountain and join the greats?

In my monthly stint of introspection, I was watching a friend play Paper Mario: The Thousand-Year Door. To this day, it may still be my favorite game. Watching it again brings back a lot of genuinely good memories, both inside and outside of the game. The charm that filled the game’s varied and interesting world and cast has still yet to be matched for my personal tastes. And for years, it was the game I played whenever I needed a good pick-me-up.

Watching him play it for the first time and getting to hear the same sort of reactions I had to it 14 years ago ended up bringing an...odd memory back to me. And it involves this image.

Low-Quality Vivian For The Low-Quality Needs

Perhaps not this specific image in particular - the internet could have phased out that one- but something similar to it.

See, back in 2004 I was just getting in on the whole Internet thing. This was back when people used what was called an “internet forum”. This was a place where people can post their thoughts on a wide range of topics, such as: “How do you jump in Metroid?”, “This game sucks”, and “Do you think Kingdom Hearts 2 will be on Gamecube?”.

I was part of one forum for a good part of my teenage life. I started at around January of 2004, in fact. I suppose I consider that a turning point in my life if I remember it to that degree.

I was fairly active in that forum. And as I began to make my posts, I began to notice something. At the bottom of every post was what you called a signature.

Copyright Falcon 2018, filed under the Trademark of Best Girl 2004

They were a cute little way to signify that you were the one who was making the post. It was one of the small creative outlets this particular forum had given users, though you still needed it to be both 45-ish pixels tall and kept at a low file size to help those with 56k modems.

Typing that out makes me feel really old.

There were people who were making these small images underneath their posts and the cool, hip guy I was as a teenager was like “OH BOY I WANNA DO THAT TOO!”. Of course, in order to create this sort of stuff I had to be...sneaky.

Back then, I found a pirated copy of Paint Shop Pro 7. It worked decently enough for me, but as I was a young lad with strong moral values - I didn’t even curse until well into my later teens, the frickin’ twit - I felt extremely guilty doing this. So for my birthday that year, I ended up getting a legit copy of Paint Shop Pro 8. It was at that point, I suppose, that my desire to create stuff was ignited. I was thrown into the wide world of graphic design, making sigs for myself and others.

I eventually upgraded to Photoshop 7 - after throwing away all of those moral values and growing the confidence to say the fuck-word - walking even further into this new world for me. I started making signatures for people in flashier ways, abused lens flare to the point of blinding half of Nintendo fanboys, and even dabbled in creating wallpapers for people to use. This was back when 1024x768 was the norm, if you can believe that.

I talk about this because when my friend was playing TTYD, I decided to look up art of some characters again, and found Vivian - one of the party members in the game - once more. Only, this time, in a way higher fidelity than I had 14 years ago.

Best Girl in A Good Resolution.

In general, I’d consider TTYD as the game that first got me encroaching into graphic design. This was not due to the game’s art, which is still fantastic, but because of so many people suddenly wanting signatures of their favorite new party members in that restrictive 48 pixel height.

I would get private messages in the forum asking for sigs with Mario, Goombella, Koops, Yoshi, Vivian, Bobbery, the X-Nauts, Bowser, Peach...Rawk Hawk a few times...even had Zess T. the cook in there. It was wild.

So imagine my surprise going through Google Image Search for a post about Vivian and finding an image of her that was extremely close to the kind of art I had to work with back then. I worked for a long time trying to figure out how to deal with the blur of the pisspoor scan with its low resolution and JPEG artifacts. Back then, finding official art was pretty difficult alone, and official art that actually looked like it was scanned with proper care? You were basically stuck with what you had and needed to figure out how to hide it. The people who could find clean concept art became our dealer providing the good shit while we provided our services to others.

Otherwise, you just worked with what you had. This was problem solving. Back then, you didn’t have access to as many tutorials as you do now. You absolutely didn’t have as much access to tablets. Those were from Wacom only and they were expensive. So you were essentially on your own, only getting help from the occasional artist who decided to make small tutorials on the forum.

Thankfully most of the people for signature requests were also teenagers as well, who just thought you were amazing for doing this for them.

I suppose all this reminiscing got me thinking about that mountain again. The paths up the mountain are long but they’re rarely ever getting longer or shorter, just easier to traverse. Nowadays, tablets are so much easier to acquire and art programs have gotten a lot more manageable. Art you want to look at or study or even use for your small projects are readily available, with services that makes buying personalized art easy and supporting artists even easier.

The knowledge about art programs and processes is nigh-infinite at this point. You can get a young artist’s commentary about their own virtues of art in a single tweet at lunch and get an experienced artist’s commentary at dinner. You can get atelier-level art lessons for free on Youtube.

Almost anything you want to learn is feasible now. Climbing the mountain is easier than ever.

So naturally, with my inferiority complex in full swing, I always have to ask myself why I haven’t started climbing the mountain yet. Why haven’t I just started the trek up the mountain pass already towards becoming a technically-skilled artist?

And the answer is, I am.

It’s just at my pace.

When I was a kid playing make-believe with others in the playground, I was making steps. Throughout all my teenage years of making signatures for people, making wallpapers for others, and even making a properly-awful sprite comic, I was making steps. When I was getting people stealing my sketchbook and making marks over my drawing of a Sonic character at lunch in high school, I was still making steps. When I was being critiqued by people for my skills in ways I felt were unfair or spiteful, I was still making steps. Every time I open Photoshop or SAI and stare at a blank canvas and will myself into making a mark on there, I’m still making a step.

Every step further from the start point, which is far and away from where I am now.

In my mind, I still can’t help but feel like where I should be is as some sort of master of art, but it’s really not fair to me. In hindsight, if I had drawn something every single day with intent, I could be a technical genius with knowledge of all the principles of design lodged firmly in my mind. It sounds amazing, but that’s not something I did.

Considering “what could have been” ignores what I am now. I am someone with knowledge in these various programs for over 14 years. I’ve dabbled in multiple projects, some in my own design. I can consider those things invariably shit, but the stuff I did there was stuff I did on my own terms, which I learned from. I wrote fanfics, did signatures for people, made wallpapers and webcomics, designed websites, did roleplaying, made a storyline based on friends’ characters in an MMO, and played tabletop games creating characters that became some of my favorite creations in my lifetime.

