#he keeps that pretty close to his chest tho. it's SPECIAL when he sings in spanish | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

passable-talent · 4 years

Note

part 4 was so so good!!!!! can you make a part 5? i’m in love with your writing and that series!!! you’re feeding my need for zuko content and i love u for that.

it literally took exactly 19 minutes to get a request for part 5

THANK U THO SHDBCNDGS IM HAPPY YOURE ENJOYING WHAT I DO

been excited to get back to this one, y’all aren’t ready 😏

OKAY I SAID YALL WERENT READY BEFORE I EVEN WROTE IT BUT NOW IVE WRITTEN IT AND LET ME FUCKING REITERATE: YALL ARE NOT F U C K I N G R E A D Y

For chapter five, and my five hundred follower special, we will go back to spring of the year 100 AG, right before Azula’s coup succeeded in their destruction of Ba Sing Se . . .

“So what’s happening?” You asked Mushi as the two of you hurried through the streets of the upper ring.

“Come close,” Mushi answered, and your footsteps brought you beside him.

“My nephew and I are more than refugees,” he began, “my name is Iroh, and I am the brother of the Fire Lord. My nephew, Zuko, is the banished prince of the Fire Nation. I’m sorry we lied to you, but we needed to, in order to stay in Ba Sing Se where we were safe from our family.” Your head reeled, but you kept beside him, because still you trusted this man. You were trained to react and to think, thanks to the Dai Li, so you analyzed his words.

“Were?” you questioned, wondering why he seemed to suggest that he was no longer safe.

“My niece, Princess Azula, has infiltrated the city. She tried to capture me- she did capture Zuko.” Your eyes widened, and your speed increased beside Iroh. “I need your help to retrieve him, and the Avatar’s. That’s where we’re headed.” You looked up at the house you were approaching, half caved in from some sort of destruction. What had happened here?

“The Avatar?” you asked, and Iroh nodded, pausing in front of the door to knock politely. You waited beside him, but held your forehead- you were so shocked about everything you were finding out.

Zuko- not Lee. The banished prince of the Fire Nation. You hadn’t even known that the prince of the Fire Nation had been banished! What else didn’t you know about the other nations of the world beyond the walls of Ba Sing Se?

Why had this information been kept from you? You were training to be in the Dai Li, one of the best and most important police forces of the Earth Kingdom, shouldn’t this information be privy to you? Why wasn’t it?

You were pulled from your thoughts as a girl opened the door, and regarded Iroh with friendliness.

“I need your help,” he began, and you watched the reactions of the other two at the door. They seemed frightened by Iroh- what kind of history had they that you weren’t aware of?

Why were you kept in the dark about everything?

“You guys know each other?” demanded the boy you had to assume was the avatar, who didn’t seem much concerned with your presence. Maybe it was the earth kingdom robes?

“I met him in the woods once, and knocked him down,” answered the girl, and with her gaze that didn’t seem focused on the avatar you wondered if maybe she was blind. She, however, seemed like a strong earthbender. It was one of the things you were trained to pick up on in the Dai Li, and relied entirely on how a person carried herself. “Then he gave me tea and some very good advice.”

“May we come in?” Iroh asked sheepishly, and you wondered why there wasn’t more urgency to his tone.

“Who’s your friend?” the clearly water tribe boy demanded, and you lifted your chin, being acknowledged.

“I’m Y/N, a soon-to-be member of the Dai Li,” you answered, “You can trust me.”

“The Dai Li?” Avatar Aang responded, more shock in his face than before.

“That makes us even less likely to trust you!!” the water tribe boy shouted, and your eyebrows knitted together.

“The Dai Li are the protectors of the city!” you said, though you felt doubt gnaw at your spine- they had kept so much from you, their own cadet.

Iroh turned his eyes to you, and something in his gaze told you to hush up.

“Princess Azula is here, in Ba Sing Se,” Iroh told them, his tone stern and serious.

“She must have Katara!” Aang said, and you looked to Iroh. You didn’t know these people- but that Azula would capture both Zuko and a friend of the avatar meant that she was one of two things: insanely brave or insanely stupid.

“She has captured my nephew, as well,” Iroh said.

“Then we’ll work together to fight Azula, and save Katara and Zuko,” the avatar said, and you felt a little lightness crawl into your heart. You’d be able to help save Zuko, and a friend of the avatar? You were about to go on a crazy adventure.

“Whoa there,” said the water tribe boy, walking back into the conversation, “you lost me at ‘Zuko.’ “

“I know how you must feel about my nephew,” Iroh began, and your expression softened. There was definitely history here, and you’d be interested to learn it. “But believe me when I tell you, there is good inside him.” You brought your eyes to the avatar’s, and nodded, trying to fathom something to say that they’d believe. They didn’t know you, didn’t know what you stood for, and it seemed that you didn’t know much of that yourself.

“I’ve known Zuko for a while,” you said, “and he’s never been anything other than a scared and polite refugee.”

“Good inside him isn’t enough!” The water tribe boy insisted, “Why don’t you come back when it’s outside him too, okay?” Your chest deflated further, and you had to wonder: what had Zuko done, what had Zuko been, that they had this strong of a hatred for him?

Did you want to know?

“Katara’s in trouble,” Aang said to his friend, “All of Ba Sing Se’s in trouble. Working together is our best chance.”

On the way toward the catacombs of the city underneath the palace, you learned Sokka and Toph’s names, as well as the true treachery of the Dai Lee. You learned about the war with the Fire Nation, and had a smile on your face as you took in how lucky you were that the two firebenders whom you had come to love were the only two on the right side of this war.

“Well, whaddaya know, there is an ancient city down there,” Toph said, her hand pressed to the stone courtyard, “but it’s deep.” She opened up a large hole in the stone, heading downward.

“How can you tell?” You asked, and she cracked her knuckles in your direction.

“Right, you’re classically trained,” she mocked with a rude laugh, which made you smile. “I can sense seismic activity through stone. Maybe I’ll teach you, when this is over.” You nodded, intrigued, before Sokka grabbed your attention.

“We should split up. Aang, you go with Iroh and Y/N to look for Katara and the angry jerk,” he said. “No offense,” he added in Iroh’s direction, and once again you found yourself confused on the nature of their shared past when Iroh said “none taken.”

“And I’ll go with Toph to warn the Earth King about Azula’s Coup.”

Aang, Iroh, and you began heading down into the tunnel, Iroh holding up fire for light while you and Aang took turns lengthening the tunnel downwards.

“So, Toph thinks you give pretty good advice,” Aang said, seeming to try to make conversation. “And great tea.” A smile came to your face- Iroh’s tea was the reason that you were, apparently, romantically involved with the prince of the Fire Nation.

Imagine that.

“The key to both is proper aging,” Iroh said, and you laughed under your breath. “What’s on your mind?” Aang paused, and took his turn lengthening the tunnel.

“Well, I met with this guru who was supposed to help me master the avatar state and control this great power.” You turned to look at the avatar as you walked, amazed at both his story and his mere stature. You never thought that you’d get to meet the avatar.

“But to do it, I had to let go of someone I love, and I just couldn’t.” You reached the end of the tunnel, and took stance beside Iroh to take your turn lengthening it. However, Iroh began speaking, and you figured it rude to interrupt him.

“Perfection and power are overrated. I think you are very wise to choose happiness, and love.” With a smile on your face you earthbent and opened up the tunnel further, deciding then and there that you would stick with Iroh. Surely you weren’t to stay and train with the Dai Li, and as it seemed he was teaming up with the avatar, maybe you’d get to help fight in the war!

“But what happens if we can’t save everyone and beat Azula?” You didn’t answer, and let Iroh, both because you didn’t know the answer, and because you felt that the scope of your knowledge and importance wasn’t what it needed to be to even participate in this conversation.

“Without the avatar state, what if I’m not powerful enough?”

“I don’t know the answer,” Iroh said, making you gaze to the side at him. “Sometimes life is like this dark tunnel. You can’t always see the light at the end of the tunnel, but if you just keep moving...” Iroh paused as Aang took his turn to break through the stone in front of you, revealing light and a wide open new space, “...you will come to a better place.” You paused, standing on the edge of a cliff, to look out over the ancient city. There was a fountain in front of you, making the air smell fresh even though you were so far below ground. It was amazing, and part of you wished you could have stayed. However, you knew that there was much more pressing matters, and so you quickly moved along with Iroh and Aang into another chamber to hopefully find the prisoners you were looking for.

Aang burst through another wall of stone, and quickly disappeared through the hole as you and Iroh followed.

“Aang!” A girl shouted before embracing him, and you barely put it together that this must be ‘Katara’ before your feet had carried you to Zuko, and hugged him tightly. You yielded this, however, to Iroh, who hugged him with just as much relief as you felt in your heart.

“Uncle, I don’t understand,” Zuko said, a malice you didn’t recognize glinting in his eyes. “What are you doing with the avatar?”

“Saving you, that’s what,” Aang said, and Zuko began to lunge before Iroh caught his chest. You flinched- this wasn’t the boy you knew at all.

“Zuko, it’s time we talked,” Iroh told him, then looking at Aang and Katara. “Go help your other friends. We’ll catch up with you.” Aang and Katara turned away while you stood still, but Iroh turned to you. “You as well. It’ll be alright.” You nodded, and raced down the tunnel after Katara.

“We’ve gotta find Sokka and Toph!” Katara shouted, but you couldn’t answer her before you heard roaring behind you. You didn’t recognize the sound, but when you turned and saw blue fire, nothing could’ve prepared you.

This wasn’t in your training. It wasn’t in your index of attacks to react to. You had no idea what to do- if it wasn’t for Aang and the wall that he raised, you would’ve surely been charred on the spot.

You didn’t recognize the girl that had shot it, but you felt that it was safe to assume it must’ve been Azula.

Katara raced around the wall and picked up water, revealing herself as a powerful water bender before your eyes. The fight between her and Azula created a cloud of steam, and you staggered back even further from Aang’s wall, your chest rising and falling quickly.

You were panicking.

All of that training, everything that your instructors had ever done to harden your will and sharpen your reaction time, it stood nothing against this. This, with the sister of the guy you were crushing on shooting blue fire at the avatar, and you weren’t even sure who’s side you should be on.

That was stupid, of course you knew you should be on the avatar’s side. But something in your head whispered doubts- she was Zuko’s sister. She was the leader of the Dai Li, who you belonged to.

Azula appeared from the steam and shot two fireballs at Aang and Katara, who were forty or so feet in front of you. You just watched, dumbfounded, and realized quickly that she wasn’t aiming at you. She wasn’t targeting you at all.

She landed on a column, which Aang rocked beneath her, and she fell down to stand between Aang and Katara, her back to you. She kept her hands pointed at both of them, but suddenly, her attention turned toward you.

“You’re Y/N, right?” She asked, and your eyes widened. “I remember you. You’re a very impressive cadet, you could be an asset to me. I control the Dai Li, now, and so your allegiance is to me.”

Just for a moment, Katara’s gaze turned to you, wondering if there was any truth to that statement.

Was there?

A fireball impacted the ground between Aang and Azula and you staggered backward, looking up for the source of the flame.

Zuko. Relief filled your chest- at least you knew for sure you were on his side.

As though time was frozen, you watched as he turned his ready stance from aiming at Aang, to aiming at Azula, and your tension melted away. You could fight beside Zuko and the avatar and Katara, and surely between the four of you the princess would be defeated.

Then, from your position fifty feet behind Aang, you saw Zuko’s eyes land on the avatar.

The calmness drifted away, and all you saw was rage.

Fire blasted toward Aang, and he couldn’t avoid the plume, his air bending keeping him from harm but also sending him back beside you. Zuko’s fire kept coming, and you threw up a wall in front of you, turning to the side with your body made into a smaller target out of pure fear.

Zuko had turned on Aang. He’d shot fire at Aang- he’d shot fire at you.

Aang leapt away to continue his battle, which left you behind your wall of stone, paralyzed with fear and indecision and betrayal and anger and sadness.

Didn’t you know Zuko at all? That look in his eye... you had never seen that before. There was pure rage inside him, and you couldn’t understand it, you couldn’t comprehend how this was the boy you’d cared for.

You heard fire roaring throughout the cave, and the whooshing of the wind that Aang sent back. Rocks clattered to the floor and water shot around the cavern, and it was all too much, the sounds of martial arts and groaning and impacts, you couldn’t get a clear thought through your mind.

“I thought you had changed!” Katara’s yell echoed off the rocks, and just for a moment your hands lifted from your temple. Was she talking to Zuko?

“I have changed,” he answered, and it was in the silence that followed that you made up your mind, finally.

Zuko was on the wrong side of this war. Not as you’d thought.

You heard a yelp from Katara and brought up a hunk of earth underneath you, launching you across the cave and into a defensive position in front of her with a battle cry. Both Azula and Zuko seemed surprised by this decision, but before any of you could react, the rumbling of Aang’s reemergence interrupted the fight. They turned their attention to him, which gave you the moment to send a hunk of stone into both of their abdomens, knocking them backward. However, your eyes turned up with the sound of Dai Li stone chains, and you couldn’t pull your limbs in tight enough to avoid their sudden grip on you.

“No,” you snarled as Katara woke, and brought a ring of water around the both of you. You stood back to back with her, small finger movements slowly dissembling the stone chains around your wrists so you could help her in the fight.

But there were too many agents- you knew you couldn’t take them all on. Not even with a master waterbender at your back.

A gust of wind surprised you, and you broke free in time to see Aang rise from shattered crystal inside a beam of light. It was amazing- and you were stunned into awe.

Lightning struck the avatar.

Katara nearly drowned you in the wave she created, but you pulled up a slab of stone just in time to surf on it behind her, just like you had on summer days in Lake Laogai. Mowing down Dai Li agents, and the royal siblings, the two of you raced toward the falling avatar, before he was caught by Katara. Soaked, exhausted, and tears blurring your vision, you stood between her and the siblings, who walked toward her, as though they were predators, and she an easy meal.

Though you knew you should be watching them both, your eyes were on Zuko. Maybe, there was some of Lee left in him, and seeing you would bring it back. But his eyes were firmly on the dead-or-dying avatar, hungry, predatory, and your heart shattered.

Fire cut off their path and you looked up to see Iroh, who leapt down in front of even you.

“You’ve got to get out of here!” He shouted, looking back at you. “I’ll hold them off for as long as I can!” Katara stood and you joined her on Aang’s other side, carrying the avatar toward a waterfall, the sound of fire roaring behind you.

It was terrifying.

“Hold onto him!” Katara shouted, her grip tight on the avatar as she used her other hand to bend an upward spiral around the three of you.

You watched Iroh face Zuko until the rock covered your vision, and you closed your eyes.

Back on Appa, you kneeled behind Sokka, one eye keeping a watch on Katara as she attempted to heal Aang. But mostly, you gripped Appa’s fur, and cried.

The Dai Li had lied to you. Zuko and Iroh had lied to you. The Dia Li turned on you. Zuko turned on you. Zuko turned on Iroh, Azula killed the avatar. Everything was so messed up, beyond proportion, skewed beyond belief. The boy you thought you might’ve loved...

He’d never existed in the first place.

And though the avatar lived, you laid your forehead to the bison’s back, and sobbed.

tag list for this series- @furblrwurblr @eridanuswave

oh yeah request for pt 6 /// already been requested y’all are fine

edit: | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 |

-🦌 Roe

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moonlights-inkwell · 3 years

Text

I Love You, Don’t Say Anything

Jaskier x Reader

Word Count: 6,047

Summary: Healing from your wounds is a trying experience. Even if it comes with new friends.

A/N: Ha. Remember me? Yeah, me neither. Mental Health is... a bitch.

Here’s part three tho!

Part One Part Two

You’re dead. At least, you think you are. The dull, throbbing pain in your neck means you must be, surely. If this is death, though, you expected worse. Hellfire and sulphur, or angelic chorus and white clouds, or the white void of purgatory, but no. There’s none of that at all. Nothing but the pain in your neck, nowhere near as painful as it had been earlier but its still there, aching and sending occasional rushes of pain down your arm.

It’s dark. Pitch black, permeating and seeping into anything and everything, with nothing at all to break the darkness. No moon, no stars, no flickering candlelight; nothing at all. It ought to be frightening, but really it isn’t- it’s familiar. You feel like you know it, know it well at that, but you don’t really know how you do.

You have your eyes closed. That’s what it is. It’s not dark like night, no it’s dark like when you've woken from a sleep that is so overwhelming that you cannot bring yourself to open your eyes. Sleep, oh heavenly beautiful sleep, you long for it but that pain in your neck will not allow for anything like that, so instead you just lay there, eyes closed and just living in this moment. It's nice. Warm even. Like being held.

There’s a warmth across your waist that only gets warmer on your stomach, your back feels like it’s facing a fire, but there’s none of that residual pain. It’s like being held; reminds you of your childhood. When your father passed, you had been no older than six, and spent every night for a year sleeping in your mother's bed, her vice-like grip keeping you in place, held to her bosom the way a new mother would her babe to their breast. It was a hard year. Your mother had become so engulfed by her sadness that she had become almost a stranger, never smiling or laughing, not able to cook or clean or even collect fire wood; you had grown up too quickly then, having to take care of yourself and your mother until she finally found herself once more. She was so wrapped in her grief that you had spent every moment by her side- to assure her she was not alone- but it had grown into something else entirely. The house you had known as warm and sweet smelling became cold and foreign to you, and it never quite recovered even after she had. The songs came back, but sadder, the bread never as good, the honey never as sweet. Innocence lost; you suppose the childish wonderment buried in a fisherman’s watery grave along with your father. The memory makes you stiffen a little, but it’s what it reminds you of that really makes your breath catch in your throat. Your father. You haven’t given him a thought since you were eleven, and now you can’t even remember his face, it’s little more than a hazy blur in your mind. His voice, a gruff but cheerful thing, only exists in shallow memories of him singing along with your mother, whispering bedtime tales of princesses and knights. Pain pricks behind your eyes, and so you try desperately to distract yourself, focusing on the heat behind you. Familiar warmth.

It reminds you of the autumn too, when the days grow shorter and the nights colder and more likely to be filled with rain. On those colder, wetter nights something changes; boundaries disappear and you can indulge in the sweetness of not sleeping alone as you normally do. Those special, sacred nights when Jaskier, Geralt and yourself have to squish close together in a cave for warmth, pressed between the bard and Witcher so you can stay warm and protected. Geralt is always somewhat cold like a corpse, silent as the dead, but Jaskier is a different story entirely. Even when you fall into sleep on your back, you wake with him pressed into your back, face in the tangles of your hair and murmuring nonsense that must mean something in his dreams. He’s warm, like a bed warmer that can cling to you and occasionally hums lullabies when you startle awake in the night.