I would never want to trade that away for some sort of technical skill level-up. I’ve made too many great friends because of all of this. I am who I am because of how I’ve gotten here.

Learning how to create is all about taking the opportunities as they come along. Even this post is, essentially, me seeing one image online after a game session with friends and getting a nostalgia blast for something completely unrelated to the game itself.

The act of creating is simply doing. If you do, you create. If you create, you create art.

If you create art, you are an artist.

Don’t let your inner thoughts dissuade you from that fact, ever.

Thanks for reading.

[tryagainmv]

ad nauseam (part two)

part two: two lonely people we were

➷ you had never known the meaning of lovesickness until you had crossed paths with na jaemin.

part one: strangers in the night ❧ part three: up to the moment we said our first hello

warning: cursing, violence.

you’ve been in this town for one day, and you’re already dreading the concept of spending a summer like this.

in a town where everything mirrored the life you had just left, with the exception of the familiar storefronts and neighbourhoods and faces strolling down the sidewalks. you had worked yourself up, your oh-so-big jump, to leap a puddle and land in the corner of the muddy water. you still had the same coast, but different shops. you still had the same red brick buildings lining the main streets, but different names. you still had the same loft apartments over every single business, but with different numbers. you were living in a strange, but parallel universe.

you didn’t know if it was because you had built up your first taste of self-sufficiency, your first taste of the freedom of living away from parents and from the same cracks in the road you had caught your shoe toe in, or if it was because you had unfinished business from the night before, if you can even call that business. it felt more like comfortable anarchy, the wild beat of your heart against the steady beat of the drum fighting the smooth beat of your lips against his.

you didn’t deny that whenever you closed your eyes, you could almost picture yourselves, his arm holding you against him, your heads cradled together, silhouetted against the raging sunset orange fire, blending into one shadow as the orange flicker outlined you. between the crackling of the fire behind you two and the connection of your hearts, you didn’t know what created the sparks that floated in the night sky among the stars. however, you refused to admit that when you had driven past the cliff on your way out, you had spared a glance towards the field where your softly swaying feet had worn another sparse patch into the rocky earth.

you refused to admit that the boy named na jaemin held anything over you but a memory.

but you felt yourself wanting to reverse time and catch him before he slipped away, before he sent you that last glance and molded into the night crowd so seamlessly that made you wonder whether the boy was a human or a figment of your imagination. a guilty conscience trying to hold you back in the place that you had been so relieved to part from.

whoever jaemin was, you refused to admit that the stranger in the night had put another pair of shackles on your rubbed-raw wrists.

but for now, you’d make do in the parallel universe you lived in.

as your feet crossed the threshold from sidewalk to linoleum, you felt the cold push of the frozen air and the sweet wave of ice cream collide with your senses. you inhaled the cream-filled air and walked up to where your new coworker was waiting, his brown hair visible over the cash register as he made eye contact with you and gave you a soft wave, beckoning you to the false countertop which he swung open.

“you came ready in your uniform! i have your apron and name tag in the back, they’re folded just beside the cooler room door,” he said, pointing you down the narrow hallway lined with extra cones and napkin containers. “i’m renjun.”

he pointed to his green and pink name tag, wiggling it and shooting you a toothy smile. he had a small snaggletooth, and you felt yourself smiling back at the soft boy.

“i’ll be y/n, once i get my name tag,” you laughed back, walking past him to grab your apron and name tag and put them on, renjun coming up behind you to tie the top strap of your white cloth covering.

you thanked him and slid the pin of your lacquer name tag onto the thin white cloth, and you presented yourself to a renjun who gave you a thumbs up and another smile. he showed you the ropes quickly, the cleaning of the scoops and how to work the new electronic register. you learned that his dad owned the shop and that him and his older brother ran it now that his father was getting older. his older brother was named kun, and he was the manager that only worked the night shifts while renjun worked the days. it was obvious how much he knew about this shop and the way it had been run for years, that it was both ice cream and blood that flowed through the sweet boy’s veins.

“one more thing,” renjun says, only after he’s decided your scooping is satisfactory.

“yeah, shoot,” you respond, taking a bite of your final cone product so that the ice cream wouldn’t go to waste.

“uh, because of our… location beside the beach, we draw a pretty sketchy crowd around the early afternoons. don’t let them phase you, okay? they’re harmless, mostly.” he rubs the back of his neck and you smile, biting the rest of your sugar cone and throwing the paper shell into the trash below the counter.

“renjun, don’t worry. i’ll be okay,” you smile, giving him a thumbs up as you go to open up the shop.

renjun had told you that it was the newbie’s initiation to flip the paper ‘open’ sign and officially start their first workday at green rose ice cream parlour. you appeased him, despite your complete disinterest in the small rituals that he seemed to value so highly. you didn’t want to make your boss think of you as flippant, as disrespectful or uncooperative, and you didn’t want to make the soft looking boy upset. so you flip the open sign as the clock hits ten and immediately spot a few groups of people make their way towards the cute shop perched a street away from the tourist-filled beach.

you slipped into your place back behind the glass walls and tubs of ice-cream and took your position at the cash register, ready to ring up the first customers of the day while renjun crafted his beautiful cones. you fell into a rhythm for a while, the soft jingle of the radio a backing track as you called out order after order to the boy who whipped the cream into the wafer and passed it to the waiting customer, over and over again.

until the next ring of the door’s bell signified something so much more than another customer you’d have to serve.

they didn’t come to the register or browse the flavours, not even take a peak at the menu. they slid into a table that had remained unoccupied, almost as if they owned it, and burst into a jubilant conversation. they looked so out of place in their dark attire amongst the green tables and pink chairs, yet they blended into the scene as if they had been placed there purposefully by a hand designing a piece of art, so stark of a contrast, so different of people from who you would see in a parlour with twice playing from the loudspeakers. and yet here they were.

you stared at them, black paint splotches on a pastel canvas, until one of them flicked his eyes to you and you averted quickly, staring at the green and pink background of the desktop cash register. you didn’t even notice the single jingle of the bell echo through the shop, the racing of your thoughts creating a maelstrom in your head that blocked out the small sounds.

“uh, hello?” a voice called out, and you could have sworn you had heard that timbre before.

you flicked your eyes up and your mouth gaped. you quickly shut it and took a breath in through your nose. na jaemin, tattoos clear as day against his tanning skin, stood in front of you, gaze hooked on yours and his eyes the width of someone who was shocked yet trying to bury that surprise under a layer of confidence and nonchalance. you scoffed and plastered a thicker version of that on your face, a version of that meant for someone who had screwed you over without even knowing he had done anything, who had caused a snag in your heart that you refused to acknowledge as more of a fondness for a memory.

he’s just a stranger, after all.

you owed nothing to someone who treated your heart like it had strings.

“hi, what can i get for you?” you gritted out, shifting on your feet and starting a new order on the screen.

“a single scoop of pralines and cream on a sugar cone, please?” he asked musingly, drumming his fingers on the top of the glass.

you nodded and hummed, inputting the order and hovering over the ‘complete’ button.

“will that be all for you today?” you responded, not wanting to bring your eyes up to meet his again, not after the first time.

“no, actually. i know it’s not on the menu, but i would like a fresh order of ‘explanation’,” he laughed out, and you leaned back and crossed your arms, bringing your gaze up to his again.

“what do i need to explain to you, na jaemin?” you spat out, huffing. “it’s not like you really were interested in what i had to say about anything.”

“what are you doing here?” he pressed, and you laughed dryly before completing his order and calling it out to renjun, who watched you two interact, enrapt.

“i’m working. now, if you’d go collect your cone down with renjun, that would be swell,” you grumbled, gesturing for him to move along.

he simply looked at you and leaned further over the table, and you caught the roman numerals along his collarbone when his tank top dipped further down.

“i thought you lived a few towns over,” he questioned, more suspicion climbing into his voice than before.

he was cracking.

“yeah, well, a lot of things can change in such little time,” you shot back, tilting your head and nodding towards renjun. “your cone is melting.”

renjun hadn’t even taken the cone out yet.

“y/n, listen, if you’re mad about —“

he used your name.

he knew.

“i’m not mad about anything,” you gritted out. “i’m just swell. go pick up your cone, thanks for coming.”

“y/n!” he hissed out as you turned around, slamming his fist on the top of the glass.

you spun around, and you saw the hurt in his eyes. but you also saw two of the boys from the table behind him slide back in their chairs and climb to their feet. one of them pulled off jaemin’s baseball cap and tossed it to you, and jaemin’s carob locks flopped down in a haphazard pool on the top of his head.

the other boy grabbed his shirt and yanked him forward, leaning in and pushing him closer and closer to the wall.

“leave the girl alone,” the first boy grunted. “or i’ll make you.”

he sneered. the other boy did too.

“she’s obviously not into you and whatever you guys did together, and honestly? looking at you, shrimp? i can’t blame her.” the second boy laughed and placed his hand on the first boy’s shoulder as he held jaemin in an iron grip. “she’s cute, right? the way she stands is so confident, so detached, i’d like to tame her for a night. i’d treat her so good, she’d forget anything you two did toge—“

you absently let out a cry as you watched jaemin’s fist swung up and connected with the first boy’s nose, the crack filling the tense air of the room. you heard renjun drop the cone in his hand, and jaemin didn’t stop. he swung up and hit the second boy, jab after jab until the other two boys from the table were on him too and he was kicking and grabbing collars and snapping noses. you couldn’t bring yourself to do anything but watch as the boy you had kissed two days ago beat the ever-loving shit out of four grown boys. when the first punch was landed on his face, he snapped back and the tables turned. the boys launched themselves on top of him, and he was swallowed by a pile of flying arms and kicking legs and brutal sounds of broken skin breaking skin. you screamed again and slid out under the counter, hearing renjun’s cry of dismay and fright, and you yelled out at the top of your lungs for this to stop, stop, stop.

it only stopped when you put yourself into the fight, pulling one of the boys off of a bloody jaemin who was curled on the ground, who spit out a shot of blood as the other boys backed off slowly. you slid yourself in between jaemin and the retreating boys, and you wiped off the smudge of blood you had gotten on your hands.

you stared at your hands, then up to the four boys with bloody noses and bruised eyes. they all stared back, some with confidence, some with fear and all of them with mirthless contempt.

you imagined you looked the exact same, your hands balled into fists at your sides and your eyes set in a glare.

“get out!” you yelled, and the boys didn’t move.

“get the hell out, you creeps,” renjun shouted, voice enthusiastic with a slight twinge of adrenaline. you didn’t expect that.

that’s when the boys nodded and picked their bloody faces up, running one by one out the door, taking the jingles of the little silver bell with them.

you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding and dropped your head into your hands, sighing shakily before turning back to jaemin who was pulling himself to his feet.

“uh, y/n, do you — uh, do you want to patch him up in the back break room? i have a lot of first aid stuff, there was an accident with a scooper and someone’s eye a while ago that we don’t talk about,” renjun asked, and you heard the concern in his voice.

you looked back to jaemin, who was on his feet and limping to the table where he rested his body weight on his leaning hand. his eyes were already bloodshot and swelling, and you felt your heart climb in your throat as you catalogued every visible injury on the boy’s body.

he was defending you, your heart called out. he fought the creeps because they talked about you.

he was violent, your mind called out. he was impulsive, but you knew that already. he was just like you.

no matter how many times you tried to repeat it to yourself, you knew. when your heart spiralled, so did your head, and you had always been irresponsible when your feelings and thoughts didn’t sync up. you had always been impulsive, always been someone who had never totally understood your heart and your head. you’d always had one foot in love and the other in logic.

your feet were getting further and further apart.

you nodded to renjun and grabbed onto jaemin, pulling his arm over your shoulder and bringing him back into the break room. renjun followed and opened the first aid cabinet, and you thanked him as he ran back out to the front to go greet customers. you set jaemin down on the foldable chair that sat beside a matching table, and he laughed as you pulled down a kit from the cupboard.