The flat of your hand pushes down in front of you but sinks down into comfortable fabric. Not the ground. Not the ground at all. You swear you were on the ground when you fell onto Jaskier's lap, right in front of the fire but this isn’t where you fell asleep.

You wonder, still half asleep if Geralt had managed to talk some poor inn-keep into letting you rest in their home while you heal. Unlikely. But this definitely is not camp. No, this is somewhere else entirely, somewhere with a bed- somewhere blissfully warm.

Just blissful heat. After a second or two, you realise you are being held, but only when the hot burst of breath spreads across the back of your neck and though it takes more effort than it should, your eyes creak open. You’re in a room, dark save for the glowing of a fire in a small archway across from you, with dark velvet curtains covering the windows. It’s comfortable, far more expensive than any inn you could ever afford, and in your tired daze you can’t string together anything more coherent than that. It’s comfortable.

“You’re awake. That’s good.” A voice says from by the fireplace, smooth and feminine, and your blurry eyes catch sight of a woman who you're sure wasn’t there a second before. She’s gorgeous. Intimidatingly so: tall, with black curls that frame a flawless beautiful face, corners of deep pink lips turned up into a smile. Never, in your entire life, have you seen a woman so beautiful: and you recall a story from your mother about a woman with hair like coal and skin as white as fresh fallen snow and eyes the colour of honey, but hers are not. No, they’re purple. Like amethyst, amethyst that is watching you intently.

“Am I dead?” The question escapes you before you can realise how silly it is. The voice that comes out of you is almost unrecognizable as your own. It sounds like you’ve been gargling shattered glass and assorted rocks since birth, and this woman chuckles slightly at your words. For some strange reason, the sound puts you at ease; even though you don’t know this woman, she makes you feel safe enough to not want to deal out your sword and ask how you got here.

“Dead to the world for a few days, but no. You’re still alive. Lucky to be so, too. Especially with the wound you had. Nasty thing, it was.” She steps towards you, head tilting to the left as you try and push yourself onto your elbow only to fumble. “Oh, don’t. You'll hurt yourself. It doesn’t hurt any more does it?” qqq

It doesn’t. Well, not as badly as it did before, just a dull ache rather than excruciating pain, and you allow yourself a deep inhale. Bearable, and the smile that overtakes your face is undeniable.

“...Thank you, miss...”

“No miss. Just Yennefer.” She says as she moves towards you, pushing a flute of something red into your hands. “Drink. You'll feel better.” You eye it suspiciously, holding it in both trembling hands.

“What is it?”

“It'll make you feel better.” It isn’t much by means of explanation, but it’s enough, so you tip the glass back and gulp down the fed liquid within. It tastes like liquorice and vinegar, bitter and tangy in such a way that your nose crinkles in disgust and Yennefer laughs once more. A pretty sound from a pretty woman, like tinkling bells. You wonder if she’s some sort of siren, but sirens are hardly known for their willingness to heal people. You feel drunk but the pain is lessened even still, drawing a little sigh from you, and she takes the glass. “It tastes horrible, but you feel better, right?”

You do feel better, so you let her take the glass from you when you catch sight of your arm. It’s covered, but by blue velvet, not the blouse you were wearing earlier. It’s a familiar blue velvet at that, the colour of a stream and embroidered in gold. Jaskier. It’s one of his doublets, your favourite of his doublets at that, but you have no clue how you’ve found yourself wearing it, you've never worn any article of his clothing before-

“He put it on you.” She says airily, gesturing behind you with a vague wave, which has you assuming that the confusion must be written across your face. “You gave the poor idiot a real fright, Little Miss.” The pet name comes playfully from her, but you stiffen at it until a quiet groan comes from behind you and that warmth on your stomach turns into a fist that you realise is on exposed flesh. “Geralt too, I cannot remember a time he looked so worried. The Bard hasn’t left your side though. I think he may have been worried you...”

Would die. She doesn’t need to finish the sentence for you to know what she means. You don’t want to think about that, want to focus on something- anything- else.

“You know Geralt?”

“That... is one way of putting it, yes.”

“You could say she's a heartless witch who insists on toying with Geralt.” Jaskier grumbles tiredly behind you and Yennefer rolls her eyes. For the first time since opening your eyes a coldness settles over her features, no less pretty but harder. Firmer. Women don’t normally turn cold at Jaskier, but Jaskier doesn’t normally insult women either. This dynamic is new, uncomfortable to be between, and you can see her trying to bite back words, presumably for the sake of your weak self.

“I'll take my leave, then. Try to rest, Little Miss.” Yennefer says simply, brushing the back of her knuckles across the underside of your jaw as she heads towards the door, sauntering out and closing the door behind her.

“Cow.” Jaskier huffs against your neck, tickling the skin as he lets his hand relax and flatten against your stomach once more. Unclothed stomach. You realise, a little belatedly, that you don’t have your corset on; someone has removed your corset, and you’ve been laid here, chest exposed with Jaskier around you for days. You could have died, bled to death in a wood far from home with no one to mourn you but a Witcher and his Bard, but all you can understand is that Jaskier has been lying beside you in this state of undress, and that you feel... ashamed, somehow. There's not even a reason why, but almost bare, save for his jacket you feel shame gather in your throat like vomit. You almost died. You worried him so much he hasn’t left your side, cleaned you up and put you in his clothing, but all your mind can focus on is that he must have seen you bare and you didn’t even know, couldn’t even see how he had reacted.

Your body is a body to you. It’s not something you attribute any great importance to; you've never considered yourself some buxom beauty, some sultry siren or dainty darling. Your body is just that, or was before you started your travels. Now it's a weapon, of sorts, marred by swords and scratches and bites, thighs thickened by travel, fists scarred and bruised. Insecurity is not a concept you think of in conjunction to yourself but you think of yourself and your body as different beings entirely- it’s nigh on impossible to not be insecure about the criss-cross of scars that span the plains of your belly, the raised skin below the hollow of your throat, healed over incision just to the side of your breast beneath the collar bone. He’s seen it all now, and without you seeing his response. It should be enlightening that after seeing these marks he remains still, but it isn’t. No, no, your mind is not put at ease by the hand resting over your navel, touching your battle-worn skin like it gives him comfort; it instead is overwrought by the thought he's stayed because he thinks he ought to. Feels sorry for you, has remained by your side because he wasn’t there when you were attacked, and now he has seen all he can of you has decided to wait for you to wake to inform you that he has no interest in you. He beds queens and ladies of status and not scarred wretches who almost had their throats ripped from their necks.

He’s not said a word of the sort, but this invented rebuffing of your feelings has your eyes watering and body curling in on itself, away from him. He notices immediately and curls closer around you without a word, just smoothing your hair away from your neck to press a kiss to it.

“I know you’re awake.” In spite of yourself, you smile at the sing-song lilt of his voice.

“No, I’m not.” You mumble, childishly, and the bard chuckles warmly across the back of your neck. It’s enough to make you roll onto your side to face him.

Gods, he looks tired. You’ve seen him muddied and rained on and smeared with gore, but he’s so tired it almost breaks your heart. The bags beneath his eyes are so dark you think them bruises at first, deep purple and blue, stark against his skin and almost merging into the mussed-up mess of his hair that hangs like curtains curling into his eyes. He’s no longer in your dress, but instead a chemise crumpled beyond compare and trousers to match the doublet currently covering you. Dead to the world for a few days, Yennefer had said, and you believe from the state of his clothes that he's been mourning the same amount of time. Memories of the-thing-that-wasn't-Jaskier flash before your eyes, but he smiles, your fingers slide up to rest on his chin. Even sleep deprived and bleary eyed, he’s gorgeous, smiling at you like you're the gift that he's begged for on his birthday, some prized possession. He’s stayed beside you.

“There's my love.” He says gently, thumb rubbing circles into the skin of your stomach. It’s the simplest thing he could have said, but it’s reaffirming and sweet. “You frightened me, Little Miss.”

“Force of habit at this point, Dandy.” You say, fingers straying from the rough stubble of his chin to his lips, tracing his cupid's bow with your fingertips, feeling his smile before you see it.

“I'd prefer you leave it for a while. I don’t think my heart could take that again any time soon.”

“I doubt I could survive anything like that again.” You try to laugh but the pained look he shoots you makes you still again. Joking about almost dying is nothing new, and still he’s looking at you like your mortality is something he had never considered at all before all this.

“I could have lost you.”

“Takes more than some monster in your skin to kill me off, Bard.” You smirk and lean in to peck his lips but he leans back to stare at you like you've two heads.

“What do you mean, in my skin?”

“It. It made me see things, while it... did that. To my neck.”

“See things?” He asks timidly.

“See you.” It comes out like a confession and you can’t even meet his eyes as you say it. “Doing things.”

“What things, Darling?” He presses, thumb stilling and your own fingers fall from his mouth to the pillow. “Please, Lovely, what things?”

“Jask-"

“Missy, please. I need to know, you looked so afraid, I don’t want you to-"

“You had your fingers in me.” You cut him off, and he blinks at you in shock. “Pinned to a wall, with your fingers inside me.”

“It didn’t-" It's obvious as to the destination that his thoughts have arrived at.

“It was a dream.” You try desperately to reassure him and he heaves out a sigh of relief, tugging you to his chest while his face buries into your hair. His heart pounds against your ear and you can hear him breathe in deeply as he holds you tight. “It didn’t touch me. Not like that, anyway.”

“No, it just almost killed you.”

“Like I said, Dandelion, I'm fine.”

You aren’t fine though; not really. Memory of the thing that looked like him touching you, kissing you, haunts you- especially with Jaskier holding you tight. It shouldn’t affect you in such a way, but your heart is racing and your core throbs with each breath. You aren’t afraid. Not at all, and that’s all the more worrying. No, you feel desperate; desperate to know if his fingers would actually feel that good curling within you, filling and spreading your most private of areas.

“It made you see me. Touching you.” His tone is almost unreadable, not quite disappointed but instead like he doesn’t understand even though he wants to. That’s not the issue. The thing you disliked had nothing to do with the fingers inside you, instead that you knew it wasn’t him and there’s no way to explain that to him without sounding like some kind of wanton whore.

“It. Must have seen us together in the woods.” You offer and he flinches, grip on you weakening.

“It hurt you because I was thinking with my cock and not about what was going on.” He says coldly, but that bitter chill doesn’t quite reach you, no, the cold is aimed internally. You know this blame, know it well from nights when Jaskier has fallen asleep early and Geralt will allow you a few stories of his own. Hunts gone bad. People he couldn’t save, sparce words but the meaning is there all the same. You don’t understand it from the Witcher and understand it even less from the bard.

“Jaskier-" You start to argue but he shakes his head.

“I wanted to fuck you.” He says it so forcefully, a term you’ve never heard come from him in regards to you, but it makes you still. He wanted to Fuck you, not progress, not move forward. Fuck you. Spear you on his cock ‘til you weep for him. “And because I wanted to, it could hurt you. Knew how to hurt you."

“Stop with the self-loathing, if I wanted that I'd seek Geralt out." You try to joke, but the pain in his eyes is enough to silence you. Eyes like those shouldn’t look so pained.

“You undressed me.” You whisper into the newly created silence and he nods softly.

“You were covered in blood. I... I couldn’t bear to see you like that. Besides, the jacket rather suits you.”

“It’s yours.”

“I’m aware, Little Miss.” He chuckles weakly, smoothing your hair away from your eyes. “Makes us quite fair now, Darling, don’t you think? I’ve wore your dress and now you've worn my jacket.”

Fair. Nothing about this is fair, there is nothing fair about the hurt written plainly across the Bard's face, how tired he is, how he is blaming himself. Nothing fair or right about how his trembling bottom lip has you thinking about nothing but trapping it between your teeth and sucking on it until he whimpers. But you sigh softly and lean in close to gently kiss his forehead.

“I think you need to sleep.” You whisper, watching as he smiles and squeezes your hip gently.

“You sound like my mother.” He says, tone somewhere between humour and blankness.

“Oh?”

“She loved to tell me what to do too.” It’s a joke, but your throat constricts painfully at the word mother.

“Yes, well. You remind me of my mother sometimes too.”

“Was she devilishly handsome too?” He raises an eyebrow, a smile toying at the corners of his lips.

“No. She blamed herself for my father's death.” You say concisely before rolling away from him and shutting your eyes, ending the conversation.

She used to sing too. Once upon a time.

/////////

“There are men that that wound would have killed, kotku. I’m impressed you’re so well so soon.” The brush runs through your hair, a little rougher than you expect and you’re barely able to choke back the quiet whimper of pain. You've not had a proper chance to brush your hair since the attack, and when Yennefer had offered to help with it you took the opportunity with both hands, mostly so you didn’t have to concern yourself with the matted locks of hair and blood. She had taken the job in stride too, never complaining, just moving forwards with a quiet little hum. You sit there, hands resting on your knees and twisting the fabric of a borrowed nightgown, while her soft hands manoeuvre around your head and shifting your hair away from the healing wound on your throat.

Yennefer is a breath of fresh air. Not just because she’s another woman, though that fact doesn’t lessen your enjoyment of her presence: Yennefer is wonderful and so far from any other woman you've known, strange and dark in ways that would never have been tolerated in your home, gentle but with something just below the surface which has yet to rise for you. Any other person would be far more annoyed by the presence of an injured stranger in their home, but she’s taken you being here in good stride; Geralt and Jaskier though, less so. You’re a welcome guest, they are treated more as inconvenience. There is baggage here, that no one is willing to talk about, and you are unwilling to breach this unspoken conflict. It truly isn’t your place.

That, and you don’t want that sort of coldness to be fixed on you. The woman's haughty annoyance is easily ignored, and you really don’t want to be on the receiving end of it- there’s a deeply childish part of your soul that is desperate to have her be your friend. You’re rather lacking in the friend department at the moment, and completely without any female friends. Yen seems a good friend to have.

“I like to think I’m better than any man.” You reply playfully, trying as hard as you can to keep still. How her hair looks so shiny and fine if she brushes her own hair as aggressively as she’s brushing your own is a mystery. It’s like she’s trying to scalp you.

“Two weeks for a wound like that.” She hums appreciatively, leaving you all but preening under the praise. Yes. Yen is a good friend to have, you decide, especially when her words of affirmation have you desperate for more.

When you were young, you were the same. Following the older girls about the village, desperate to be involved, to be friends- to feel older than your age, they had humoured you at the time. Braiding your hair and singing you silly songs that you’re old enough now to realise were truly kind gestures, but gestures non-the-less. They weren’t your friends, no more than you were friends with the stray cat that used to yowl at the turnips that grew in your garden; you were a pet. A sweet little thing to keep about for fun, and send away once they had outstayed their welcome and the noise was no longer endearing but annoying instead. You can’t help but hope that it isn’t like that with Yennefer. You want to be her friend.

“I'll be fighting again in no time.” You laugh, Yen’s brushing stopping entirely and she pats your shoulder.

“Not today. Bath and some clothes, then we'll see how you are just using that arm.” She gestures towards the steaming tub in the other room. “I’ll leave you something. It might not fit right but it’s better than nothing.”

Everything that the raven-haired woman has worn has been expensive looking and beautiful, but she is most definitely not the same size as you. Yennefer is slight and slender, and her deep skin looks beautiful against the fabric, even during that one winter you ate nothing but cabbage stew you weren’t as slim as her. “Stop it. In the water.” Yen chides, and you feel like a child. She has a strange sort of way of knowing how you think which you’re trying not to question. Mostly, because it feels like it would be impertinent to ask. So, you do as she asks and pad into the adjacent room, shutting the door before stripping down to nothing and climbing into the tub.

The water is almost blisteringly hot. You’d wince, if it wasn’t exactly what you need. The heat feels like it’s stripping away all dirt and sweat that has ever been on your flesh; wiping away the touch of the phantasmal Jaskier. Your thoughts return to him again. In inns, when you can find them, Jaskier always orders you a bath, slipping a bottle of scented oils into your hand before you can argue about him wasting coin on you. It’s always sweet and floral and light, almost definitely more money than it’s worth, and beautiful. There’s a collection of oil vials in your bag that you would never admit to, a few containing flowers he’s picked for you during your travels. Sentimental as it is, you’re a realist. One day all of this will end, and they’ll be all you have to remember him by- oh Gods, you want to remember him always, stupid jokes and bad puns and all. You haven’t seen him in a week.

Yennefer has insisted Geralt and Jaskier give you space to heal, you think she meant for them to go about Witchering and she would send you to find them when healed, but they’ve stayed. Some days you can hear them, arguing about something or other, sometimes playing Gwent. It’s bittersweet to have them so close but not speak to them. For a while, they’ve been the only consistency in your life, so not having them is... strange. You’re trying to readjust to sleeping alone. It isn’t easy.

Your hands sink into the water and you scoop it about your body and begin scrubbing, trying desperately to distract yourself from Jaskier. It’s sort of silly just how much you miss him. He’s just A Bard. A silly, wonderful, handsome bard. It’s ridiculous how someone like him could so simply work his way into your heart.

The world feels a smaller place without him.

You stay in the water until it chills, and would have stayed longer were it not for the numbing of your rear and thighs. When you finally make your way back into your bedchambers, Yen is long gone, and in her place is a dress. It’s very much what you expect from her, black velvet with hints of red running through the fabric, a deep plunging neckline and a cinched waist. Even with a corset tied as tightly as possible, you doubt it will fit but try and stay upbeat about it. It was nice of Yen to even lend it to you in the first place without your being moody, so you retrieve your undergarments and pull them back in place, tying your corset tightly. It takes a second or so to convince yourself to even touch the dress, never mind try on. It’s soft to the touch, far too rich for your blood, making you feel like some sort of maid who ought be bringing this garment to a queen or countess, not putting it on. You do put it on though, afraid that it will be much too small, only to be pleasantly surprised once you lace it and turn to the mirror. It fits, comfortably too, hugging your frame in a way that makes you feel attractive. Beneath the mirror, which you try not to look at, you find a small number of cosmetics, you assume courtesy of Yen, and smile. You barely ever wear such things but putting it on surely couldn’t hurt. A little bit of powder, a smudge of kohl about the eyes and rouge to the lips, it takes very little time, but you barely recognise the woman staring back at you. She’s familiar, like a relative you seldom see, but you wouldn’t assume it to be you. Her hair is a little wild, but the face is one of a dark sort of elegance, simple but enough to make a difference to you especially when combined with the dress. You had miscalculated the neckline, assuming it to be a deep plunge but instead it is far less severe and hangs off of the shoulders to form puffy sleeves that taper in at the elbow to tight cuffs. It's gorgeous and you feel beautiful but its not right. You feel like a child playing dress up. You breathe in shallowly and turn towards the door.

“I’ll not let you keep her from me a minute longer!” You hear shouted through the door. Jaskier. His voice rings clear as a bell.

“She's bathing.” Yen says simply. Her voice is passive, even bored, and you can tell she's only doing it to upset him.