“why are you laughing?” you asked, dragging another chair beside him to rest on as you began to dab a cotton ball with peroxyde on it onto his open cuts.

“i don’t know,” he laughed out, and you huffed as he continued to laugh when you put bandaids and steristrips on his face cuts.

“then stop,” you growled.

he stopped, raising a hand gingerly to tilt your chin up and meet his eyes.

“i really fucked up, didn’t i?” he said, more to himself than you. “i really fucked up when i walked away, i fucked up when i didn’t ask your name. to be honest, i didn’t think i’d see you again, and i was so ready to have my heart broken by you if i had asked. but i didn’t, and that was so smart of me, and i felt so bad that i was weak and told you my name, because now i’m someone to you, and i disappeared and i hurt you. so i really fucked up not asking anything, but i think i’ve fucked myself over so much more now that i know, now that we’re not strangers in the night.”

you didn’t dare break eye contact, and you dropped your hand from where it held the cotton ball on his shoulder back to your lap. you felt the rough skin of his knuckle turn under your chin as he rolled his lips over his teeth and sighed.

“just tell me how i can make it better,” he asked, and he pulled your head a bit closer with the crook of his finger under your head.

you weren’t going to stand down, you weren’t going to admit to anything, you weren’t going to admit a boy who was a stranger in the night became someone who you know. someone who you allowed to know you, someone who you allowed in past your walls and into your head with the reckless, destructive, confused thoughts that filled it. you would not let the boy who disappeared into the fog of pot and cigarettes and god-knows-what to have any say over what you felt, not when he turned his back on you.

one foot in logic.

“can i make it better? can i fix this?” he asked, and you let him.

you let him move closer to you and press his lips to yours, and you let the cotton ball that was pink with his blood drop to the floor. you let his lips find that rhythm again, let him cup your jaw and tilt your head to slot your noses together, and you let him kiss you and map out every corner of your lips. you didn’t stop him, and you didn’t want to, your heart didn’t want to remove your lips from his in fear that he’d turn his back on you again.

one foot in love.

you kept your hands in your lap, you twiddled your thumbs and ran your fingertips over the ridges of your nails, you kept them everywhere but on him. you thought that if you had kept your hands off him, had kept your hands away from the smooth feeling of his skin and away from the ink of his tattoos that you felt you could rub off with the pads of your fingers even though you knew that wasn’t true, you wouldn’t get yourself connected to him. you wouldn’t let a boy with a bloody taste on his tongue leave that on you, that memory, that imprint, if you didn’t let your hands wander or climb the stalk of his neck and trace the bumps of his spine like you had already. if you didn’t let him hold you by the waist and run his fingers where your shirt had ridden up and your soft, warm skin had hit the air, you wouldn’t connect yourself to the boy who had turned his back on you.

things didn’t work that way, not anymore, because it didn’t take one kiss to fall in love with someone. it took two and you had so foolishly stumbled into his trap, his lips and his gaze and his charming voice pulling you into him and refusing to let you go.

you broke it off a few seconds, minutes, hours later and drew back, standing to pick up the soiled cotton ball and walk it over to the trash in the corner of the room.

you had a pit in your stomach, because you knew that if you turned your back on the boy, you might never see him again. you might never feel him again. you might never taste the iron on his lips again. but you turned. you turned your back on the boy who was watching you from the foldable chair and you walked away, walked to the corner instead of throwing the ball. you turned your back. this time, you turned your back.

why did you turn?

when you spun back around, na jaemin had taken a handful of bandages, the cotton balls and hydrogen peroxide, and he was gone, chair empty and the air he had occupied empty. the baseball cap that you had brought in and set on the cabinet ledge was gone too.

you were convinced na jaemin was no more than a shadow who haunted you, a figment of your imagination.

was he just a stranger?

if only you could predict the future, read the cards it held. you’d be so much more worried. you were already sick to your stomach.

a/n: grammarly won’t LEAVE ME ALONE (this is a let down)

[shcotingstar]

hey ! i’m blossom, i’m sixteen, i go by any pronouns, i slept for sixteen hours last night. i’m on discord @ dios mio #2857 & here on any of my tumblr accounts. this is my re-introduction to my third character, andy ! read under the cut for about her and some wcs. FIND HER PINTEREST HERE.

( LANA CONDOR, GENDERFLUID, SHE/HE/THEY ) — ✧ that looks like ANDROMEDA ISLEY-QUINZEL! they’re the TWENTY-ONE-YEAR-OLD CHILD of PAMELA ISLEY & HARLEEN QUINZEL (ADOPTED). [ they are also an UNDERGRAD at paragon. ] i hear they’re DEBONAIR & GREGARIOUS, but tend to be CALLOUS & RANCOROUS. their file says that their power is PRECOGNITION.

tw : emotional abuse, parental abuse, emotional neglect, dissociation ( wording association ), death, blood ment, teen pregnancy ment

i / v.  ｢    background  !   ｣

andromeda bui was born to a second generation vietnamese immigrant straight into the lap of luxury, or something very close to that. her mother was a sixteen-year-old heiress with absolutely no plans to raise her daughter. she only ever gave andromeda one thing: her name. likewise, her father only ever gave her one thing as well: his curse.

andromeda, fondly dubbed andy, is raised by her grandparents. her grandparents are strict, proper people ; they don’t see eye-to-eye with this modern way of raising children. and, naturally, they are predisposed to andy. she was born synonymous with inconvenience, a stain on their family’s reputation.

because of this, she is raised as a tool. she is never given the simple luxury of insolence or rebellion. she’s forced into a box. do this, or do not be. they never miss a chance to remind her that they are saints for keeping her, and often speak of the possibilities if she does not follow their ways.

she is put into ballet at four years old as a sort of penance for her mere existence. and that’s all she’s good for, then. it’s the only way to get her the attention she wants. it’s the only way for her grandparents to regard her at all. ( what they never find out about: she draws, sometimes, between practices. just for herself. )

when andy is seven years old, she is sitting at the dinner table with her grandparents when she has very first vision. words spill out of her before she knows what she’s saying, asking her grandmother why her hands are covered in blood. two nights later, her mother, if she can even be called that, is killed in a car accident. her grandmother grabs her daughter when they arrive, pleading with doctors to do something they cannot, and andromeda’s prophecy becomes andromeda’s life.

her grandparents are not looking for a reminder. and they do not want andromeda in their home any longer. they throw around words like ‘ sent ‘ and  ‘ fear ‘ and ‘ khùng ‘ ( vietnamese: crazy ).

andromeda is put up for adoption the next day. she never goes to her mother’s funeral. and, in a way, she never moves on.

 when andromeda is nine years old, still in foster care, she wakes up in the middle of the night and walks two miles in the dark of gotham city, breaks into the home of the isley-quinzels, and sits in their living room until they wake up. she has no memory of the incident, but everyone involved thought it to be pretty hilarious when the first thing she asks is if she, also, could have some breakfast.

they fall in love with her as they wait for her guardian to pick her up. andromeda, then, is just a sweet, messy little girl. her smile is huge. her eyes are just a little bit sad. she tells them all about her without one key detail.

that’s how andromeda bui becomes andromeda rosalie isley-quinzel. it takes her a long while to tell them about her ‘ khùng. ‘ pamela explains this world of mutations to her, one she has only ever looked in on, barely even thought about. evidently, andy missed out on a lot that normal children, children who grew up as children, did not.

she grows up at her pace, then. goes to dance academy because she wants to, and nothing else. she takes art classes in her free time. never one to sit still, and never one to engage much in the gotham walk of life, either.

she comes to her teenage years with a flourish. she has it all. she is beautiful and interesting, and her personality sparkles. she is dubbed shooting star shortly after. it is during this period she meets the person she still calls the love of her life. they do not feel the same way. andromeda is still trying to learn to live with it.

she does this with other people. andromeda never learned how to properly treat people, so she does as she was taught  — like tools. serial dating is an avid hobby of hers. she’s never dated anyone besides her first for more than a week.

after andromeda graduates high school, she takes a gap year to travel europe. she calls it her forgotten year, but only to herself. she’s made up stories to ply people with, but for the vast majority of her time, she zoned in and out. separated from the things that grounded her, the thing growing inside her takes hold, she reasons. she wakes up in various situations: in a room filled with finished canvas, a cafe with pages of her calendar missing, walking to somewhere she does not know.

andromeda is quick, too eager, to blame her powers. it’s only natural. she’s been raised to fear them, it’s only second nature. and she’s never understood them. she doesn’t know their full power, their true colors.

( the truth : something much worse happened to andy during her time alone. she was by herself in europe. there was no one to check in on her, besides via cell, and it’s pricey, so even then she’s limited. )

she goes home. or the next best thing. paragon, a double major in art and dance. she keeps herself busy ; she does not want to go back to being a zombie. she wants to be awake. she wants to live her life outside of her powers.

though she does not know it, andromeda comes back changed. not just from experience, but on a biological level. she dismisses it, the difference in the way she carries herself.

her brother dies in january. she comes back to paragon just as this happens, and leaves again. this time : latin america. this time, she wants to forget. and forget she does. she doesn’t stay long, but she does not make peace with his death, either. she still feels like she should have known. and maybe, in a way, she did.

what she had expected. what she was looking for, in a way, happened. it’s worse, though. she remembers her plane to brazil. she remembers her plane back to new york. she does not remember anything else.

it’s been a very long time since andromeda has felt like herself.

she goes back to paragon, and when she does, her brother is back from the dead. she is too. andy starts living life again. she doesn’t tell anyone about what happened to her.

ii / v.  ｢    powers  !   ｣

her powers manifest at age seven, but it isn’t until age eleven that she finds out what they are. precognition is a weighted word. one people look in on, but never want for themself. they ask her to tell them fortunes, and read tarot and palms, and predict at the drop of a hat, but they don’t want to be able to do the same.

she compares it to going to the zoo. you like to look at the animals and interact with them, but you wouldn’t like to live there.

 before she could even call them her powers, before she even knew they were a mutation, andy was raised to fear her powers. they couldn’t be anything good. anything that predicted her own mother’s death couldn’t be good.

it doesn’t help that they manifest the way they do. sometimes, she will find herself speaking without meaning to of things she has no way of knowing. sometimes, she wakes up from dreams that are far from the normal weird. sometimes, she sees flashes of pictures outside her imagination’s reigns. sometimes, she sees people that she knows are not real. sometimes, she will walk places that she has no way of knowing. sometimes, she draws things and has no memory of it.

it’s like something is possessing her. even if she tried, she could not stop her powers. there was no medicine she was willing to subject herself to. andy thinks about being human, sometimes. andromeda’s life would be forever different if she just didn’t have the x-gene. it’s hard not to learn to hate her powers for it.

hatred and fear. the same two things her grandmother looked at her with that day. it sits heavy on andy’s chest. sometimes she feels like she can’t bear the weight of it.

she makes up for this in any way she can. andy sports her powers as a shining badge on her chest, but in the dark, they’re never there to guide her way.

iii / v.  ｢    work !   ｣

a double major in art and dance, the one thing andy lacks is free time. she’s equally committed to both, and if you can’t find her with her nose up some art history book, she’s in a dance studio.

andromeda is really just trying to stay busy, to a point. she’s utterly terrified about her forgotten time. she doesn’t want to forget anymore. she thinks that if she stays focused on her work, stays consumed by studies and friends, she’ll be able to keep being andromeda.

though people often comment on how she should have gone into drama ( ha, ha, ha ), andy’s passion for either of her majors has never dimmed. she thinks, to a point, that she should hate ballet. that it should only bring bad memories with it ; a farce to suffice for love she could not get. 

the truth: she’s good at it and that’s that. she likes dancing. she feels like herself when she is, and that’s all her criteria at this point in time.

painting, it’s the same. she always paints and draws in color. for a long time, her visions were only in black and white. but now, they too, have consumed that part of her life. her room will forever be littered with different projects of hers. her favorite jeans will always have paint stains in them that she can not get out. it’s apart of who she is.

iv / v.  ｢    personality !   ｣

she’s sunshine in human form, but not in the positive way. she’s the other side. violently bright. overpowering, at times. she’s the kind of girl that gets under your skin.