“Alone! After being injured! She could have drowned or-"

“Have you always been a mother hen? Or is this some sort of way of trying to get into her bed?”

“How dare you!”

“I know how you act, Dandelion. I’ve seen you around women. Bedding them, leaving. Your little miss deserves better than that.”

“You act like I don’t know that!” He snaps back at her and you step out of the bedroom, following their squabbling until you’re stood in the doorway watching them. Yennefer has a finger thrust into Jaskier's chest, pointed black nail leaving an indent in his clothing as he bares his teeth at her, like an animal raring to attack. It’s like watching day meet night, blue boy scowling at a woman shrouded in black.

Your blue boy.

It’s been a week, you’ve gone longer without seeing rain, but the sight of Jaskier lifts a weight off of you that you hadn’t even known was there. He looks better rested, if a little strange glaring, hair still dishevelled. The fact that you had heard the two of them all the way to the door is the only way you know that the two of them hadn’t been in a physical fight before you got there. You know the sound of skin on skin too well to have missed it. One might break out still if the tension in the air is anything to go by. You’ve broken up drunken scraps over less, but you can’t bring yourself to move. Some part of you wants to see how this plays out before you intervene. A sick part of you wants to know if they will fight, over you at that. Dandelion is hardly the kind of man to start a brawl with a woman, but Yen most definitely seems like the sort of woman who would start a fight with a man. Truly, she seems like the sort of woman who would win a fight against a man, or ten.

“She almost died-"

“And you’re leaving her alone in a bath where anything could happen! She could fall asleep and drown. Could trip and hurt herself more! I have put up with this for a week, Witch, and I won’t be putting up with it for a moment longer. I was willing to be quiet for Geralt’s sake, but he isn’t here now.” His voice is venomous, cold enough to make you shiver. Jaskier isn’t cold. He’s all sunlight and summer, like coming home to a lit hearth in the depth of winter; this is new. You’ve never been the subject of his ire, but every time you have seen it, its been. Different. Angry Jaskier is smug, self-aggrandising and sure, this is almost afraid. Like you being without him might cause you to be lost to him. Has that happened with others, you wonder, time ripping people from his grip?

“You’re being an arse! Making her sleep alone in a stranger’s home-"

“She’s a fucking grown woman, she can sleep without you lingering about her like a fart in a crowded room!”

“Do the two of you always argue like this?” You ask lightly, leaning against the door frame for stability. Both turn quickly, startled by your voice seemingly coming out of nowhere.

Normally, when you walk it’s with a purpose, in sturdy boots and belts that clink together, there is no way to be silent, so the gown has given you a silent presence that is impossible to achieve normally. Geralt is always silent, appearing and disappearing like a phantom. Must be fun, you think to yourself, to linger in the background just listening to how other people interact with each other. So much gossip to hear, arguments to silently choose a side in. You almost wish this would be a regular occurrence, even if you can’t help but miss that sound of chinking metal on metal from buckles and blades.

As much as you know that the difference in your appearance is drastic, you aren’t expecting the response that you get. Jaskier gawks at you, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape, while Yennefer smiles at you, nodding with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Well. Look who didn’t die in the bath.” She says, voice all light and playful- a world away from the cruel tone she had used for Jaskier. It feels a little patronising, like she’s speaking to a child or a pet, but you smile all the same. She's been so kind to you, and you know better than to bite the hand that feeds. “You look pretty without all the mud and blood.”

“I feel pretty.” You admit, tripping a little over the words. “I'm surprised the dress even fits.”

“Of course it does.” She replies with such finality as she sidles to your side, brushing down the fabric at your hips. There are no wrinkles there, you’re quite sure, but the act makes you blush- barely anyone touches your hips, so the feeling of hands on them, even through the clothing, is enough to make your mouth go dry. Violet eyes focus on you like you’re the only person in the room and you almost feel like it. It’s like you’ve been bewitched, and you only return to reality when a choked-out noise across from you brings you out of your own head.

Jaskier is still gaping, staring at you like a stranger, and your blush only intensifies under his eyes. The stare is almost hungry, and you recognise it from that night when your neck had been ripped open- but not from that dream. No, from when he had laid you down in front of the fire and slotted himself between your legs, member thick against your thigh. You feel like a slab of meat in front of a hungry animal, like at a second’s notice he will pounce on you and sink his teeth into you. A vein in his throat bulges as he breathes in before Yennefer steps away from you.

“Jask?” You ask, and his only response is an exhale that verges on a pained moan. You move toward him worriedly. “Jaskier?”

“Gods, Little Miss. Look at you.” He whispers.

“What’s wrong with me?” You ask quickly, afraid all at once that you don’t look as pretty as you had initially thought. Too pale, eyes too dark, lips too much like blood.

“Absolutely nothing.” Yennefer intervenes sharply, hand resting on your shoulder in a manner that is both reassuring and restrictive.

“You. You.” He stammers out, looking you up and down, which you mirror. “You... You look like...” He stumbles over the words forming in his throat and just reaches for you instead, hands finding yours and tugging you into a possessive grasp, body melting around yours. “Gods, I don’t even know.”

You want to ask if that is a bad thing, but you know it isn’t. The knowledge makes you feel powerful.

#jaskier imagine #jaskier x reader #jaskier x you #the witcher

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bronwiebear-brad · 3 years

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Giiiiirl! Listen this I know u only write about Bradleyboy but I see that u fancy the holland boys and haz 😏😏 (who doesn't right?) so pleaseeeee write something with them, pleaaaaaaaaase 🥺love you writing so much it would mean the world for me 💛

A/N: You all know that I cannot resist my sweet anon’s requests, so consider this an early christmas gift. Lmao. I hope your staying healthy. Btw I’ve choosen the most soft boy ever aka Harry Holland because that boy is lovely af - also this is my first time writing about the boys so pls be gentle 💛

Warnings: nothing much just a few curse words.

Spending quarentine and 24/7 trapped inside a house with the most loud, messy, cheeky boys ever wasn’t actually in your dream plans. Everyone got a part of their day busy, either was college, work, cooking, drinking, boys silly videogames challenges, boardgames and a lot of pranks. But apart from all that quarentine was making you guys build strong bonds.

You all tried to be active, productive and keep the days busy. But let me tell you this: that boys were always up to no good.

You were siting in the living room with your laptop in the coffee table and paying extreme attention to your zoom class. Harrison was in his, writing a few emails and you both were enjoying the quietness of the room while your teacher rambled about something important.

You totally missed Harry cheekily giggling and running into the living room, disappearing right after into the backyard. But little boy Tom definitely not gone unnoticed when he came shouting and shirtless, trying to catch his brother, making a quick appearence into your lecture since you had your camera and mic on the moment he passed behind you.

“HARRY! YOU’RE GONNA GET IT, YOU DICKHEAD!” Tom disapeared into the backyard door and Harrison looked at you trying his best not to laugh. You were looking at your classmates, with your face pale and widen eyes as you were noticing some of them laughing, freaking out and most importantly, your teacher had this serious unread expression on his face.

“That's it, I'm completely done”. You thought to yourself while smiling awkardly to the camera and thinking about million ways to murder Thomas freaking Holland.

"Wait, wasn't that dude, Spiderman?" Your teacher asked making Harrison and the rest of the class brust in laughter, meanwhile you grew red.

Apart from ruining zoom lectures, spending quality time with your bestfriends was the best thing. But most important, spending quality time with your very special friend Harry. Of course he didn’t knew he had a special place in you heart - and you meant to keep that way - but you two were very close and as the days went by it was more dificult to pretend that he didn’t make your stomach funny every morning when he came down and kissed your cheek, smelling heavenly with his sleepy eyes and messy curls.

Harrison was the mainly reason you've met Harry and the rest of the boys. It was during a summer break where you joined an workshop to learn more about the process of making movies and writing scripts. You didn't want to persue that professionally, but you needed exciting things to do on your summer break from high school so why not join a class to discuss movies?

You two got along right away after the teacher set you together to recreate a new ending for Titanic. You both did a comic approach, making everyone in the group laugh and even the teacher said that you were really a good duo. You had the writing skills and he had the acting. You were pretty unaware of Harrison’s truly intentions tho. But the minute he noticed your general interests about certain genres and cinema in general, the way you discuss the photography, scripts and plots even tho you didn’t understand very well about it and just by the way you stood in the theaters reading all the credits after a movie just ended. All of that simple things, reminded him of something. Or to be more precised, someone. That someone was nothing less than Harry Holland.

So he knew that he had to settle up you two, that you two would get along very well but Harrison wasn't going to force it, it had to happen naturally. That's why you started to hang out more with him. Going out to lunch or drink coffee, study sessions in the library, parties or movie sessions in his house and that eventually, gave you Tom.

Tom usually came with Harrison to the study sessions, studying his scrips and even joined the workshop at one point. Sadly he got off when he started working on the first big challenge in his career and all the Spiderman thing.

You three grew together and everyone started to getting in the right way of their lifes. Of course Tom knew his best friend's intentions from the start and decided to join the team of cupids.

It was needed one night at the pub, where you three were drinking and having a good time, to steping the plan to a whole another level.

"Guys, I'm going to quit the workshop." You said camly making Tom frown and Harrison almost spit his drink.

No no no, his plan didn't even started yet!! He thought.

"What? Why?!" Tom whined. After he had to quit it because his filming career, he was truly excited about his two best friends doing something similar to his job. He like the heated arguments and opinions about the films on movie nights, like you all had some sorta of film club.

"Did you got a boyfriend, is that it?" Harrison talked curious. "He doesn't let you hang with us?" He leaned on the tabled talking low as if he was saying a secret password.

"No Harrison, I'm still single. What the hell?" You chuckled and rolled your eyes.

This man and his obsession with my lofe life. You thought.

“I'm starting college and thats a big deal. I'm not going to have time to commit there, I only joined it as a hobby and it's been two years, guys." You smiled at them noticing their attention on you. "Also, I'm searching for a flat here, downtown before it all starts and I'm not finding anything." You simple explain frowning and taking a long sip on your drink and Tom's eyes lit up. He was proud of his flash thinking. Even if sometimes he wished he could just shut up and don’t say stupid things as his brothers would say to him.

"Move in with us, there's enough room there!" He let out excited. His eyes moved to Harrison and the blonde boy raised an eyebrow thinking further and understanding his best friend cheeky expression.

"Yeah, you could join us, darling. Real estate is a mess these days" Harrison smiled widely and your jaw dropped.

Are they serious right now?

"As if you knew about real estate." Tom rolled his eyes and Harrison playfully smacked his head.

"Uh-I-I don't know... You don't live there alone, what about the other guys? I don’t want to change the frat crazy house of yours.." You weren't sure if it was a good idea to move to a house without asking the other people who lived there.

"Oh you mean my brother Harry?" You nod after whatching Tom carefully. "He is super excited to met you, we’ve talk a lot about you". He simply let out making Harrison widen his blue eyes.Tom and his big mouth.

"Wait what?!" You asked being caught in surprise.

Three years later and there you were, standing in the kitchen, after Tom cooked dinner - by cooking you mean ordering - since it was your and Harry's turn to wash the dishes. As you washed the plates, he dried them with a white towel and was humming a song that was playing from his playlist. - swear that boy had a playlist for everything.

"Did you and Tom got your script thing sorted out yet?" You asked while passing a plate under the water. He stopped singing and listened to you carefully.

"Yeah, we are pretty far ahead. Moving to find a good plot. It's pretty hard" He answer grabbing the plate from your hands and noticing your eyes on his face, blushing slightly. "Don't tell Tom but I can give you the abstracts if you want to have a read? I know how much you love to read." He smiled and looked at your face properly. You were smiling widely and his heart softened finding your dimple extremely cute.

"Really?!" You sound so excited that he chuckled nodding.

"Of course. You're running out of books to read, I was planing on giving you one for Christmas but-" he continued driyng the plates but got caught in surprised when you kissed his cheek and said thanks. Seconds later he was right back in the kitchen after a short trip to the moon. "How's the online classes going?" He smiled, still blushing from your previous interaction, and looked at your face.

"It's going good." You stopped for a few seconds just admiring his face and the way his curls fell into his face lazily. He looked extremely cute in that green sweater. "I think my teacher fancies me more now. After the litle acident and knowing I share roof with spiderman, the dude." You said with a funny expression and you both laughed.

"Glad I could contribute on such achievements, miss." He bumped his shoulder into yours playfully. And you laughed even more. Your giggles filling the kitchen and besides the music playing on his playlist, Harry swore it was the most beautiful melodies he ever heard.

You two returned your attention to the sink and as you were doing it you got caugh in a Arctic Monkeys music playing and trying to remember the lyrics.

Click.

Your attention was brought back after hearing a camera and seeing a flash. Harry was still looking at you thru the lense with a lovely smile.

"Harry? Oh my god, no!" You blushed at his bold moves. "I'm looking horrible right now. Why did you take a picture?"

"Nonsense. You look so cute while doing the dishes." He turned the camera, showing you the picture and you blushed even more.

"Eww. Please, delete it." You warned and he chuckled putting the camera straps above his neck and resting the camera on his chest.

"I'm not going to delete it, love." He kept his task as you. "Sorry not sorry." He laughed maliciously and you rolled your eyes.

"You're going to delete it." You looked at him and he clicked his tongue.

"Uh-uh." He hummed moving his head negatively and his curls balanced up and down. That was a good sight.

"Oh yeah?" You raised and eyebrow asking one more time and didn't even gave him the time to turn your direction. Your hands already throwing him foam and he stepped back, foam hitting his hoodie and his chest.

He smirked but his hands went to his camera, inspection it.

"Oh shit, the camera." Your mouth making a "o" shape. "Im sorry H, I didn't thought about it." You pouted giving him the most apologetic smile and he pulled a poker face at you for a few minutes.

You were starting to believe that you actually broke the device but then he started to laugh hard.

"It's water proof, dummy." He showed you his tongue and hit you smoothly with the towel in your face.

"You absolute arse!" You thrown him more foam and after a peace threaten by his hands up, he finally stopped laughing. "Im serious now, delete the picture, carrot." You warned and he laughed at the nickname.

"I think I'm going to set it as my wallpaper." His words rolled out of his tongue so easily as he concentrate on drying the plates again and you didn't even moved from your spot, getting caught by his words.

"What?" You asked finally, studying his face and his eyes opened widely. "Harry why use my picture as your background?" You dried your hands.

Did I said that out loud? Damn it, Harry you fucking dick. He thought.

"Hmm..." He swallowed. "It's a really nice picture. You look rather pretty.... And I-uh kinda like you, I guess." His hands scratching his head and his blood stopping running thru his body. Well there wasn't no intention of hidden it now.

"Oh I'm so enjoying this." Tom said to Harrison, as they were siting across the room in the couch watching the whole scene in silence. You two didn't even noticed them spying.

"It's a romcom and we were the directors of it." Harrison joked and Tom chuckled.

"Thanks." You smiled and went to hug Harry. "You look rather pretty too." You said into his shoulder and earned a kind smile from him "Look." You were closer to him and your head moved back to look into his eyes properly, his hand traveled to your back and laid way to high for your liking. But it was Harry, and he was always so respectful that he didn't want to be sneaky or ruin the moment by placing his hands too down. You found that gesture so cute.

"I think I kinda like you, too." Your face got closer to his and his eyes closed feeling your hot breath hit his face. You stand there admiring his freckles for minutes.

"Do we have to move their heads too?" Harrison asked whispering. The duo was watching the scene unfold ahead of them with frowning expressions.

"Why aren't they kissing?" Tom dramatically pulled a face as if their plan came out totally wrong after all those years of dedication.

Harry started to dance slowly, his lashes clicked a few times and he opened his eyes. And you followed him. You both had silly smiles on your faces and after a long time of slowly dancing in his arms. He lean in, kissing you passionately. And you returned the kiss, like you meant to tell him that you loved him all along.

Continuously gags and whistles followed by an loud “FINALLY” from Harrison could be heard from the kitchen making Harry and you pull back from the kiss and stare at the boys. You both smiled and kissed again.

"Oh get a room you two!" Tuwaine shouted after entering the kitchen surprisingly and seeing you.

Despite that, you two didn't pulled back and Harry gave them the middle finger, covering your faces and the kiss with his hand, from the sneaky bastards across the room.

"We've created monsters" Tom's statement made everyone laugh.

#Harry Holland #harryholland #harry holland request #tom holland #harrison osterfield #harry holland #Harry Holland imagine #Harryholland #holland brothers #Holland boys

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ddaenggtan · 4 years

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black irises in the sunshine | kth

anger is everything. other gods tease you for the short fuse, but it comes with the territory. people have called you stupid, have called you dumb, oafish, useless, incompetent, insolent, rude, arrogant. all of it. insults and mockery flung at you, but even your skin isn’t thick enough to deal with constant abuse. it’s the exact reason you keep going to the underground, knuckles bloody and bruised, fighting anyone that dared enter the cage. it’s the reason you go to the clubs, surround yourself with mortals and their writhing bodies. it’s there that you see him the first time, voice husky as it rolls through the room. it’s there you find someone who treats you differently than the rest. you just never expected him to be one of the muses. | monsters and gods pt 3 (masterlist)

pairing | taehyung x reader

genre/warnings | greek god au, calliope!taehyung, ares!reader, theres a lot of violence and it does get descriptive so be aware of that, none of the main characters other than ares get hurt and its not uncalled for or anything in a narrative sense, so just be aware of that; there are mentions of other idols, but if you can guess them you get a cookie because they are Vague; suuuuper bisexual Ares, Ares Can Step On Me, like I am SO gay for her it isn’t funny; explicit smut ft: cunnilingus, taeHUNG bc hes got MASSIVE SCHLONG, some body worship kind of and then just....regular worship? like? idk how to explain that? lots of praise and lots or orgasms

word count | 14k | cross posted to ao3

a/n | HOOOOOOO this has been sitting in my google docs for literal months waiting for an ending and i decided to try to get it out for tae's birthday bUT that didn't work because i have a Job and shit so YEET I GUESS HAPPY FUCKIN NEW YEAR??? LIKE??? YEEEEEEEEEEEEE this fic is very near to me because Ares is my sweet sad angry babie and i love her, and i love tae and i love suho and i love the muses and i just........lOVE this fic like i think this is currently my favorite of the mag series so!! i hope yall also enjoy it!!!! yall are welcome to send me messages about this even tho I'm terrible at replying to them in a timely manner!! thanks to everyone who helped me with this, and everyone who has expressed interest in it, and everyone who has ever read anything of mine, because you're genuinely the best people ever, and this is literally a gift to y'all because you deserve it.

Fuck, that was too hard .

The guy across from you goes flying, hitting the chain link wall of the cage harder than you intended. Every nerve ending in your body is on fire, and even holding back, you've got a better buzz than even the best nectar can give. Your blood sings as the guy gets back up, and you almost wish you could remember his name, because he's put up a hell of a fight. For a mortal, anyway.