she has a reputation for being dramatic and a total player. people see her as ditzy. the ridiculous isley-quinzel girl. in truth, andromeda has had trouble being present. she’s still, in a way, trying to grow up.

she’s overly friendly and she makes friends of all types as well as enemies. she overflows, in a bit, unapologetic to a point. she’s not trying to be friends with everyone.

and it’s a good point to say that, truly, andromeda is burdened by the weight of her upraising. she was never taught how to properly treat people or be treated. she doesn’t understand people. she hides it well, but andy lacks a lot of what other people supply easily.

v / v.  ｢    wanted connections !    ｣

best friend ! someone who she gets along with more than complacent fakeness. someone who gets her a bit more than she’d probably like. someone who gets it.

exes ! she has literal LITERAL hundreds. a new one each week, she’s the type to string someone on, but when she’s doing it she devotes the passion of a thousand suns to every molecule of their being.

gotham kid ! a person who knew that interesting little human with the sense of naivety that only creeps up on her sometimes these days. whether she enjoyed their presence or not, or even knew them before becoming an isley-quinzel, there’s plenty to work with.

something precog-y ! maybe, for once, she got it right, or at the very least tried to forewarn. or maybe she played it for kicks and gave them a fake as hell psychic reading for shits and giggles. dealer’s choice.

[seamlessmonochrome]

sura himaa || missed connections

“She is dead,” says the udgan softly, even as the child she carries pushes away the blanket draped over her face and howls.

“No! No, she’s not!” Weak from childbirth and clumsy and numb from the roots she’s been given, Sura nonetheless fights to sit upright, reaching uselessly after the pair.

Ignoring the clear cries of both baby and mother, the udgan continues to walk away. “She lives– I hear her!” With a doggedness that few things can engender– but among them, a mother’s love– she grabs Qutugh’s staff from where it lies at her bedside and drags herself to her feet, staggering forward with the staff as aid.

It’s not her grit that draws the udgan’s attention– Qutugh expects that of her– but the knowledge that she’s bleeding, and could very well bleed out if she isn’t careful. She turns to Sura with eyes sympathetic yet unyielding, the child still struggling in her arms as if she knows her fate and might already flee, dragging herself across the dirt floor with every onze of her mother’s tenacity.

“In body, yes. Of aether, she is hollow.” She casts her gaze to the ground, hating that it had to be this way. “I assume you– need not a udgan’s counsel to tell you why.”

Sura lunges forward and almost falls, catching herself with the staff. “So she is Muuchu reborn!”

Qutugh shakes her head firmly, not in a no but a yes, but. “Sura. I augured this day and warned you well, and still you heed me not. Twice now you have borne this child dead, and twice now she is cursed.” Her expression softens, if only by an ilm. “I beg you, do not try a third time. Her spirit belongs to the lands beyond, not the world of dawn and dusk.”

“As if the choice to try were mine!” Standing swaying with staff clutched tight, her sweat-slicked skin shining obsidian and bare thighs streaming blood, she looks as fierce a warrior as any Borlaaq.

“–Forgive me. That– I spoke wrongly. But the matter of the augury still remains.”

“If she is cursed, she’s the bravery of ten men with which to face it. She has fought for her life against my husband’s fists, just the same as I! No– if twice she has crawled from the Lifestream to this world, knowing even a mother’s womb cannot give her shelter from its ills, then twice she has earned her right to live in it.” She bares her fangs in the fatalistic snarl of a woman who knows survival and bravery are twinned. “And I will make sure she takes it for all she can get.”

The udgan steps towards her and gently pries her hands from the staff, leading her back to the bed. “Do not be selfish, Sura. She is not your vengeance. News of the curse will spread, and one or another of us will see fit to take her life, less kindly than would I.”

Her hand grips Qutugh’s arm, and she growls with rancor. “Only because you will spread it!”

The faint shuffling of her son’s feet at the entrance to the yurt is a sound only Sura could have detected. Seeing his mother and the udgan locked in near-combat, the boy ducks back behind the tent flap; but something else keeps him from bolting completely.

“She came,” he says, with a two-year-old’s sagacity. Tiny, clawed hands grip the canvas flap. “Muumuu came back.”

Caught between the mother’s ferocity and the brother’s searching gaze, Qutugh can make no good move. It’s her duty to the gods and to the tribe to kill the child and break the curse; even were it not, the khan would demand an augury for his daughter, and he would not suffer a cursed child to live, much less one of his own blood. But now that gentle Koko, whose first word was alone, whose body bears the speckled marks of aether-bonds torn from him in the womb, knows she lives, her task is stymied. Though she has never once augured false– and she doubts the aetherless child to be an exception– Koko has done little in his life but await her, as if he knew her rebirth to be fated even before she threw the bones.

The little boy’s spirit would be broken, and Sura would have her life in recompense. This, too, she had foretold; she had thought by swift action she might divert fate’s flow. But the bones never lie.

The spirits screaming in her horns with every move, she hands the twice-dead child to Sura, and squats down to cast the bones once more.

“Leave here.” She glances up from her augury. “If you would keep her, then go, as fast and as far as possible. But know that she is but a hungry ghost, one who must feed on the living to survive. Guard your hearts, or she will leave you just as hollow as she.”

For the first time, Sura looks upon her newborn child. Hairless and bright-eyed, with the tiniest curls of horns just beginning to bud, she doesn’t look a bit like a monster. She looks just like any other baby.

“Mama?” Koko still stands in the entryway, his mother’s blood-smeared nakedness and the udgan’s stern voice making him hesitate. He hadn’t even understood most of her speech; but one word had stood out to him. “Don’t go.”

“It’s all right, Koko,” says Sura. She eases herself back down onto the bed, suddenly drained. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

Fear of losing her winning out over his other fears, he darts past the udgan, a little blue blur, and climbs up onto the bed, pressing himself into his mother’s side. Looking down at the sister who’s finally returned to him, he holds out a hand to her, careful of his claws though they’re tiny yet; she shows no such care, grabbing his finger and letting out a squeak of triumph.

I got you. It’s her first act in this world, and the message it sends is clear. I got you, and I’m not letting go.