He charges at you again, and time slows as your vision tunnels. You can see the feint as he decides on it, how he hesitates in bringing his left up. You wait, watching him get closer and closer. You start to dart to your left, letting him think he's got you, before you side-step and dart to your right instead. His punch goes wide as you steady your balance and move. The top of your foot connects with his ribcage and the resulting crack of bone is lost amid the cheers and yells of the audience.

Your opponent steps back and you're proud of the way he doesn't show the pain. He doesn't wince, doesn't move to touch the spot you hit, just tightens his stance and clenches his jaw. It's only you that notices the hitch in his breath, the way he flinches with every inhale. Your eyes narrow at that, zeroing in on the rib. You'd meant to just crack it, had been holding back most of your strength to keep from hurting him too seriously, but as he steps forward, you can see the way he grits his teeth against the pain.

The fight leaves you immediately, like a bucket of cold water straight to the chest, and you drop your hands.

"Yield." He just stares at you, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Yield to me, and then go to the doctor."

"I'm not gonna yield," He says. He spits a mouthful of blood out onto the floor. "I'm not weak."

"Seriously, dude," You insist. "You're not gonna win this, and I don't want to hurt you more."

His scoff has you seeing red. "As if a princess like you could hurt me."

Your fist connects with his face before either of you registers that you've moved. There's a voice in the back of your head reminding you that he's just mortal, he can't take the same kind of beating you can, but it's lost in the haze of fury. The next thing you know, the ref is dragging you away and slamming you into the cage wall. Your opponent is being dragged out - you still don't know his name - and he looks beaten senseless. Victory rolls through you accompanied by a sick satisfaction at the way his blood looks decorating the canvas beneath your feet.

It lasts for less than an hour. It's always like this; the thrill of the fight, the burn of success, it's gone faster than you can blink. It's what drives you to keep fighting, to keep going to match after match, just to seek out the under-the-table stuff afterwards. It's never enough, not anymore. Back in the old days, they'd let you fight anything. Bears, bulls, lions, giants, anything they could get a noose around long enough to point it at a colosseum. That was a long time ago, though, before all the rights movements happened. You won't lie: you miss fighting beasts like that. The sheer power and strength they have, the survival instinct that makes them such fierce competitors, it's so much better than the rules and regulations of the mortal world now. Fights have gotten dull, rehearsed, more like a performance or a show than an actual fight. People make more money losing than they do winning and it's made the world boring.

You flex your hand as you open the door to your favorite bar. Something caught it at some point in the last fight, a cheekbone or a tooth, and it stings a little. Doesn't hurt, not exactly, not for a goddess, but it did enough that you feel it at all, which means it couldn't have been anything but torture for the guy on the other end. The bartender waves at you and gets your usual ready as you sit, and you idly wonder if Busted Rib Guy will be okay. It looked painful, for a human, and you'd tried to hold back, but…

Well, you weren't really responsible for what happened to condescending little fucks, were you?

You sip the bourbon, enjoying the burn as it goes down. The lights are dim, tonight. You're glad. You don't want to deal with people looking at you, men coming over to talk to you, trying to advise you on how to properly bandage your knuckles or how to avoid the bruise on your cheek next time. If you had wanted to avoid it, you would have. You'd intended it to hurt worse, honestly, but that first guy'd had a weaker right hook than you expected.

You look around, wondering if anyone here would provide a decent distraction for the night. There's a pretty brunette in the corner with carefully crafted braids, and as your eyes travel, you imagine what's hiding beneath the silk and leather. You're pulled from the thought by the sound of music, and you curse under your breath. You forgot that it's an open mic night and you'd meant to go to the bar across town instead. Irritation colors your vision; every open mic night is awful, full of lofty poets talking about their trauma and wannabe Taylor Swifts thinking they're on the same level as Sappho. Ah, now that was a girl with a set of pipes. You miss her, wonder what she would say to the butchering of whatever song you're about to hear.

The voice that comes isn't what you expect. It's smooth and deep. The world turns to velvet around you as the voice wanders from one speaker to another, creating a mesmerizing multi-dimensional effect despite the way the singer doesn't ever leave the stage. You turn, knuckles white around your bourbon glass; he's utterly magnetic, every eye in the room trained on him as he purrs into the vintage mic. Long fingers are wrapped around the scuffed metal, decorated with jewels that glitter in the dim light of the bar. You can smell the lingering cigarette smoke from the guy beside you and the Jäger from the girl two stools down and for once, you don't even care. He's captivating, voice travelling between speakers in the bar and coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.

Your eyes don't leave him, and you wonder if you can memorize the way the blond waves fall against his forehead if you stare long enough.

The red seeps away from you, slinking back into the corners of your mind, settling once more into a low thrum under your skin. It fades into the background of this man's voice, the charisma that rolls off him in waves as he pulls the mic in close just to push it to the side with a teasing smirk. It settles something in your chest that hasn't been calm since the fight in Athens so long ago.

The music fades out sooner than you'd like, and he gives a slight bow before wandering into the crowd. You do your best to follow him, but the gold of his hair disappears almost immediately, lost in the throng of people around the stage waiting to speak to him. You turn back around, downing the next bit of bourbon that Suho pours you.

"I know," He says with a grin. You cock a brow at him, not having said anything he could agree with. "He's good. That's what you were thinking, right? He's why we're so packed on open mics. Got the audio and lighting guy whipped, so he's got all these special effects, too. Drives people crazy.”

"He's alright," You mutter. You toss a few bills down on the bartop and step back. Suho gives you a courteous nod as you leave. The bouncer gives you a dirty look when he spots the lit cigarette between your lips, but he knows better than to try to tell you otherwise. You've taught him better.

You lean back against the brick wall of the alley and take a drag. The warm smoke fills your lungs and you close your eyes. It's a different kind of burn than you're used to, a distraction from the crawling sensation that drives you to fight. It's calmer, more controlled. Feels like the smoke from Hestia's fires. Feels like home.

"Never expected to see you here," A voice calls out. It's deep and startling in the darkness, but you don't jump. You just open your eyes, exhale, and look to where it came from.

The singer stands before you in the same undone white button up and black tee he performed in. He doesn't have a cig, doesn't seem to have much of any reason to be outside. He moves almost lazily, as if he doesn't even need to, just wants to, and when his gaze flicks up to meet yours, your vision fills just for a breath with every opponent you've ever faced lying at your feet.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" The words slip from your tongue before you can stop them. It's not his fault, the voice in your head says, he didn't mean it that way, but still, your blood is thrumming now that he's here and you want to know what he's talking about. Want to know why he thinks you wouldn't be here when there's attractive people and good bourbon and you've never seen this man before in your life. Want to know why he already seems to think you aren't civilized enough to be at a bar, why he spoke but all you heard was Zeus' voice in your memories.

"Exactly what I said. Should I be clearer?"

"Yeah, probably," you spit. Yet another person that assumes you're stupid, that you don't understand basic languages, as if you haven't been speaking them since the ancient times. As if you couldn't speak circles around him if you wanted. "Unless you want your teeth on the fucking ground."

"Good to know the stories are true." He tsks and you're filled with a strange sense of disappointment and fury, both at him and yourself. Your vision turns red at the edges and the cigarette between your fingers is crushed in your grip. He pays no mind to it, just saunters past with a lazy, swaying gait that draws your eyes to his hips and then down the long leather-clad legs. "See you around, Ares."

"That's not my fucking name," You yell after him. He doesn't respond when you shout your actual name, the one you chose, on your own, as a middle finger to the Olympians. "Get it right next time, dickwad."

He turns the corner of the alley and the streetlight catches his face just enough for you to see the smirk he wears. For once in your life, you're torn; you want to smash his face in, yes, because how dare this random guy speak to you like that when you could kill him with one finger to the right pressure point. You also find your skin's hotter than usual, stretched too thin over your bones, and you want him to run his hands over you until it feels right again.

Until it feels like it did when he was singing.

How did he know my title?

The thought comes unbidden, days later, with the desperate hit of a palm against your shoulder. You've got the woman in a headlock, patiently waiting for her to pass out completely so the fight can be called, and your mind is wandering.

How did the singer know who you are? You hadn't thought anything of it at the time, distracted by fury and frustration, but with time comes a special kind of clarity. You've never seen him before, not that you know anyway, yet he didn't hesitate to call you Ares. The only ones who know of your kind are your kind, but you haven't seen any of your siblings among mortals in a long time. You thought you knew the other gods and goddesses, but maybe not. It has been a while since you stepped foot in the golden city.

The woman in your grip goes slack and you release her. You're still lost in thought as the ref calls the match and leads you out of the makeshift ring. The cheers of the audience are background noise at this point, akin to static or the buzz of electricity, and you pay them no mind as you head to collect your winnings. You didn't even get any kind of buzz from success this time, too immersed in the way the singer walked and talked and looked. The image of his smirk is burned into your retinas.

"Yeah, you didn't hear? He just got out of the hospital. They had to keep him overnight because they thought he might puncture a lung. I heard that if it had been a little worse, they would've had to wire his jaw shut." You stop, fingers brushing over the stack of bills you don't even remember being handed. You look up, making eye contact with the guy whispering nearby. Your suspicions are confirmed when his friend smacks his arm and juts his chin in your direction before they both disappear into the crowd.

You shove your way outside, frustration creeping through you and coloring your vision. You manage to keep it contained long enough for you to make it to the alley behind the warehouse, but it explodes from you in a rush of thrown dumpsters and sheet metal.

Fuck , you never meant to hurt him like that. You told him, you fucking told him to yield, it isn't your fault he didn't listen. It's not your fault that he went and insulted you, acted like he was better than you just by virtue of being a dude, as if you weren't worshipped in the old days for the power you had and the blessings you could give. You'd held back, through all of it, you'd told him to yield, and he insulted you. It wasn't your fault.

You slide to the ground, running a shaking hand through your hair. It isn't your fault , you repeat. You close your eyes and take deep breaths, the way Hestia taught you, willing the fury to dissipate. It's like a fire in your veins, burning and bubbling your skin until you can't resist anymore. You take another breath. It isn't your fault. You tried. You offered an out. It isn't your fault. Fuck, what was his name?

With a growl that quickly morphs into a scream, you kick the dumpster once more before stalking off into the darkness. You need a fucking drink and you're gonna find a distraction in someone else if it's the last thing you do.

The club is packed when you get there; you're not usually a fan of clubs like this, too full of people who are too friendly, but they're perfect for nights like tonight. You don't even need to wait in line, just slip the bouncer a 50 as you pass, and the bartenders are quick to spot you. You're pretty notorious in the city for over-paying, which means you're knocking back bourbon before you have a chance to ask for it. There are people everywhere, pressed up against both sides of you while the bass thrums in your throat, and it takes you longer than you're proud of to realize why.

There's a band playing, apparently. They're not bad; the vocalist isn't anything like the singer from Suho's, but it doesn't make you want to tear your ears off, so you consider it a success.

You're dancing before you remember deciding to. Everything's a blur when you get the itch in your bones, the need to make someone bleed. To feel something that isn't rage or condescension. People are even closer here on the dance floor, suffocating in their proximity, but there's a woman grinding her ass into you, and it sparks the dying fire in your gut. The beat of the music drowns your own heart, and it's all flashing lights and heat and a body pressed against yours that is all too willing.

She follows when you go back to the bar for another drink, and giggles when you lick salt from her wrist before downing tequila. Her hands are wrapped in the leather of your jacket as she kisses you, your own resting lightly on her hips. She laughs against your lips and says something you don't hear before ordering another drink. Something makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You take the brief reprieve to look around the club, searching for whatever it is that has you on alert. You find him on the upper level of the club, leaned over the balcony with a drink in hand. You can't make out his expression, exactly; it's too far away and too guarded. But you'd know him anywhere now. The singer knocks back whatever's in his glass, eyes never leaving yours. You don't know why he's here, if he comes here often or if the Fates are having a laugh at your expense, but you do know you want to make the most of it.

The girl is back, pressing a heated kiss to your lips and drawing your attention from him. You return it, nipping at her lips and getting a small gasp in return. You smirk and bite your way down her neck. She's breathy in your ear, hitched moans lost in the beat of the music, but you barely hear her as you suck bruises into the skin of her neck. He's still watching you. His drink is gone and he's gripping the bannister of the balcony, rings glinting in the light. You wonder if the cool metal could soothe the burn in your bones. You want to know if he can bring that calmness from before back, if he can soothe the frenzy in your mind with his hands the way he can with his voice. Just imagining it has you soaking through to your jeans.

The girl makes a particularly loud noise in your ear and you're brought out of your thoughts. As if he can sense it, the singer straightens. He gives you one last look before disappearing back into the crowd, and you wonder if you're imagining the disdain in it. You draw back from the girl's neck, about to tell her to find her friends when she slides her hands in your hair and tugs.

The burn in your blood is back, now, and you hope this girl is prepared for what awaits her.

"You're here early," Suho says when he spots you in the nearly empty bar the next night. He's not wrong, either; you skipped the fights tonight completely. There was no buzz last time, no relief, and you have no reason to believe there would be tonight. Not with the way the singer captivates your thoughts.

Besides, you have enough money leftover from the previous few to last a couple days.

"What, did you decide not to kick someone's ass before getting wasted?" Suho doesn't wither at the look you give him, just pours you a couple fingers of bourbon and slides the glass over. "Or did they just stop letting you in completely?"

"I might change my mind if you don't shut up," You tell him. There's no real heat behind it. You've known Suho for years now, been coming to his bar for so long it almost feels like home. You're almost friends at this point.

It helps that he knows when to bite his tongue so he doesn't get his teeth knocked out.

"Seriously though, I don't think I've ever seen you here this early. Especially not on mic nights." You're very careful in your lack of a reaction to his words. You'd seen the workers setting up for it when you came in, and even if you hadn't, you know when mic night is. You've spent enough time avoiding it.

"Does he sing every time?" You ask in lieu of an explanation. You don't look away from the amber liquid in your glass, letting the silence hang as the bartender does his best to follow your thought process.

"Taehyung? Most weeks, yeah. It's been a nice change from the usual drunken karaoke. He goes around to some of the other places in town, too. Apparently he just likes to sing."

"Taehyung," You repeat. The name rolls from your tongue a bit awkwardly. It's more than you expected, somehow, but you can't place exactly how . Just...more. "Is he always that good?"

"Oh, yeah. We have regulars now for mic night because of him. He's got a whole fan club and everything."

"Hm." You drain the rest of your bourbon and Suho refills it. He leaves you in peace then, serving some others that appear at the bar.

The place fills faster than you can blink. That's what it feels like, anyway. It's like one moment there's you and a handful of other people scattered around, and now you're being jostled between some dude a million feet tall that definitely doesn't look old enough to be here and a girl with her tits up to her throat and surrounded by a cloud of perfume so thick that it starts a migraine behind your eyes almost instantly. She flirts with Suho a little, likely trying to score free drinks, and you roll your eyes. She pouts at him when he gives her the total, batting eyelashes that go on for miles, and for once, you wish Suho would just give in and comp the drinks.

"I'll pay for them," You say. She was definitely saying something, maybe you should have been paying attention to it, but fuck , this migraine is only getting worse the longer she stands there. "I'll pay for your drinks."

"Oh, thanks," She says. Her smile is hesitant, and quickly turns apologetic as she takes in the boots and the ripped jeans and the leather jacket. "Um, I'm not...I don't, uh…"

"Do I look like I want to fuck you, sweetie?" She looks a little affronted and a laugh escapes you. You lean closer, letting your breath ghost over her cheek as you speak in her ear to be heard better. "If I wanted to fuck you senseless, you'd know it. And I can guarantee you it would be a hell of a lot better than the watered down rat piss this guy's giving you."

When you lean back, her face is flushed and she's stammering. You smirk and hand her the drinks she'd ordered.

"Too bad you’re not, you don’t, huh?" You tell her. The patronizing tone isn't lost on her, nor is your mockery of her earlier words, and she shuts her mouth with an audible click before strutting off. Suho glares at you as he pours more bourbon.

"Can you please try not to run off my patrons?" He mutters. "Some of us actually need money to live."

"Some of us would like decently timed refills and to not choke on perfume," You quip. "And better bourbon, for that matter." He hisses something about what he's giving you being top quality but you tune him out, throwing one leg over the stool Perfume Girl vacated. You'd like to keep just a little bit of personal space.

Across the bar, you catch a brief glimpse of the girl from the night before and you wince. Her neck is thoroughly bruised, and you catch a peek of bruises and scratches on her back as she shrugs her jacket on. You didn’t mean to be so rough with her, even if she had been into it; you’re usually pretty good about remembering that the mortals are just that - mortal - and as such have to be handled delicately. They’re so fragile, it feels like they could break with a strong wind. Guilt settles in your gut and turns the bourbon in your glass to cough syrup. You’ve half a mind to just leave before she sees you, are about to turn and do exactly that, but the speakers screech to life and the deafening feedback from the mic keeps you glued to your seat.

The crowd quiets even as the excitement ramps up, all talk silencing but for the occasional hushed whispers here and there. The first few notes of the song echo through the speakers, and a spotlight appears on him.

He looks different this time, his hair dyed a vibrant blue that matches the glinting jewels in his ears and on his hands. He's an absolute vision and you wonder how Aphrodite has allowed him to live so long when he's so beautiful. His voice hangs in the air and calms you, the same settling in your chest as last time, the same freedom from the burn in your veins. It's addictive.

The song doesn't last nearly as long as you want it to but the stillness inside you lingers long after he's done caressing the microphone. You place a few bills down for Suho and light up a cigarette as you head outside, ignoring the dirty looks from other patrons as you do. You're on a mission, the thrum of bloodlust returning with every second that passes, and you can't even be sure if he's still around or if he's wandered off already.

You stand in the alley for what feels like hours, turning at every sound and smoking cig after cig just so you have something to do. You've almost decided to say fuck it when footsteps sound from the back of the bar, coming closer to you.

His blue hair is visible even from the other end of the small alley, a giveaway similar to the light at the end of your cigarette and the smoke you blow into the air. There's no way he hasn't seen you, you think, you're making no effort to hide or be sneaky, and yet he's continuing forward as if he doesn't see you at all, eyes focused on a phone in his hand. You wait until he's just a few steps away before speaking.

"How do you know my title?" You ask him. He stops as if he'd always meant to and doesn't even bother to glance up at you or respond. The edges of your vision turn scarlet at the blatant disregard and you're speaking before you can even process the words. "I asked you a fucking question, pretty boy, you're gonna answer me. Unless you want that precious mouth bloodied up."

"And you wonder how I know who you are," He drawls, still not bothering to spare a glance at you. A scowl grows over your face at his sarcastic tone. "If you're going to hit me just get it over with. Otherwise, I have places to be."

He stands, waiting and expectant, but you don't move. He's humming, quiet and to himself like he doesn't even realize he's doing it, and the red seeps away from your mind until you're left clear-headed once more. You sigh, long and heavy, and crush your cigarette into your denim-covered thigh to put it out. It tickles.

"I'm not going to hit you," You tell him eventually. "I just wanna know how you know me. And how you do it."

He cocks a brow at that, finally looking up from the phone in his hand to level dark eyes on yours. "Do what? Sing?"

"No." You swallow around the sudden lump in your throat. The words are harder to find than you thought they'd be, lost in the depths of his gaze, in the clarity you're so unaccustomed to, in the way you feel like you can breathe for the first time in days. "I don't care how you sing, that's not important, it's the...fuck, you know what, never mind, it doesn't fucking matter." You push off the wall and step past him to head towards where the streetlight gleams off the bar windows.

"Tell me." The command has you stopping in your tracks, and you're again flooded with just wanting to know how. How he clears the haze, how he stops you, how he makes you feel real. You turn, hands stuffed into the back pockets of your jeans. "How I do what?"

It takes you several long breaths before you can answer, and you aren't even sure he can hear you over the sounds of people leaving the bar, and you find yourself disappearing into the crowd without waiting for a response. Your own words are reverberating in your skull, getting louder with each step you take, and you wish you could just turn it off .

"How you make me feel like a person again."

You avoid the bar for a few weeks, going hours away from your usual area to an unfamiliar hole in the wall just to make sure you don’t see him. You’re more deadly than usual in your fights, victories coming quicker, injuries piling up along with the guilt, but you can’t bring yourself to return. It’s unnerving, the way everything goes quiet around him, the way you can think, but the worst is the way you can feel. Everything’s calm and steady and blue, and it only makes it easier for the regret and the guilt and the anxiety to curl around your throat and squeeze until you can’t breathe, to clog in your throat while the laughter of your siblings echoes in your ears, and you...can’t. You can’t do that, you can’t let it win, you can’t let them win, they can’t know that you’re everything they think you are and worse.

You can’t let yourself drown in that, and yet you find yourself back at Suho’s, lost among the crowd while Taehyung’s voice surrounds you. The ache in your bones fades away, chased by the thrum of the fight that still lingers despite the hours that have passed since you felt your opponent’s femur break under your palm and their screams echoed in your ears. Everything is calm again, and the guilt nearly drowns you.

He hasn’t even finished singing before you’re outside, chest heaving as you gasp against the weight on your chest. You broke someone’s femur , and did you even really need to? The fight itself is a blur even now, snapshots playing through your mind like a montage. The way they’d darted at you first, how their foot felt connecting with the backs of your knees, the determination in their eyes when you went down, the jolt of shock as your hands wrapped around their leg, the dull throb of a barrage of hits against your waist as you pulled them down as well and bloodied their face, the blood-curdling scream as you snapped the bone like a pretzel stick.

Your breath comes faster in your lungs, forced out by the growing guilt that lodges there in its place. Images swirl in your mind, chased by a never-ending stream of thought and regret that you should be used to by now. Fuck, you didn’t need to, and you still did it; you lost control, you fucking hurt them, and for what? A couple hundred? Was it even worth it? Who knew when they’d be back into shape to fight, what if they needed the money? They weren’t even half-bad. They got you down, at least, shouldn’t you have gone easy on them? You don’t even remember their face, can’t remember what the announcer said their name was, words drowned out by the buzz under your skin.

Metal crumples under your grip and you spare a half-second to mourn Suho’s dumpster before you slam your knuckles against it. It tingles, not even real pain, and you don’t hesitate to repeat it. By the time the metal is disfigured completely, a distorted mess of paint and steel and garbage, you still aren’t in pain, but there’s a sheen of gold across your knuckles and you feel less like you’re drowning and more like you’re suffocating. The usual. You can handle that. You think.

You don’t even realize that you’ve slid down to the ground beside the dumpster until the back door of the bar opens and footsteps echo through the alley. You wish you knew how long you’ve been here, how long you’ve sat among empty bottles and stale beer and broken glass, but you can’t be sure. The brief reprieve brought by Taehyung’s voice is long gone, chased away by the guilt and rage that still sits heavy in your chest. You hope you’re not noticeable here, that whoever’s left will just pass by and leave you to piece yourself back together on your own.

Voices tell you that it isn’t likely, the deep baritone of one too familiar to ignore. The other is new, but you’re familiar with the tone, the inflection, the intent behind it. You've heard it before, in crowded clubs as a guy pushes too close to some girl who can barely stand, in a coffeeshop when a random customer can't take a fucking hint, at the local campus when some professor insists that there could be maybe one thing her student could do to pass. It makes everything in you curdle, the bourbon from earlier threatening to work its way back up; it screams predator , and you absolutely refuse to let anyone fucking talk to someone like that, like they have some right to whatever it is they want.

You refuse to let someone talk to him that way.

"Seriously, Kratos, didn't I tell you to leave me alone? Did Aphrodite not teach you your lesson last time you harassed someone?" Taehyung's voice brings a calm that's an unsettling match to the anger washing over you. You're used to the red at the corners of your vision, the tint to everything you see, but you aren ' t used to the way it all turns purple and focused and clear .

There's no haze this time, there's no abrupt shift of you moving before you know you've done it. You can feel the glass crunching under your boots with every step you take, can feel the way the air has a chill that creeps down into your lungs with every breath, can almost taste the apprehension that's rolling off of Taehyung despite his relaxed stance. The only thing that gives him away is the tense set of his jaw and the mix of relief and fear when his eyes land on you.

"I'm pretty sure he said no, Kratos." The god turns at your voice and you watch the realization wash over him as he realizes what - who - you are.

"Been a while since anyone's seen you, Ares." He scoffs a little, not moving from where he has Taehyung caged against the wall of the bar, one hand pressed firmly into the brick. He's entirely too close, and you have no doubt that the stench of him permeates the very oxygen around them.

"Been busy. Doesn't change the fact that the man said no. Take the loss, walk away." Kratos' eyes narrow at your words and he steps away, but only to move closer to you.

"Why do you care so much? You've never been one to care about any of us before." Kratos inches closer and the hyper-focus that Taehyung's voice causes starts to melt away with every twitch of your fingers. You've never liked Kratos, all brute strength with no respect for the challenge, no appreciation of the fight, too focused on sheer power and exhilaration. He is the worst of the worst of the worst of your kind, of all the war-focused gods. Every bit of yourself you hate is every piece that Kratos loves about himself.

"I care that you don't seem to be able to understand when someone doesn't want to be around you, you absolute piece of filth. Taehyung had a point though, I really thought the whole thing with Aphrodite would've taught you how to back off. Or should I pull the video out, I think I still have it saved for when I need a good laugh." Malice and fury twitch across the other god's face and you absolute revel in it. You can feel his anger prickling across you, like needles in your very pores, and you ache for it. It's been so long since you last had a good fight, a real challenge where you didn't need to hold back at all.

Too long since you fought a god like yourself.

"You're testing my patience, cousin," Kratos spits. It's a little generous to call the two of you cousins - you're several times removed, at best, and potentially closer than that with your family's warped history - but you let him have it. It might make him feel better. "I'm having a conversation, that's all. And if said conversation means that we end up back at my place, then, well, can anyone really blame me for what might happen to this pretty little m-"

Your fist connects with his jaw immediately and the red floods you for the few seconds it takes to register Taehyung calling your name. The calm struggles for a second, warring with the rage, but it wins out eventually. The singer's talking, but you can't make out any actual words. You're too focused on Kratos, the way he's righting and readying himself for a brawl. There's a fire in his eyes that matches the one in yours and everything in you feels alive for the first time in too long.

This fight is different than your usual ones. There's no blur, no warped sense of time that usually comes with the adrenaline. You're focused and controlled in a way you haven't had to be for centuries, careful and precise and deliberate with every swing and every kick. The red seeps back in slowly and every time you think you're about to lose it, you hear Taehyung, still pressed against the wall of the bar.

Kratos lunges at you for what has to be the tenth time, clearly trying his best to knock you to the ground - he succeeded, once; you let yourself get distracted, too caught up in thoughts, but it didn't last long - and you sidestep him just in time for him to ram into the ruined dumpster instead. He looks pissed when he turns back around and something in you sings at the sight. He makes for you again and you dodge again, only to be dragged back towards him by the grip he has on your jacket. Fuck, should've taken that off , whatever, he's too close.

Pain explodes in your side and you're fairly sure he's busted part of your rib, but you just slide your arms out of the sleeves and twist to plant your knee straight into his gut and then slam your heel down onto his much-less-safe toes, and then back up to knee him in the groin. It's nowhere near enough to take him out, but his nose is oozing golden ichor and he groans with every shift of his weight, and you've got him pinned against the wall with your forearm pressing hard into his windpipe.

"Now, you're gonna listen to me you steaming pile of dog shit," You hiss. "When someone tells you no, it's not a fucking negotiation. It means you fucking leave and find someone with loose enough morals or enough internalized self-hatred that they're willing to subject themselves to your absolutely pitiful fucking excuse of an existence for the thirty-two seconds it'll take for you to get off."

Kratos doesn't respond, just sneers and spits blood at you. It's a miracle you don't actually try to rip his head from his body, because the thought crosses your mind for a second too long. Instead, you just press harder against his windpipe and enjoy the choked gasp that it draws.

"You don't stalk people either, the way you did with 'Dite. Don't you know it's better to let them come to you sometimes?" You tsk, ignoring the way he claws uselessly at your arm. Gods may not need to breathe, that's a fact, but they feel pain, and there is no way this isn't absolutely excruciating for him when even you can feel the small bones in his neck cracking and breaking. "And if I hear even a whisper of you pulling shit like this again, then I'm gonna find you, you pigshit. And when I do, I won't hold back even the slightest, and do you know what comes after that?"

His eyes are full of fear now, and only grow wide with terror as you lean in close enough that he can feel your lips against his ear as you whisper.

"You are going to wish that you could die."

When you do release him, he disappears instantly, with a cloud of acrid grey-green smoke curling around your ichor-spattered boots. He's only been gone a second when you slump, the adrenaline fading as quick as Kratos had left. Your side is throbbing now, your knuckles are bruised and broken and gold, there's a pain in your leg that you aren't sure what's causing, your head is screaming even through the high of the fight, your face stings in the crisp-cool air. Every breath makes the pain worse so you stop breathing. The brick wall of the bar is rough against your palms, but it's the only thing around that can keep you upright, so you'll take it.

"Well," a voice drawls from your left. You'd jump if you had anything left in you, but every ounce of energy is gone, spent teaching Kratos what Aretha Franklin meant when she sang about respect - and really, there was another fantastic singer, you really should visit her sometime soon - so instead your head lolls to the side. You aren't sure what it is that jolts through you when your eyes land on Taehyung, fingers curled carefully around the collar of-

Your jacket. That's your leather jacket. You barely remembers shrugging out of it, but you're glad it's not on the ground, trampled and covered in the gold spatters that decorate the rest of your body.

"Well?" You echo, wincing at the pain it causes. You've definitely got a busted lip, that's for sure from the way it feels different and swollen, and you're pretty sure there's a head wound, too, because you don't remember there being a golden halo around Taehyung before the fight.

"Well," He repeats, slinging the jacket - your jacket - over a shoulder. "You should get that looked at." He starts walking, making his way to the entrance of the alleyway. He gets halfway there before he stops and turns and cocks a brow. "Are you coming, or do I get to keep this?" Your jacket waves a little, as if he's wiggling it, and it makes you feel like a stray dog being lured off with treats.

You're never going to tell anyone that it works.

Taehyung's place is as nondescript as the car he parks outside. It's a plain apartment building on the outside - looks like maybe it was a hotel back in the 1930s, based on the outdated carpeting in the lobby and the grate on the elevator he steps into. Even the hallway is plain and unassuming as he leads you to the end and uses an old, tarnished brass key on an older, more tarnished brass knob. You aren't sure what you expected, you can't even begin to guess what Taehyung is like outside of the dirty alley or the stage where he sings, can't fathom what kind of decor he could possibly have.

What you step into isn't anything you could have guessed. It looks like he has the entire rest of the floor to himself based on what you can see, but there's also a spiral staircase tucked into a corner, bookshelves built in under each step that are filled to the brim, and a fireman's pole in another corner, so there's at least one more level above this, but something tells you both the staircase and the pole continue past that. There's artwork everywhere, pieces you recognize and pieces you don't, several van Goghs and a couple from Matisse and you think in the corner you spot an actual fucking da Vinci sketch that's supposed to be somewhere in Europe. There's a gramophone beside a top-of-the-line sound system, an entire wall that's just a record collection, books upon books, framed bits of poetry - including an actual hand-written rupi kaur, a signed Maya Angelou print, and a signed cover of ain't i a woman by bell hooks that you would die to know how Taehyung got his hands on. It's a museum's wet dream and yet it retains a lived in atmosphere. There are mugs left on tables, blankets strewn about as if someone just got up from a nap, an easel propped up by a far window with what looks like an impressionist painting of the cityscape, books tossed down half-read with receipts and coupons and candy wrappers and everything but a bookmark tucked between the pages.

It feels like a home and it makes your heart flutter in your chest at the same time that something in your stomach shrivels up into itself.

Taehyung walks like he’s meant to be followed, so follow you do. You spy another man - older, you think, but it’s hard to tell, really - sprawled across a couch, blanket splayed across his lap as he watches some kind of dance show on a flatscreen hung above a warm and roaring fireplace, a couple of girls in what looks to be the kitchen, one sitting on the counter while the other stands between her legs and pretends not to notice the former stealing strawberries from her bowl as she taps at her tablet, and there are footsteps creaking above you, hidden behind walls even as Taehyung leads you up the staircase. They all look up when you pass, but only the man gives you a second glance; his eyes are a weight on your back that doesn’t leave until you’re upstairs and following Taehyung into a large, rather nice bathroom.

It’s vintage as well, but it’s spacious and well-kept, like the rest of the place. Taehyung pats the marble counter by the sink and you bite your tongue against the urge to tell him you aren’t a dog. You don’t move though, instead watching him as he lays your jacket across a brass bar on the wall and then digs around in a cabinet for a minute or two. When he straightens up, he’s got a somewhat dusty off-white box in his hands, and he frowns.

“Up,” He says. “I need to look at your ankle.”

You don’t move, but you can tell he doesn’t miss the twitch of your nose at the thought of being commanded like an animal. Like someone who can’t understand. Like-

He sighs.

“Please, will you sit on the counter, so I can look at your ankle?” You huff, but you do as he says.

He doesn’t speak as he works, completely silent except for the odd command - “Roll it for me...alright, now flex that...deep breath...stop fidgeting or I’ll only make it worse…” - and the occasional hum under his breath. It seems to be second nature, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, and it endears you more than you’d like. His touch is gentle but firm as he lightly squeezes your ankle and wraps it, lifts your pant leg to rub some kind of cream into a somewhat worrisome golden bruise forming on your calf, darts under your shirt to quickly and painlessly set your ribs before wrapping those as well. He doesn’t say anything at all until he’s almost finished with the cuts on your hands, golden ichor long gone and wounds already on their way to healing thanks to some sort of mist he spritzes on them.

It only stings once, as he’s spraying something over some kind of cut on your thigh where Kratos ripped through the denim there without you noticing. You can’t stop the hiss as the pain hits, though you regret it when he glances up at you.

“Sorry,” He mumbles under his breath as he dabs lightly at it with his long fingers.

“It’s fine,” You tell him. “I’m used to it.” Your voice is rough, always, but softer than usual. You don’t know why. You can’t decide if you like it.

The entire time he works, you wait. For him to tell you it wasn’t necessary, that he can fight his own battles, that he’s not surprised a brute like yourself got into a fight, that you’re no more than what the rumours say you are. You’ve got a million different curses and insults ready to spit back at him when he finally speaks.

“Thank you,” is what comes. It shocks the words out of your mouth, and you actually look up from where you’ve been watching him methodically wipe gold away from a scrape on your forearm. His gaze is concentrated on the injury and his lips are pursed and you wish you could figure him out.

He must take your silence for the confusion it is, because he continues.

“I mean it,” He says. “I’m usually not someone that lets other people fight for me, but we both know that I couldn’t have taken Kratos. He’s too strong, and he was counting on that. Until you showed up.” You don’t respond. “Is there a reason you left before my set was done? Or why you were sitting in an alley beside what is possibly the most gnarled dumpster I’ve ever seen?”

You don’t answer him, instead focusing on the way his hands feel as they tilt your chin so he can look at the cuts and bruises and scrapes that decorate your face. You focus your gaze just past his shoulder, content to memorize the pattern of his gaudy vintage bathroom wallpaper, and he doesn't press for more. The distracted humming picks up again every time he stops talking, and eases the storm of guilt shame rage pain hurt grief loneliness in your chest.

"I fight," you eventually say. Your voice is too loud in the quiet of the bathroom, shatters the silence like a sledgehammer, and you hate the way it trembles. Still, Taehyung doesn't look away from where he's carefully wiping gold from your skin, just cocks a brow, and it's as if a dam breaks in your throat. "Like, real fights. Actual competition, with rules and shit, and...sometimes the bad ones, because they tend to fight differently, it's a different kind of fight, y'know, and it's never really fair, because I'm...I'm me, but I hold back, just for fun, y'know, and it's, uh. It's alright usually, I go in, do my thing, I win, I go drink, and it all gets, I dunno, easier, maybe, for a while, like I can think right, but, um.”

You hesitate for a split second and force yourself to focus on the way the alcohol-soaked cotton tickles the cut on your head.

“Sometimes it's not...sometimes I can't control it as well, the anger, and I kind of just lose it on people, and a while ago this guy, he almost needed his jaw wired shut, but he was kind of a prick anyway, I guess, so whatever, but, uh, today, I...there was this girl and she was doing really well, actually, y'know, managed to get me down to the mat, which is rare and pretty impressive, and I'm pretty proud of her for it now, but then, I just. I just kinda lost it, like, I just kept swinging, I couldn't stop, and then I just...I broke her leg, for no real reason, just because I wanted her to hurt, and I don't...I'm not sure why I even did it, because I'd already won, right, like what was the point of doing any more, it wasn't even helping at that point, y'know, it's not like the buzz kept up any longer because I broke this kid's leg, and I love the fights, they help clear my head for a second, but I never wanted to actually-"

You words stop short, like there are too many of them to say in too short a time, and it's then you realize Taehyung's hands are in his lap and he's looking at you fully. His expression isn't neutral anymore, it's not the carefully crafted mask of a performer, it's real and open and genuine and all you see there is pain . For you. Pain and understanding and compassion you never expected to find anywhere but the deepest corners of your soul. Looking at him looking at you like that makes you feel like you can breathe again.