Koko, for his part, is delighted. “Don’t go,” he says again, this time with a smile.

Qutugh stands, shaky on her feet. “Would that the boy were not here, but I– I cannot let that stop me. If you would refuse my counsel a third time, Sura, I will act in your stead. Though it cost me my life, I will defend my kin.” She moves towards Koko, to take him somewhere he won’t see her break his sister’s neck.

Sura blocks her with an arm. “Don’t touch my children.”

“It is the will of the gods–”

“–That nurselings should be slaughtered like they were lambs for the table? That a woman should not forsake a husband cruel as he is craven? Speak of kin to me, Qutugh, when you have lost a child, and she returns to you only to be put to the sword!”

“He will– have your head,” she pleads. “And mine thereafter.”

Stripped from pain and exertion, her voice lowers to a steely whisper. “Then I will take his place as khatun. I will defend my kin. And if the gods speak ill of that… then mayhap I shall speak to different gods.”

She seeks out Reunion, and there asks the bards of all the tribes for all they’ve heard of gods. They tell her of a world beyond the Steppe, where ten thousand kami rule, and there people speak to her of casting lots, of rolling dice: that it is not the privilege of udgan alone to read the fates, that she might learn to do so, and discern for herself whether her child is truly cursed.

She speaks to the kami, and they tell her, yes, her fate is ill; but that for a price of blood, she may become powerful nonetheless. Sura, with the love of a mother and the wily mind of a gedan, offers all she has– if only her children will be well cared for, and if for every pain her daughter is dealt she might gain in power likewise, then they may have her life in exchange.

It’s a bargain struck on the stained floor of a Kugane inn, where Sura finds herself disgusted by the filth that city-dwellers live in, longing for the yurt that once accompanied her everywhere she chose to travel. The city is too many people crammed into one small space, eating and mating and dumping their excretions in the same place moon after moon. So she packs up again, as the Xaela ever have, preferring to meet her death on the road than in this squalid encampment.

The gods, she supposes, are in all lands equally cruel. But if the horror of them is that they feed upon man, then so is it their weakness; for then man too has a say in the matter of whether or not they eat.

“So never forget,” she tells the twins born two years apart, “that no matter how small you are, you are never without power.”

She looks down at her necklace, woven of the old khan’s braid. For defying the gods, they had rejected her as khatun; she knew they would. It had not stopped her. “And no matter how great you are, you can still be felled.”

“Oi, Clemaunt.” The winter snows are nor yet year-round, but still Coerthas sees its share of them. It’s the best time to hunt dragons, their dark forms sharply contrasted against plains of white. And Eaulbault spies such a dark form now. “Over there, by that stream. Do you see it?”

Clemaunt follows the pointing finger of his companion-in-arms, but all he sees is a figure stooping to gather water, her child at her side. At least he assumes that’s her child: it’s the same tail, and–

“…Fury take me.” He’d mistaken the two for miqo’te at first; the child’s could almost be drooped nubs of ears, but the gnarled root-like protrusions that adorn the woman’s head… “They’ve horns.”

“And we’ve a prize to take home, brother. Two– no, three dragons. Look at ‘em.” Indeed, a second tiny figure peeks around its mother’s skirts, a slim dagger of a tail waving behind. He chuckles under his breath. “Bet they breed like suncats.” He nocks an arrow, drawing the bowstring slowly back and taking him over the promontory. “…damn! They’ve seen us.”

The smaller child is tugging at its mother’s robe and pointing, and all three turn to look– then bolt, the mother scooping both babes into her arms. But she’s slow carrying them, and she scarce makes it two yalms before Eaulbault’s arrow finds a home between her shoulder blades.

Sura Himaa, by all estimation the greater of the pair, is felled by the callow youth without a wail of protest.

At least, not from her.

Muuchu’s scream is no draconic roar, but the high-pitched howl of a child two winters old. The Convictory’s glory-hunters, who have never felled a man, turn craven at the sound.

They flee, leaving the two dragonlings for dead in the snow; the sleeves of Sura’s voluminous robe draped over her children, two protective wings haloed by an arc of blood.

[tuwam]

( @cetteau​ for ahyeon! )

it’s around ten when ahyeon comes back.

he’s busy with a sketch and doesn’t really hear her come in at first. which is why he doesn’t guess it’s her. just thinks it’s a customer and whoever they are, the’ll wait. because he’s almost done with this sketch and the appointment is in half an hour. twin dragons wrapped around the arm, gonna be a bitch to sit through.

when ahyeon usually comes in, she makes it known. by a smell, by chaos that comes out in her voice, or her feet stomping. she announces herself, bold and unapologetic, not always verbally but always noticeable. it’s not disrupting because he’s used to it, even after the days of her not being here. so he doesn’t expect it but knows that it’ll sometimes be there.

all he hears is the chime of the door so he doesn’t look up.

if it’s an important customer they’ll speak up, if not they’ll sit in the living room. joon’s pretty proud of how he’s turned the apartment, not too proud of the money he’s used to get it. but it works. people come in for a bit and leave with a tattoo. he sets up, shacks up and makes a living.

she announces herself by slamming a popsicle wrapper on the table he’s working on. the weed hits but it’s faint. there’s also a trace of soap, generic and a little honey.

‘I want a lion.’ joon doesn’t move from his position. doesn’t lift his hand only to move to another part of the canvas. he doesn’t even speak, and he could chalk it up to concentration. even if he knows he could still get a lot done with her doing more than this.

“you’re back.” he says that after a few beats, after she’s showing that she won’t move from her spot. “my phone?” is said after a few more minutes, the last few of the tracing getting done. he’s trying to get his ideas together, not for the drawing, the drawing’s done. but for the situation. last time he saw her she was grabbing a bag and leaving. took him thirty minutes to realize she took the last stash of weed from under the pillows and another hour to realize she had his phone too.

he remembers calling, several times. can’t really remember much prior to her grabbing her bag. the way joon sees, if it’s meant to bite him in the ass it will. and if ahyeon wants to ring him for whatever it is, she will.