"You never wanted to hurt anyone." His voice is rough, like maybe there's emotion clogging his throat as well, and you aren't sure what that does to you, but something in you jumps at the thought.

Tears mar your vision as you nod and you curse under your breath before wiping them away. He catches your quivering hand in his and just holds it for a second. His eyes don't leave yours and there are a thousand things you expect him to say but what he says is:

"I believe you."

And that...it's more than you can take, and you break, right there on his bathroom counter, sobbing into his chest while he just rubs your back and hums and you remember the face of every person you've ever hurt and the look in their eyes as you left some of them for dead.

You wake up the next morning curled up on the most comfortable chaise lounge in human history, sitting up and shoving the blanket off of you in a rush before you remember where you are, why you're there. A glance around tells you that you aren't alone; there's two guys bent over a table that you think might also be a tablet, conversing quietly and pointing every so often at whatever they're looking at, a girl balanced along the edge of the staircase holding a lyre - which, wow, you haven't seen a lyre in that good condition in a while - and strumming lightly along it before she frowns and shakes her head and restarts whatever melody she's playing, and the same guy sprawled over the couch with a blanket strewn haphazardly over him while he watches a different dance video on the flatscreen. He's the closest and you don't really want to talk to any of these people but you think you might have to because you aren't really sure how Taehyung got you here last night but you know it was quite a drive. You'd just mist over to the bar if you really wanted to, but your ribs hurt like a bitch still thanks to that fucker Kratos. Anything as intense as misting is out of the question for the time being.

The man on the chaise spares you a glance that feels longer than it should, full of a judgement you have no doubt you deserve and yet somehow fires your anger anyway.

He rolls his eyes before you even say anything and waves a hand towards the kitchen. You snap your mouth closed and shoot him an irritated look, but you storm in that direction anyway. Healing is exhausting, and you want nothing more than some meat to tear into and a cold beer.

When you get into the kitchen, however, Taehyung is standing there already, as if he’s been expecting you any minute. There’s a plate in front of him, full of food you barely recognize, and he slides it towards you.

“Eat,” He says. You grit your teeth, unmoving, and he sighs again. “Please sit, and eat. You need the strength to heal properly.”

You resist for a split second, but there’s a softness to him now. Something you can’t exactly put your finger on, but that you know is different , somehow, and it changes things. It makes you want to listen, to do as he asks, because he is asking . He’s not telling, he’s treating you like an animal.

It’s a request, not a demand, and that makes all the difference.

Taehyung is quiet while you eat. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t watch to make sure you’re doing it, but you have no doubt he’s keeping an eye on you. It’s quiet, but not unbearably so; the air is broken by the sounds of the lyre and the television, as well as the soft chattering of the men at the table. It makes it comfortable, makes it soft in a way you’re unaccustomed to being, like the way people talk about lazy Sunday mornings or that voice they get when they see a cute animal.

It feels like home should be, instead of what yours is.

“So why’s Pretty Boy giving me the death glare?” You eventually ask past a mouthful of food. Taehyung barely looks up, just glancing past you to the guy laying on the couch. You can feel his eyes boring into your spine, but it’s nothing new.

“Taemin’s just protective,” Taehyung says softly. “Especially considering the stories.”

“The ones about me, you mean.”

A myriad of emotions passes through his eyes when he nods, and you wish you could more easily decipher them. Maybe in time, you will.

Maybe.

“Those, yes,” He says softly. “But he’ll learn.” He doesn’t say it, but nonetheless, you hear the words as clear as day. Just like I did.

Someone hums behind you and you glance over to see a woman - the strawberry thief - making her way into the kitchen. She gives Taehyung a look you don’t care enough to figure out, and they have an entire conversation in the span of five minutes. Something about it irks you, and it only gets worse when they start moving around each other, Taehyung handing her things without her asking.

It’s ridiculous, and you know it, but the air gets heavy in your lungs and your head starts to swim and suddenly you’re suffocating. It’s too much, there’s too much here, and you can’t take it anymore.

The force with which you shove away the counter would have slammed it into the wall were it not already attached. There are slight cracks in the granite tops, though, and there’s just enough clarity as Taehyung calls your name for you to feel guilty about it. It’s not enough to stop you though; you have to get out, you need to get out, before you do something worse, and the cracks in the granite are proof of that.

You’re out the door in an instant, your form coalescing painfully back into solid matter as you reach the hallway. Your ribs ache, screaming with the effort of trying to mist away from this place, this home , and you lean against the wall in the hope that it will help steady you.

The door opens behind you, the creak of the old hinges deafening in the silence of the hall. There’s a commotion behind it, voices overlapping each other and reverberating in your skull until they’re a twisted mockery of your siblings.

You stumble down the hall, one hand clutching your ribs to keep them as still as possible despite your movement. It’s not lost on you that there are footsteps following you, but you can’t focus on them now. You’re not moving fast, and you need to be, you should be running , but you can’t. Your vision is already clouding slightly at the edges, the sudden spike of adrenaline waning now that you’re out of the apartment.

Someone says your name and you swing.

It’s instinct, the way your fist flies through the air; you can’t control it, not this, not when the red is all you can see even as it seeps away and turns lilac. It doesn’t matter anyway. You don’t make contact with anything but the wall, plaster crumbling around your fist and onto the carpeted floor.

“That was rude,” Taehyung says softly. He doesn’t sound mad, though he should, considering you almost decked him straight in the nose. “I’ll take you back.”

He drapes your jacket over your arm and walks away, toward emergency stairs tucked into the corner instead of the elevator, and you follow. He hums as he goes, and he lets you lead the way down the stairs, keeping pace with your quick steps until both of you step out a side door into an alleyway.

Out of habit, more than anything, you light a cigarette and put it between your lips. You don’t miss the disgusted scrunch of Taehyung’s nose, but you do ignore it. The smoke is familiar in lungs, comforting, and he doesn’t understand it, won’t ever understand it, but he doesn’t have to.

“Sorry, Tae,” You say after a few minutes of silence. Taehyung shrugs one shoulder and moves to lean beside you against the stone of the building.

“Are you okay now?” You nod, taking a deep breath, remembering how Hestia had taught you, so long ago, how her hand felt against your chest, the warmth and love it held. “Then you’re forgiven. And you can call me Calliope, if you want.”

You’re both quiet after that. He doesn’t make fun of you, he doesn’t judge you, he just silently drives you back to Suho’s bar, which is when you remember that he doesn’t know where you live. You’re fine with it; you don’t want to see him in your run down hovel. It’s not much, especially compared to his own apartment, but that makes sense, too.

What could ever live up to the home of a Muse? Not even a muse, really. The Muse. The Head of the Nine Muses, the one called on most often by those in need, the one that everyone knew, the one that Hephaestus just put statues of in the gardens of Olympus, according to the rumors that Apollo sent you.

The calm that he brings lasts until you get back to your apartment, nearly ten full minutes after you disappear into the alley beside Suho’s bar. It’s the longest the calm has ever lasted, and the view of the city tinted lavender is one you think you love.

If you can love.

Things get clearer, somehow. The weight on your shoulders lessens, makes you feel less like Atlas and more like you, how you were all those years ago in the now-ancient days when things made sense. When people fought for honor and glory and justice more than they fought for oil and death and greed.

It could be because open mic nights are frequent around the city, and you’re able to figure out his schedule pretty well. You don’t go every night that he sings, just when it gets to be too much, when the scarlet haze starts to bleed into your irises like a flag in front of a bull. It helps, for a while, lets you settle long enough to pull the pieces of you back into a shape that vaguely resembles yourself.

It could be because the fights happen every night, and Taehyung is no stranger to where to look to find them. He watches every one that he can, when he isn’t singing, and his presence anchors you. Focuses you, so that you can pull your punches just enough, so that there’s less hurting and more fighting. It doesn’t work every time, you still lose yourself in the rage and do more damage than you ever mean to, but it helps enough. And when it doesn’t, he’s there, to slide a hand across your shoulders in that exact same way that Hestia used to, that Apollo might if you let him close enough to know you’re alive, that Artemis would , were she anywhere but where she is.

It’s a strange feeling. You’re not used to companionship, you don’t know how to have friends. You still say the wrong things and do the wrong things and he still speaks to you like he expects to be listened to, but you both are learning. You apologize more often, and he corrects himself quicker. It’s a slow, fragile thing, this friendship, but it’s there.

Until the night when it’s not.

You aren’t sure how it happens. It’s been weeks since you last saw Taehyung; he mentioned some project he was working on, something or another that would have most of his attention along with that of several of the other Muses. You had brushed it off when he said it, some snide remark about how you don’t need him there to win.

You would take it back if you could.

Because you were right, of course, you don’t need him there to win; you can do that on your own. And your control has gotten better, stronger, over the last few months, but complacency is what always leads to disaster.

The guy deserved it, is what you tell yourself as you’re pulled out of the ring. He was a piece of shit anyway, you remind yourself as you call Apollo with shaking hands. He didn’t deserve your mercy, you tell the golden gold after you’ve begged him to help save the man’s life. Artemis would have done the same, you insist to him, long after he’s hung up the phone and left to follow the ambulance to the hospital.

You don’t go to Suho’s. You can’t bear it, not when he might be there, not when he would read it on your face in a heartbeat. You don’t want to watch the disappointment crumble into something more familiar, something worse, you can’t watch him look at you with the knowledge that your siblings are right, that they’ve always been right, that you’re nothing better than a crazed animal.

The club is packed full when you get there. The bartender starts to pour you a drink and you just take the bottle, leaving a too-thick wad of bills in return. The bourbon tickles as it goes down but it warms your stomach and distracts you from the haze in your mind, the repetitive beat of they were right they were right they were right they were-

“Whoops, sorry,” someone says, a second before they knock into your shoulder. You’ve been around long enough to know a fake fall, and you scowl as you glance towards them.

He’s cute. Taller than you, with skin that would hide the marks you so love to create, and hair that looks like it would be soft in your hands. His clothes fit well, and they look like they were chosen for comfort over style despite the way he walks like a model in them, which you always find attractive.

The smile that slips onto your face is familiar, as is the way you bring your hand up to rest on his hip in an effort to steady him.

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart,” You tell him, not being subtle in the way you eye him. He looks soft; you love them soft. “You headed to get a drink?”

“I might be,” He says teasingly, a coy grin forming on his lips.

“I’ve got something better, if you’re interested.”

His eyes roam along your body, his breath drawing somewhat quicker when he notices the scrapes on your knuckles. “I might be.”

It takes five minutes to get him to a corner quiet enough to talk. Less than three to get your lips on his. One and a half to start sucking a mark into his neck that makes him moan so pretty you can’t help but want to hear it again.

One of your hands is up his shirt, playing with the pebbled buds and the metal pierced through them, while the other teasingly massages the skin of his hip when he’s torn away from you roughly.

“What the fuck?” Your voice growls as you look up. The guy is standing there, looking for all the world like he’s ready to run, but he isn’t watching you.

No, his eyes are on a familiar sight; Taehyung, his hair now a pretty lavender that makes you think of a home you don’t have, even as he doesn’t look at you.

“Taken,” He growls, releasing the collar of the guy you had every intent to make cry with pleasure. The guy scurries off before you can stop him, though, and you don’t bother to hide your disdain.

“What the fuck is your problem?” You demand, already lighting a cigarette as you head outside. Taehyung follows, pulling it from between your lips and crushing it in his hands before you have the chance to get your lighter out.

“Me? You looked like you were about to eat him .” He follows you all the way to the street outside and down the sidewalk, pulling each cigarette out of your hands before you can light it. He waits until you’re a decent distance from the crowd outside the club before he stops you, one hand lightly encircling your wrist.

Your boots scuff against the ground as you stop, not turning to look at him. You’re too afraid to, too worried he’ll see it all on your face and just know that you’ve fucked up, maybe beyond repair.

“Apollo called me,” is what he says instead. “Said I might want to find you tonight.”

You should’ve known. That little fuck, of course he would rat you out.

“I didn’t-”

The words choke in your throat. You want to say you don’t need him. You don’t need him to come running like you’re some scared little girl who can’t control her strength, you don’t need him to piece you back together because you aren’t broken, you don’t need him because you don’t need anyone, you never have.

“I know you didn’t,” Taehyung says quietly. “I know he deserved it, I know what he did, and I know you didn’t mean to.”

Something inside of you breaks and you find yourself shaking.

“He hurt her , Tae, I heard it, I heard her telling her friend about it on the phone, I saw her crying, I saw her clothes, okay, he-”

“I know,” Taehyung says, pulling you into a loose hug. “I know you did, it’s okay. He’s going to be okay. He’s not gonna escape his punishment from that, you didn’t send anyone to Hades today. It’s okay.”

The cloud struggles, for what feels like hours. Guilt settles like lead in your stomach, and you wish you weren’t so used to the feeling. The rage returns every time you remember what that girl looked like, what she sounded like on the phone, how you felt when you realized it was your competitor who had done that to her.

There’s no honor in that. There’s no justice, no glory, in beating an opponent who was never aware they were in the ring, and it makes your blood boil all over again. Taehyung’s voice soothes you, slightly, makes the edges of your vision turn indigo, but it isn’t enough.

It’s never enough.

“I have to go,” You say, pulling yourself away from him. “I need- I have to find-”

“A distraction,” He finishes for you, too aware that you can’t find the words you need. “Some mortal that you can bruise and break and bang until you feel less like a monster?”

That’s exactly what you want to do, what you had been about to do with that guy at the club, and it’s only Taehyung’s voice calling your name in that soft, sweet way of his that makes you wonder if that’s not a good plan.

“I’ll be a distraction, if you need one.” You whip your head around, staring at him, but he doesn’t flinch. “I’m sturdier than the mortals, I can take more. Let me be your distraction.”

“I…” You hesitate. You don’t know why. You shouldn’t even be entertaining this idea, it’s not a good one, but then...when have any of your ideas been good? “I can’t fuck in a house with eight other people.”

“You have an apartment,” He says easily. “Let’s go there.”

It’s a bad idea. You don’t do that, you don’t fuck people at your apartment, you don’t have people in your apartment, it’s your space. It’s a bad idea, it can only end in disaster.

“Okay.”

Taehyung’s lips are soft against yours, yielding and pliant just the way you’re used to. His hands are big and warm against your ass, even through your jeans, and the feeling gives you the courage to slide your own under the ridiculously patterned button-down he’s wearing.

He lets you lead the way through the door, kicking it closed behind you with slightly too much force. Your apartment is small, a studio with a bed tucked in the corner for the rare times that you need it.

You push Taehyung onto it and slide yourself onto his lap, already grinding down onto the hard length you can feel there. He's not quite as enthusiastic, but his fingers are like steel against you, pulling you down with every rut of your hips.

This, you can do. This, you're familiar with.

You push on his shoulders, doing your best to get him on his back so you can have better access to the clasp of his jeans, but he resists. You try again, firmer, using a harsh suck against his skin as a distraction, but he still doesn't go.

Frustrated, you pull back.

"Not like this," He says. His voice clears some of the fog, and you frown.

"Do you want to be on top, then? Because I don't mind, I just need it," You tell him. He sighs a little, but he flips the two of you over so he's kneeling between your open legs and your back is cushioned against the mattress.

"How long has it been since you spent the night with someone who knows who you are?" He asks, pressing a kiss to your cheek as he sits back on his knees.

You shift, uncomfortable. "A while. Why does that matter? Just fuck me."

"No," Taehyung says, voice gentle but firm. You cock a brow at him and move to get out from under him, but he stills you with a hand on your thigh.

"You are a goddess," He tells you, trailing his hands down so he can undo the laces on your steel-toe boots and slide them off. "You have held Victory in your palms and set her free."

His palms burn through the denim on your thighs, but you welcome it as he slides your jacket over your shoulders to the bed beneath.

"You are the winner of wars. You are the one who grants battlefield wishes. You are the dead's escort to Hades." He leans down, pressing a soft kiss against your cheek and then down your throat.

He pulls back as he gets to your collarbone, eyes blown wide with unfamiliar desire, and it makes your breath catch in your throat.

"You," Taehyung tells you, with desire in his eyes and belief in his voice, "Deserve to be treated like the goddess that you are, with the respect you have earned, and the care you deserve."

As often as you fuck people, it's been a very long time since anyone wanted to fuck you for any reason beyond your appearance and the personality you show them. But this? This look in the muse's eyes as his hands settle on your knees as he waits?

Taehyung wants to fuck you because you're you. Not despite it, not because he doesn't know . He has seen you at your worst and yet he keeps coming back, keeps showing up as you fall apart. Each time he stays, hands you a basket so you can pick the pieces of yourself up off the ground, holds the tape so you can mash it back together, and is ready to help steady you when you start to crumble again.

He's here for you , to treat you in a way no one has ever treated you before. He's your friend.

He cares.

You nod, however tentatively, and his lips are on yours in an instant. They're firmer now, less pliable and more controlling, but you don't mind. Not this time.

Not with Taehyung.

His hands don't hesitate as he strips you both of your clothes, but you can feel it each time he checks to make sure you're okay. The way that he watches your expression, the tense of your muscles under him, the cadence of your gasps for air between kisses, he reads all of it as clear as if it's a book in front of him. He slows down before you can stop him, his lips drawing back from the kisses he draws across your thighs, and he speeds up as your thoughts start to drift, swiping his tongue and two fingers through your folds to tease and bring your attention back to him.

His fingers bury themselves in your heat, crooking slightly to brush against that soft part of you that makes the world spin, and it's all too intense. His lips are hardly even touching your skin, just pressing gentle kisses against the skin of your thigh, a gentle complement to the way he glides his fingers in and out of you, slow and steady and delicious, but it's absolutely intoxicating.

He's talkative, too; he gives you constant praise. He tells you how well you take his fingers, how good you look with his fingers inside you, how absolutely fantastic you taste on his tongue, how he'd live between your thighs if he could.

It's too much, and you can't be sure why, not when your orgasm is approaching quicker than it ever has, not when your walls clench around him and you soak your sheets, not when he's cleaning your cum off his fingers with his tongue.

"Good," He purrs. "Now you're all warmed up."

His mouth hits your heat without hesitation or warning, before the aftershocks are even finished, and your hips buck upwards. His arms slide underneath your thighs only to grip them and bring them back down. You can't move much in his grip except to grind your pussy against his mouth, which he seems to enjoy, if the muffled grunts that escape him are any indication.

He doesn't stop until his tongue is buried inside you with one finger drawing lazy circles on your clit and you're cumming again, hands gripping the soft strands of his hair so tight that you would be afraid of pulling it out if you could focus on anything besides the feel of him against you.

He lets you ride the aftershock, this time. Waits until your pants die down slightly, until you're back in your mind.

"Good?" He asks you. His voice is deeper, rumbles instead of slides, but it breaks through the post-orgasm haze long enough for you to nod. “More?”