‘I want a lion.’ she says again, but she’s fishing out a paper from the bag and laying it flat. a lion. a nice design really. might take a little over two hours to do.

“I have an appointment.” which he does. an appointment who walks in the moment he can tell she’s about to continue with whatever might brew between them again. nothing really stops ahyeon, nothing can come close to trying. she barrels through what she wants, when she wants. so for him to hear the hitch in her throat, he’s looking at the customer first and then at her.

“you made it.” joon busies himself with formalities as usual, leaving ahyeon to do what she wants. as usual. unless the design is interesting she doesn’t bother sticking around. she’ll sink into the couch and into a haze until something peaks her interest. laze in the bedroom, steal his covers, take a shower, leave. so he’s greeting the customer, a girl who’d requested the twin dragons. she’s a regular at the club he’s been hanging around and a friend of his dealer, the only reason he’s penciling her in for a project this detailed.

“I’ll go check on everything in the back and call you in in a second.” he’s polite, mannerisms and face a little too gentle for the crowd she frequents. a little foreign to him but he remembers them from the days with his mother. she’s a decent girl, as decent as the crowd she’s with. cute, if someone’s looking. but she’s sending him that wink, the same one that gets people in trouble and joon remembers what he’s dealing with. he makes his way to the back room, where all the equipment is set up and gets himself ready. he doesn’t hear ahyeon step in, so when he sees her standing by the corridor entrance he’s confused.

visibly confused at this attempt she’s making at muting herself.

‘you’re still going to do her piece?’ he’s busy washing and checking the sterilizers, so her voice almost doesn’t register. doesn’t break like he’s used to it doing. and that makes him uneasy.

“why wouldn’t I?” he doesn’t look up though, doesn’t feel the need to. there’s too much going on here. too much that’s been going on since the night she left and since the words between them weren’t as empty as usual. since the anger wasn’t automatic and just there to be there. ahyeon and joon are both always fighting through something, sometimes it’s the world, very rarely is it each other. so when it starts being each other, they separate. they don’t talk. maybe she yells a bit, curses a bit but they don’t talk.

‘well, I don’t like her.’ “you - don’t like a lot of people ahyeon. you barely like me.” joon half expects this to brush over. thinks that she’ll hash out whatever she’s thinking right now. maybe even leave again and he’d probably let her.  ‘i like you less when you’ve got someone all up on you in your studio.’ he doesn’t expect that to be the root of the issue. part of him doesn’t even want to acknowledge it, not because said customer is still in the vicinity but because there’s no truth to it. and because they’ve never gotten down to the truth of what they are, this shouldn’t be an issue. “she was showing me where she wanted her tattoo.” which is the truth, she’d been in the chair, leaning over to show him where and how she wanted the dragon to wrap. had she been really close to him, yeah. had joon thought anything of it? just how fucking long the job would be. ‘more like where she wanted you to start stripping her.’ the fire in ahyeon’s eyes is nothing new. the anger, the annoyance, not new at all. but the situation is. and a little something else, something he can’t quite place, but joon’s too tired to think about it. he’s got to get started soon and he knows ahyeon has no problem expressing this issue in front of the customer. “it’s a tattoo on her side ahyeon.” ‘it wraps around her ass joon.’

that was also true. well, partially, it goes down her side and because it wraps around her leg she wants it on the inside of her thigh.

‘you wanna do her tattoo, be my guest. you wanna start an argument, not in the mood.’ ‘you can take that needle and stick it up your -.’ he has to move quick because she’s taking the needle he’s sterilizing, demanding attention even though she’s quiet as she does it. everything is quick, ahyeon reaching for the needle and joon reaching for the hand now holding it. “chill out, what you left for days and came back even more pissed off?” ‘i left because you were being a dick.’ “i was being a dick because you wouldn’t let me do my job.” ‘yeah, it’s your job to make me feel like shit.’ “jesus christ, are we doing this now?” ‘want me to come back late when you guys are all done? i can come back not at all how about it?’ she’s red in the face now, ready to yank her arm free, do whatever it takes to be free. joon backs up. backs all the way back into the table. he expects her to leave now, because when there’s silence like this, there isn’t really much to say. but ahyeon keeps staring, breathing controlled but eyes wild. staring like it says all that she wants.

“fuck.” joon’s out the back in two seconds. “hey, yeonhee? yeah, now’s not a good time, if you really need it today I can get a friend to do it for a discount, since it’s short notice?” yeonhee is giving him a different look this time. she’s trouble. joon should’ve realize the first time but she inches his way, probably to talk and he steps back. “seriously, bad time, come back tomorrow?” there’s a pinch to his shoulder. “I’ll text you my friend’s details.” is what he decides on. he really is tired. too tired to handle all of this and a two - three hour job.

yeonhee’s leaving with a wave. ahyeon’s smiling smug when he turns back around.

“happy now?” satisfied would be the better word. she doesn’t speak though, just hoists herself on the tattoo bed. little by little, joon’s energy leaves him, leads her to the edge of the bed, rendering him still when she pulls him closer. “you took my phone.” a hum. “you took my weed.” she pulls him down, hands around his neck. “your hair’s blue?” more of a statement than a question. an observation, whispered now that he’s close enough to tell.

someone kisses first, could be ahyeon, could be joon. he was tired before, but his hands are automatic, on her thigh, on her hip. everything’s a little automatic when they reach point. they’re suddenly not fighting for anything but the smug grin when someone draws a noise first. and joon lazes against her in every other way, when their lips slot, when his head lolls into her hold. he hasn’t had a good joint in a few days but this comes pretty close. drags on much how a hit would and he’s not complaining, not thinking about the situation either. he wants to hold it all in him, exhale when he’s had his fill. but ahyeon is the first to pull away, her teeth digging into his lower lip before they detach and dig into her own. joon’s head is still against hers, body now hovered uncomfortably over the bed.

‘i want a lion.’ he’s laughing, because if ahyeon moves to anything, it’s always at her own speed. “where do you want it?” ‘let’s find out.’

needless to say, joon’s not tired after that.

and whatever needed to be said, or fixed, or handled gets lost between the walls and sounds of each other’s names on it. he’s fine with that.

they don’t really figure out where she wants the lion though.