“More,” you agree, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders and pulling him into a heated kiss. You haven’t been this clear-headed in a while. Every sensation is clear and crisp, every sound heightened, everything is simultaneously more while also being exactly what it’s always supposed to have been.

Taehyung’s cock is everything you could have expected from a muse; thick, long, beautiful, and it fills you in a way that’s indescribable as he slides inside. He groans at the feeling, deep and throaty and beautiful, and begins his thrusts nearly immediately.

It’s as slow as he was with his fingers; steady and forceful, but unhurried. As if he wants to take his time. As if he wants to savor it. Savor you .

“Do you have any idea how amazing you are?” He mutters, almost as an afterthought. “What you look like right now, what you look like when you’re fighting, when you’ve won and you’re triumphant? It’s fucking addictive, seeing that confidence in you.”

“Shit, Tae, don’t stop-”

“It’s so fucking intoxicating,” He groans, pace quickening. Your arms wrap around him more fully, nails like claws down his back as you arch your back to get him deeper. “You get this look in your eyes, like you can do anything you fucking want to, and it’s so fucking brilliant, because you can , you can do anything and everything you ever fucking want to do, and no one can stop you.”

A whine you’ll never admit to escapes your throat, and Taehyung drives his cock further into you.

“Let go, my sweet,” Taehyung purrs in your ear. “Let yourself relax, just this once. For me.”

His hand touches your clit and it’s so much, too much , you’re feeling everything so intensely that it takes a solid minute to realize you’re coming down from an orgasm. Taehyung has stilled inside you, unmoving but groaning as you flutter around him, and you push weakly at his shoulder.

He slides himself out of you, looking entirely too proud of wet spot underneath you and glistening against his lower stomach. You wobble your way up to rest your elbows underneath you, and it’s like he can sense your words before they come.

“No,” He says simply. “I don’t you to get me off with your mouth.”

“A hand then? I don’t want you to leave unsatisfied.”

A frown pulls at the corner of his mouth, and he leans down just enough that your lips are almost touching, a not-there kiss that you can only wish for.

“In what world is fucking you to the point of Elysium unsatisfying?”

The crowd around you is deafening; some of them are cheering for you, but the majority are rooting for your downfall. Such is the life of a challenging the champion, you suppose.

You don’t know how Taehyung found this place; maybe Artemis had heard rumors, or maybe he searched for it himself. You can’t bring yourself to care, not when you’ve got someone worth fighting on the other side of the arena.

The sand crunches beneath your feet. It’s hot, hotter than it should be since you’re still wearing your signature jeans and boots - without the jacket this time. You learned from that mistake.

Your vision tints pink as you size up your opponent; he’s massive, not one to be easily defeated, and you relish the challenge. It’s been so long since you’ve fought a giant. Excitement thrums under your veins as he turns to you. He scoffs.

If you had a little less control, you might be flying across the arena already. He clearly has no idea who’s standing across from him. Probably thinks you’re some demigod, come to challenge him for the fleece he isn’t supposed to have.

He’ll learn.

Something moves in the distance. It should blend in, considering how dark it is, but instead it draws your eye, and you don’t even question why. You would recognize him anywhere, have recognized him everywhere, and his presence calms you. Makes you remember a few nights ago, falling into bed in a hotel in Rome because the burn was to much and you needed him to help you release it.

“Try not to be too quick, princess,” The giant across from you huffs. You cock a brow and send a look to your muse, who just rolls his eyes, despite the smile playing across his face.

Violet rings your vision as you ready your stance. The announcer yells something that’s lost over the noise of the crowd. Taehyung leans forward, elbows on his knees, excitement and pride in his eyes.

The giant swings.

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justwritethatdown · 4 years

Text

Bechloe Week 2020 – Day3: Drunk Texts

We were bound to be together

An au where Beca didn't get together with Jesse and that allowed her relationship with Chloe to grow.

The way Pitch Perfect 1 should have gone ;)

Set during Beca’s first two years at Barden; everything goes as it should, nothing angsty happens and everyone is happy. Just a sloppy falling-in-love story between two college girls, told through their drunk texts, kind of...

Rating: T

Words Count: 2.5K

Thanks to @viharistenno for being my beta

Read here or on AO3

She took my arm, I don’t know how it happened

After Hood Night, Beca was lying on her bed; the weird buzzing in her brain caused by alcohol made it hard for her to fall asleep. She wasn’t used to drinking and partying with strangers until late night, but she had to admit it wasn’t the worst thing she’d done. That Jesse seemed nice after all, a little pushy maybe, but Beca knew she needed a push sometimes, maybe she should give him a chance-

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand

CHLOE BEALE: Im so glad that I met you xx

BECA: Yeah, you kinda mentioned that…

Beca bit her bottom lip and a bright smile formed on her face. There was something about Chloe, that didn’t make Beca want to push her away. On the contrary, it was rather a pull, that made Beca want to get closer to her.

She placed the phone on her stomach, letting out a heavy sigh, smile still present on her lips. Beca couldn’t believe she actually auditioned for an acapella singing group, just because a crazy – naked – girl told her to, after crushing her shower and forcing her to sing with her; it was a situation that normally would have made her run for the hills and yet, she went to the audition – and she got in – and to the following party. Beca didn’t even know how that happened, Chloe had dragged her into this whole new world, and she was kinda okay with that.

It confused Beca; for the first time her instinct didn’t tell her to push this person away, it told her to get to know her better, to become her friend, but most of all Beca wanted Chloe to like her, she wanted to impress her. She checked her phone to see if Chloe had texted her anything else, but there were no new messages, so she let out another sigh – a disappointed one this time – and put the phone away.

Maybe Chloe was still with shower guy, they seemed to be pretty close at the party. Her stomach twisted and Beca huffed again; the way Chloe had grabbed her arms and how close she got to her while talking, gave her some vibes, for a moment she’d thought that the redhead was flirting with her – a thought she wasn’t completely opposed to – but then she saw her with that guy while she was busy talking to Jesse, and kicked herself for being so delusional, she was well aware they were having sex in the sowers, they were obviously together.

Beca shook her head and rolled her eyes to herself, turning to her side to try to sleep.

I felt it in my chest as she looked at me

CHLOE: Admit you had fun tonight! :P

Beca was a bit more tipsy than usual – okay, let’s say she was drunk – but it wasn’t her fault; Amy arrived there with the clear internet of getting the brunette drunk that night. She dumbly smiled at her phone and almost gave in, but then she remembered their bet.

“I don’t know why I let you drag me to this stupid party” she spat out when they arrived at the ΣΒΘ frat house.

“Come on, I bet you’re going to have fun” cheered Chloe making Beca roll her eyes.

“I doubt it” stated the brunette.

“We’re here bitches!” screamed Amy going straight for the alcohol table, followed by Stacie.

When her head started to spin, Beca realized that maybe she’d let Amy fix her one drink too much, but she didn’t care, not when Chloe was leaning in so close to whisper things in her ear – shout actually, to be heard over the loud music – and had one arm wrapped around Beca’s shoulders; the weight of Chloe on her felt amazing and the way Chloe looked at her made her heart do funny things in her chest.

Beca definitely blamed it on the alcohol, but deep inside she knew it was the same feeling she had the first time they met at the activities fair; that smile Chloe gave her and those blue eyes, so deep that Beca felt like she was drowning in them, knocked all the air out of her lungs and she felt her heart racing.

Even if she did run away that time, Beca just couldn’t stop thinking about her, until that girl jumped in her shower, making Beca incredibly frustrated and embarrassed. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t help but looking – more than once – at the girl’s naked body and her mind wandered without her permission. Chloe was undeniably beautiful, and her confidence made her even hotter.

Beca should have known then that she was gone, but – always oblivious to her own feelings – it took her several weeks of parties and rehearsals to know that she had, in fact, fallen head over hills for the redhead.

Suddenly Beca felt Chloe stepping away from her and saw the girl launching herself into Tom’s arms. The brunette found herself downing the remains of her drink and accepting a new one from Amy. The rest of the night is still a blur, she vaguely remembered Jesse helping her through her dorm room door and saying good night, at which she believed she grunted before the guy closed the door behind him.

Beca frowned at the memory and looked back at her phone; there was a new message on the screen

CHLOE: you disappeared tho. Stacie said you left w Jesse :(

BEC: yoy wr wit Tom

CHLOE: I told you I was going to say hi and when I came back you were gone >.<

BEC: are u tofether?

CHLOE: No, I’m alone

BEC: no I mwan ar you datingm

BEC: ?

Chloe started typing and deleting and Beca started to freak out; she’d known this girl for less than a year, she saw her with Tom from day one, she had no right whatsoever to be upset about them dating, even if Chloe had been sending her mixed signals from the start and was annoyingly touchy and loving and not-so-unintentionally made Beca’s head spin more than alcohol did

CHLOE: No, he’s not my boyfriend. We used to be fwb but I ended it a while ago because I started to like someone… :)<3

Just keep your eyes on me

The following day Beca felt like shit; her head hurt, and she felt nauseous, that’s why she was immensely grateful to Chloe for dragging her to that stupid party the night before their special rehearsal’s session.

“Remind me to kill you when this is over” she lamented when Chloe greeted her with her usual bright smile – the girl clearly didn’t drink as much as Beca did the night before – and a quick hug

“Can’t wait” winked the redhead, making Beca’s blood boil in her veins.

Chloe really looked amazing that morning and was clearly making an effort to be noticed by the brunette; she managed to make even that idiotic hostess choreography look beautiful. It wasn’t just the dancing, Beca found every movement Chloe made incredibly sexy, maybe because of that half confession she had made the night before, or maybe because Beca knew Chloe was doing it on purpose; she knew it because Chloe basically never dropped her eye contact with Beca, almost like she was trying to cast a spell on her, and maybe she did.

“You’re on a mission today huh?” Beca hushed to her during a break

“I don’t know what you’re talking about” answered Chloe wearing a shit eating grin

“Well, better for me then, I’m enjoying the show” she shot back without thinking too much about it and regretting it right away, but the fire it lit in Chloe’s eyes told her she’d said just the right thing.

“What’s with all this eye fucking?” suddenly spat out Amy, making the room giggle. Except for Beca who became bright red, and Aubrey who cleared her throat glaring at Chloe, who innocently smiled biting her lip.

“Did you finally hook up or something?” asked Stacie in amusement

“Can we focus on the damn choreography?” asked Aubrey grinding her teeth.

Deep in her eyes, I think I see the future

Beca’s plan was simple: to go to college for one year, convince her dad that she tried and have him send her to Los Angeles the following year to finally start working towards her dream of producing music. However, something along the way went incredibly wrong, or rather incredibly right, and now all she wanted was to stay there with those nerds who somehow became her family.

The look on Chloe’s face when they won the finals made Beca realize that her future wasn’t in LA, her future was right there with those girls, with Chloe. In that moment Beca felt like she belonged there; she saw her next few years at Barden, with the Bellas, and in the hug they shared, Beca felt that Chloe would be part of her life forever.

The girls celebrated in the Bellas’ sorority house and they all, even Aubrey, got incredibly wasted. Most of the girls had already moved there from their dorms and wouldn’t have to go anywhere after their party.

During the night Chloe made sure to let Beca know, more than once, how sad she was that the brunette had decided to really leave for Los Angeles in the end, instead of moving in with her, and she never left her side the whole night. They drank together and laughed and danced, and they almost kissed, but Chloe pulled away last minute confusing Beca. When Beca asked her why, Chloe mumbled with watery eyes “you’re leaving, what’s the point?”, but immediately cleared her throat and dragged Beca to dance with the others. In her inebriated state, the music and Chloe’s body moving rhythmically against hers, were enough to distract Beca from that statement. Only later, walking back to her dorm, it carved its way back into her mind.

BEC ♡: I not gng to LA

CHLO: ???

BEC ♡: im stang heee

Chloe’s reply was a string of emojis Beca was too drunk to interpret followed by

CHLO: yoy styng w the bellassssss

BEC ♡: im staying fr you

CHLO: were gnna be cocaptnsss!!!

This woman is my destiny

Beca’s second year at Barden started out completely differently from her first one; she was living in a sorority house along with eight other girls and was co-captain of the acapella group she led to victory the year before.

Her relationship with Chloe evolved in a strange way; they acted like a married couple now, but they never crossed the line, both too scared of ruining what they had. With Aubrey gone, the Bellas were their responsibility and Beca knew that was what mattered the most to Chloe, so she chose to focus on their acapella group. For Chloe, not because she was scared of fucking things up, obviously.

Their mutual pinning was clear to all their friends; some of them – Amy – teased them about it, while others desperately tried to help them figure it out.

One night, during one of their let’s-get-drunk-because-why-not nights, they were playing truth or dare

“Beca” started Stacie “truth or dare?” she asked with a wicked smile, making Beca sweat

“Truth…” tentatively answered the brunette

“Do you have more than platonic feelings for anyone in this room?” asked Stacie raising an eyebrow. Chloe held her breath at that and Beca was the only one to miss it, too occupied freaking out

“Dare” blurted out Beca “dare, I meant dare!” Beca’s heart started beating dangerously fast, hoping that Stacie would have let her change her reply, but the girl’s eyes twinkled and Beca knew she’d fallen right into her trap.

“I dare you… to kiss the girl you have the biggest toner in the world for and release us all from this ridiculous sexual tension you two generate” commanded the tall girl rolling her eyes.

Beca felt all the air leave her lungs. Everything was silent around her and all she could hear was the uneven beating of her heart. She swallowed hard looking at Chloe to see what her reaction had been and the girl’s hesitant smile calmed Beca a little.

Beca wasn’t one to back down from a challenge and the alcohol in her system only made her more competitive, but most of all, there was nothing in the world she wanted more than to finally kiss Chloe, so she crossed the circle they were sitting in to reach the redhead on the other side of it. Chloe was biting her bottom lip in anticipation and Beca could see in her eyes that the girl wanted to kiss her just as much as she did.

Beca gently rested her palm on Chloe’s cheek. They didn’t speak, but they didn’t need words to communicate; their eyes were saying all they needed to say. They expressed how much they both wanted to do this, but only if the other was okay with that, and that it was going to be okay. They completely forgot they weren’t alone.

Beca leaned in and kissed her, Chloe wrapped her arms around Beca’s neck and pulled her closer, letting out a sigh that made Beca’s heart flutter. They stayed there, kneeling in the middle of the living room, kissing slowly and deeply, their lips moved together as if they were dancing. Beca wasn’t sure who deepened the kiss, but as soon as their tongues touched, a million fireworks went off in her brain, covering the sound of their friends whooping and clapping and wolf whistling – Amy – and making her forget her own name.

Beca couldn’t have enough of Chloe’s lips. When the kiss ended and Chloe tried to move away, Beca desperately chased her mouth and started kissing her again, gaining a chuckle from the redhead. The two girls were only separated by Amy accidently bathing them in tequila while waving a bottle in the air, shouting that they had to drink to that.

After two – or was it three? – Bhloe drinks, as Amy had named them, Beca was still snuggled up next to Chloe. They shared some quick kisses during the rest of the night and when they decided to go wrap it up, Beca really wasn’t ready to sleep. All she wanted to do was kiss Chloe all night long and the morning after, and for the rest of her life. When Chloe pulled her in for another kiss, she was happy to welcome Chloe’s tongue in her mouth again

“Good night, baby” whispered Chloe against her lips before leaving.

Beca was lying awake in her bed; she could still feel the ghost of Chloe’s lips lingering on hers. She took her phone and started typing.

BEC ♡: I lied at trth o dre I dont have a tner for you

CHLO: Bec…

*CHLO IS TYPING*

BEC ♡: Im crazy abt yoy! youre my destiny

BEC ♡: you’re

CHLO: you jst gve me a heartattack yoi asshole1

BEC ♡: srry xD

CHLO: wnna cme here to sleep w me?

BEC ♡: we r drnk…

CHLO: I jut wanna slp

BEC ♡: Any wll tease th shit out of us

CHLO: I don’t care

CHLO: I miss u

Beca didn’t really use much her bed in the Bellas’ house.

#bechloe #bechloeweek #Bechloe week 2020 #beca mitchell #chloe beale #pitch perfect

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flowersinmytimemachine · 5 years

Text

The German song that mentions Mclennon

Okay so as I've already said, there is a song in German that names John, Paul and also Yoko Ono. They are only mentioned in the chorus but concerning the topic of the song I think it is worth talking about.

The song is called "Kogong" by Mark Forster. (Sollten das hier deutschsprachige Leute lesen, bitte tötet mich nicht :D)

Here is the official music video:

youtube

1. About the singer

Mark Forster is a 35-year-old German Singer-Songwriter. He had his first major hit in 2014 and ever since has been able to become one of Germanys most famous pop singers. He is known for his catchy and easy-going tunes. Most of the songs talk about love, self-confidence or just having a good time.

Just like many people, I know a bunch of his songs without really being a fan. They just play his hits on the radio ALL THE TIME. Despite his fame, some people say that his songs literally sound more or less the same. (If you want to get a better idea of his usual sound, some of my favourites are: "Flash mich", "Au revoir", EFF- "Stimme")

Why am I telling you all of this? Well, "Kogong" is quite the opposite of that. Maybe you could hear that this song sounds rather melancholic and slow. And guess what? That piano that you can hear in the background? Yep, that's Pauls piano. Mark Forster literally flew to London just to record this song at Abbey Road Studios. He says:

"We recorded 'Kogong' at Abbey Road Studios, in Studio 2, where the Beatles made all their records. And the piano that you can hear in 'Kogong' is the same piano that Paul Mccartney played 'Let It Be' on. That was quite special for me and my band and I think you can hear that the old Beatles spirit somewhat comes through in it."

Kogong came out in 2017. It was released on the only album by Forster that has an overall more serious sound. So what exactly is "Kogong" about?

2. The lyrics

Here are two pictures, one with the German lyrics and one with a translation by me.

When you read the lyrics, you will probably see that it is kinda hard to understand, especially after only one listen. Quite a few phrases don't seem to make a lot of sense. Well German audiences were not so happy either with this piece. Some said that the melody is good even though nobody was used to this kind of song by Forster. But the comments online seem to share the same opinion on the text: Forster probably only wanted to show that he is also able to write more intellectual sounding songs. Many just view it as avantgardist crap. Then again the video has 20 Mio views on YouTube and is currently his 6th most listened to song on Spotify so 🤔

But now about the interesting stuff. How could ANYONE who knows at least the slightest bit about Mclennon not stumble across this line:

"I am fucking Yoko Ono. My heart is Paul and John."

My heart is Paul and John? Yes Mark, I couldn't have said it any better myself. So ever since this song came out, I was curious what all these confusing lyrics could mean. Where is the connection between this one line and the rest of the song? What did Mark Forster say about it?

3. Interpretation

Here is a statement by Forster:

"Kogong is the sound of the heart when it's listening. The song is about small and big things that my heart told me but that I kind of couldn't really hear. I really hope that I'll be able to pay more attention to it in the future, so maybe this song is my new start."

So the subject of the song is not really able to listen to its heart. Furthermore, the lyrics hint on multiple topics and problems that the person has to face:

Being not happy at all, maybe even depressed ("you're not fine, you're only half-way fine"), this could also suggest that the subject has to keep up a facade while suffering inside

Problems in a relationship, marriage or even having an affair ("what you still want from her", "you hug eachother for far too long")

Self-image, Self-acceptance ("Wherever you are, you will always be yourself", "you need your peace")

The above mentioned quote says that this is a personal song. Another time he said that he realised that he wanted to become a singer while walking on the Road to Santiago (hence the line about hiking).

In another interview he stated that he tries to write in the same way as he thinks minus the rhymes. Overall short phrases which came to his mind.

So in concern of listening to ones heart: The lyrics suggest that the subject is not only unable to listen to its heart but rather actively ignores it due to outer circumstances. ("I don't want to hear a thing and am beating my chest like King Kong.").

Seems like there is a constant dispute between the heart and the subject. Which finally leads us to the line:

"I am fucking Yoko Ono, my heart is Paul and John."

How could a seemingly average pop singer connect a song about inner conflicts, love and self-image to John, Paul and Yoko Ono??

Well Forster said that he literally grew up with the Beatles and that they influenced him deeply. But to connect specific names to this topic, he couldn't only have been enjoying their songs. He has to know about their history and especially about their break-up. I've read a few opinions that "John" is only in there because it rhymes with "Kogong". So if he came up with that name and him being a Beatles fan, maybe the association to John Lennon isn't that far off. But why "fucking Yoko Ono"? Mark says:

"Yoko Ono is often accused of breaking up* the Beatles. And sometimes that's how I feel about my heart: Yoko Ono brings me and my heart apart." (*literally bringing apart)

?Eh?

Tbh that's hella confusing. I think he was kinda joking tho since he also states that the "fucking" is in there because of that British town. Which obviously makes no sense. Since Forster is serious about the rest of the song, its almost like he doesn't really want to talk about the true meaning of that line.

I mean the "John" could have suited only as a filler word at first. But I just don't think that other songwriters would automatically then connect that to Yoko Ono and especially Paul. Furthermore John and Paul form an unity here in the symbol of the heart. Despite the songs topic that's just such an romantic association.

Of course the average listener could easily say that this is all random nonsense. But for me who is genuinely interested in the Beatles/ Mclennon, this line doesn't seem out of context.

So if we take the lyrics of Kogong seriously, Mark Forster connects difficult romantic relationships and listening to your heart with John and Paul. Btw I know that Yoko didn't break up the Beatles, but Mark Forster is only talking about the infamous accusation of such. And even if he's only referring to the rumored breakup, wouldn't it be Beatles VS Yoko or Beatles VS John and Yoko? No, Mark Forster has to put John and Paul on one side and due to the metaphor with the heart, they together are portrayed as something pure, something romantic.

4. Conclusion

Well I can't really break the song down to every little phrase and its possible meaning. I think this post is already long enough 😅

Nevertheless "Kogong" by Mark Forster talks about conflicts with the inner-self concering love or becoming the person that you really are. All of this is quite explicitely connected to John and Paul (and Yoko) in the peak line of the chorus. (Just the way Forster sings this part is so...honest and amazing..). In my opinion, Mark Forster implies a really close (possible even romantic) connection between Paul and John while being put up against Yoko.

Shipping Mclennon or viewing their relationship as very close/romantic is often connected with horny teenagers on social media who make up crazy theories to satisfy their own desires. But here we have a man in his 30s who seemingly hints on similar ideas concerning their relationship in one of his most famous songs. And I know that this is not the first time that pop culture mentions their connection in that way but its actually the first very serious approach that I know of.

And maybe I am really reading too much into all of this. ( I mean I'm a Mclennon shipper after all lol) But in the end we still have a man who flew all the way to London just to sing-scream "I am fucking Yoko Ono, my heart is Paul and John" at Abbey Road Studios and I think that's pretty cool.

If you finished this mess till the end, thank you so much and let me know your opinion on it! ☺️🙌

(Sorry for any writing mistakes and I also have the sources of the quotes at hand, but obviously they are in German)

#mclennon #john lennon #paul mccartney

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julibf · 5 years

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Arya and Gendry hints from the books...

Ok, I should had written about them to be honest, but life got it in the way. So, for you, lets go. I have to admit that once I reread Arya’s chapters last year, her relationship with Gendry was absolutely delicious to read. There is a lot of foreshadowing for this couple, I am not sure if they will end up together … One of the first foreshadows happens pretty much in the first book, there is always references of hammers and blacksmiths on Arya storyline, its actually pretty funny.

She frowned down at them with dismay and glanced over to where her sister Sansa sat among the other girls. Sansa's needlework was exquisite. Everyone said so. "Sansa's work is as pretty as she is," Septa Mordane told their lady mother once. "She has such fine, delicate hands." When Lady Catelyn had asked about Arya, the septa had sniffed."Arya has the hands of a blacksmith."

A Game of Thrones - Arya I

Arya has the hand of a blacksmith!!!!! This is pretty good.

“Is that why you killed all the Starks?”

“Not all,” said Jaime. “Lord Eddard’s daughters live. One has just been wed. The other…” Brienne, where are you? Have you found her? “…if the gods are good, she’ll forget she was a Stark. **She’ll wed some burly blacksmith** or fat-faced innkeep, fill his house with children, and never need to fear that some knight might come along to smash their heads against a wall.”

- Jaime, ADWD

Again, thats pretty on the nose.

Their friendship begins because Gendry takes her side when everyone else is either ignoring her or bullying/attacking her. And later on they become pretty much inseparable, they even share their food with each other.

“Leave him be,” said the boy with the shaggy black hair who rode behind them. Lommy had named him the Bull, on account of this horned helm he had that he polished all the time but never wore. Lommy didn’t dare mock the Bull. He was older, and big for his age, with a broad chest and strong-looking arms…

The Bull shouted, “Behind you,” and Arya spun. Hot Pie was on his knees, his fist closing around a big jagged rock…

Lommy Greenhands wasn’t even hurt, yet he stayed as far away from Arya as he could get. “Every time you look at him, he twitches,” the Bull told her as she walked beside his donkey.

Arya, A CLASH OF KINGS

Once they are together, Arya is always trying to be in the company of Gendry, she still doesn’t understand why she wants his company all the time, but she does…. And she is clearly attracted to him, but since she is still so young, she again, doesn’t really understand why....

"She climbed to the roof and peeked down. Gendry was beating out a breastplate. When he worked, nothing existed for him but metal, bellows, fire. The hammer was like part of his arm. **She watched the play of muscles in his chest and listened to the steel music he made. He’s strong, she thought.”**

Gednry also, thinks Arya is beautiful and is also, always by her side. BTW, this is by far one of my favorite chapters in the books. Gendry loves being a smith and when he finds out there is a smithy close to the inn they are staying he invites Arya to go see it with him. She is the only one he shares any personal information or secret.

"Arya?" Gendry had followed her out. "Lady Smallwood said there's a smithy. Want to have a look?"

"If you want." She had nothing else to do.

In this conversation Gendry is sharing how he was going to make his first sword. He telling something to Arya that he propably told no one else. He is playfull with her, pinches her face, calls her pretty. He is soooo smitten with her, ughhh, my fucking heart

"He won't remember me, but he used to come to our forge." The Smallwood forge had not been used in some time, though the smith had hung his tools neatly on the wall. Gendry lit a candle and set it on the anvil while he took down a pair of tongs. "My master always scolded him about his flaming swords. It was no way to treat good steel, he'd say, but this Thoros never used good steel. He'd just dip some cheap sword in wildfire and set it alight. It was only an alchemist's trick, my master said, but it scared the horses and some of the greener knights."

She screwed up her face, trying to remember if her father had ever talked about Thoros. "He isn't very priestly, is he?"

"No," Gendry admitted. "Master Mott said Thoros could outdrink even King Robert. They were pease in a pod, he told me, both gluttons and sots."

"You shouldn't call the king a sot." Maybe King Robert had drunk a lot, but he'd been her father's friend.

"I was talking about Thoros." Gendry reached out with the tongs as if to pinch her face, but Arya swatted them away. "He liked feasts and tourneys, that was why King Robert was so fond of him. And this Thoros was brave. When the walls of Pyke crashed down, he was the first through the breach. He fought with one of his flaming swords, setting ironmen afire with every slash."

"I wish I had a flaming sword." Arya could think of lots of people she'd like to set on fire.

"It's only a trick, I told you. The wildfire ruins the steel. My master sold Thoros a new sword after every tourney. Every time they would have a fight about the price." Gendry hung the tongs back up and took down the heavy hammer. "Master Mott said it was time I made my first longsword. He gave me a sweet piece of steel, and I knew just how I wanted to shape the blade. Only Yoren came, and took me away for the Night's Watch."

“You can still make swords if you want,” said Arya. “You can make them for my brother Robb when we get to Riverrun.”

“Riverrun.”** Gendry put the hammer down and looked at her. “You look different now. Like a proper little girl.” “I look like an oak tree, with all these stupid acorns.”

Part of the reason Gendry doesn’t like the idea to go to Riverrun and serve Robb Stark is because once he does that, their magical moments together will be gone. You see it, as long as they stay hidden on the roads of Westeros together, there is a tiny part of Gendry that can dream of being with Arya, they are just dirty kids running away from the Lannisters together; once they are reunited with King Robb and Lady Stark, Arya, of course will retake her position of a high born Lady and he will be just a bastard boy serving House Stark. Sometimes reality is just too painful.

“Nice, though. A nice oak tree.” He stepped closer, and sniffed at her. “You even smell nice for a change.”

“You don’t. You stink.” Arya shoved him back against the anvil and made to run, but Gendry caught her arm. She stuck a foot between his legs and tripped him, but he yanked her down with him, and they rolled across the floor of the smithy. He was very strong, but she was quicker. Every time he tried to hold her still she wriggled free and punched him. Gendry only laughed at the blows, which made her mad. He finally caught both her wrists in one hand and started to tickle her with the other, so Arya slammed her knee between his legs, and wrenched free. Both of them were covered in dirt, and one sleeve was tom. on her stupid acorn dress. “I bet I don’t look so nice now,” she shouted.

Gendry is always described as a serious and grumpy boy, the only momments he seems relaxed and happy is when he is with Arya. Look at the way he talks to Arya about his art of making swords, he was sharing a very special thought with her and he will do this with only her. He is falling for her, but she is a Highborn Lady and he is a bastard and he knows what this means.

Tom was singing when they returned to the hall.

My featherbed is deep and soft, and there I’ll lay you down,

I’ll dress you all in yellow silk, and on your head a crown.

For you shall be my lady love, and I shall be your lord.

I’ll always keep you warm and safe, and guard you with my sword.

Pay attention to those lyrics, “I will dress you in yellow silk”.. yellow is the colour of House Baratheon … and on your head a crown… you all know that Arya is going to be a queen, you have been warned by me, lol. “For you shall be my lady love, and I shall be your lord. I’ll always keep you warm and safe, and guard you with my sword.” This is a love declaration…

Harwin took one look at them and burst out laughing, and Anguy smiled one of his stupid freckly smiles and said, “Are we certain this one is a highborn lady?” But Lem Lemoncloak gave Gendry a clout alongside the head. “You want to fight, fight with me! She’s a girl, and half your age! You keep your hands off o’ her, you hear me?” “I started it” said Arya. “Gendry was just talking.” “Leave the boy, Lem,” said Harwin. “Arya did start it, I have no doubt. She was much the same at Winterfell.”

Tom winked at her as he sang:

And how she smiled and how she laughed, the maiden of the tree.

She spun away and said to him, no featherbed for me.

I’ll wear a gown of golden leaves, and bind my hair with grass,

But you can be my forest love, and me your forest lass.

In the second verse of the song, the lady accepts the love of the Lord, but refuses his proposal “She spun away and said to him, no featherbed for me.” But you can be my forest love, and me your forest lass.

I think that George was trying to tells us, that even tho Arya desires love, she may not desire marriage. Her hungry for independence may be stronger. I hope I am wrong, I would like to see them getting married.

Gendry was actually very jealous of Arya friendship with Ned Dayne.

Poor Ned seemed to grow more miserable with every mile. “When I wear my helm, the rain beats against the steel and gives me headaches,” he complained. “But when I take it off, my hair gets soaked and sticks to my face and in my mouth.”

“You have a knife,” Gendry suggested. “If your hair annoys you so much, shave your bloody head.”

He doesn’t like Ned. The squire seemed nice enough to Arya; maybe a little shy, but good- natured…

“You have a House?” That was stupid; he was a squire, of course he had a House. “Who are you?”

“My lady?” Ned looked embarrassed. “I’m Edric Dayne, the… the Lord of Starfall.”

Behind them, Gendry groaned. “Lords and ladies,” he proclaimed in a disgusted tone. Arya plucked a withered crabapple off a passing branch and whipped it at him, bouncing it off his thick bull head. “Ow,” he said. “That hurt.” He felt the skin above his eye. “What kind of lady throws crabapples at people?”

“The bad kind,” said Arya, suddenly contrite. She turned back to Ned. “I’m sorry I didn’t know who you were. My lord” …

Just like Arya is also very much jealous of Bella:

Then maybe I’ll go find that black-haired girl and ring her bell for her.”

“But…”

“I said, go away. M’lady.”

Arya whirled and left him there. A stupid bullheaded bastard boy, that’s all he is. He could ring all the bells he wanted, it was nothing to her.

BTW, just like in the tv show Gendry decided to join Jon Snow and serve him, I believe the same will happen in the books. The last time Gendry and Arys talked in the books Arya was mad at him because he decided to join the brotherhood and not go to Riverrun to serve Rob.

I think Gendry regrets this decision and wishes to make it right with Arya, not to mention, Jon will be the last chance he will have to reconnect with Arya. I have no doubt they will reunite in the books too.

There is so much more about them in the books, this is just a tiny piece. I can easily say they are one of my favorite couples of this story. I love, love love them and will write more about them for sure. I hope Gendry survives season 8, his death would break my heart!!!

BTW - Imiss writing metas and I miss tumblr, life has been crazy these past months, but I will be here for sure for season 8!!!

#arya x gendry #season 8 #game of trhones

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ren-allen · 5 years

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When They Loved Me

A/N: I liked how it came out. Idk. Tho. *shrug* Wrote it pretty fast.

Ships: Past LAMP/CALM ; LMP/CLM. Pining LAMP/CALM.

It was date night. However, it wasn’t just a normal date night for the trio. The three had been dating for years. Roman, Patton and Logan had made a hard decision when deciding to break up with Virgil on the night of their 3rd anniversary. Virgil with his rare smiles, walls built so high he would never let them in. They had been patient and cherished him dearly, but their patience grew thin… And when he began to pull away, they had decided that it was best if he were to leave their lives. There were many tears from all of them, but Virgil had remained silent as he quietly packed his belongings and walked out of their lives… It took years to heal and still they wondered if they had done right in leaving the other. They knew they had not… when looking for the other to ask him to come back he had gone… left without a trace.

It was their second anniversary without Virgil. It was a bittersweet time, while they loved one another, they longed for the rare smiles, sarcastic comments and stifled laughs their darker ex had shared with them. They had decided to have a nice quiet dinner in a small restaurant. The restaurant held some intown musicians and had a nice small bar that would allow them to celebrate in moderation. Patton held both his boyfriends’s hand as he pulled them along. He would not allow them all to dwell in the past no matter how much it hurt. The pain of pushing someone they loved based upon the weight of simple words haunted them to this day, but Patton wanted to make the day filled with warmth… it took some time… but they were slowly getting there.

“Patton the restaurant will still be there, there is no need to worry dear” Logan commented as he struggled to keep up with his boyfriend’s fast pace. Roman was fairing no better, but was just grinning softly at Patton’s eagerness.

“Oh dear calculator watch, let our soft puffball do what he’d like, after all it is a special day” he said softly as he continued to let Patton drag them.

Patton let out a soft laugh, “I don’t want to miss the musician of the night, they only play for a short time and I know that they will leave as soon as we get there if i let you two slowpokes set our pace” he teases.

In a short time the three arrived and they were seated by the hostess a bit far from the stage, but close enough to watch the performer once they were set once again. They chatted and laughed, soon the melody of the piano began to play as the set up for the signer that would perform. Roman took a glance at the stange and froze.

There standing on stage, adjusting the height of the microphone and laughing softly with the pianist on stage was Virgil. Virgil looked as breathtaking as he had remembered him, his features softened and his eyes more gentle however as he spoke with his accompaniment. Virgil now donning a jacket a dark shade of purple, instead of the ever present black he had worn when they had all dated. He looked… well. His mouth dried and his throat tightened as he felt the tears well up in his eyes. He was pulled back when his boyfriends asked him what was wrong. He opened his mouth to speak, but soon the familiar soothing voice that had once melted their hearts froze the three.

Virgil cleared his throat as he spoke sending chills into the spines of his exes unknowingly. “Good evening everyone. My name is Virgil Fae, I will be performing for you all tonight, though some of you regulars know that I perform around town often” he smiled sadly “Tonight is a special night for me… It is a little sad, but I thought it would be nice to sing a song I rearranged.” He said in a such a sincere soft tone.

Patton felt his heart sink as Virgil spoke, though he looked well, it was clear that Virgil still hurt after all these years. He wanted nothing more than to run up and pull the other into a hug, but the house was full and there was not a chance he could find.

Logan felt guilt well up in his stomach as he took in Virgil’s eyes. A warm chocolate brown filled with an icy loneliness and sadness from heart ache that the three had caused him that night two years ago. He had acted out on his emotional outbursts, ignoring the level of comfort that Virgil had slowly built up with them… because he was impatient.

Roman couldn’t look up… He couldn’t stand to look at Virgil… It was him that had suggested that perhaps they should break up with Virgil… He had been hurt… They had been together years and Virgil would not for the life of him tell either of them that he loved them. He knew deep down however… that Virgil was still very hesitant with them… He had been hurt before and was afraid to allow himself to be vulnerable… and that should have been the end of it… But Roman’s pride and arrogance at the time outweighed his rational thoughts. He had hurt one of the men he loved with every fiber of his being, simply over a small phrase...

Virgil spoke with the audience a moment and soon the soothing voice that they had all come to love filled the room. The gentle tone as the male sang a song… that hit all four of them as he sang… As memories danced in each of their minds.

When somebody loved me. Everything was beautiful. Every hour we spent together, lives within my heart.

Logan’s mind was filled with the times he and his three loves sat around in the living room debating what film they would watch. As they huddled for the night to hold each other, His hands always managing to find Virgil’s smaller ones. Memories of him leaning into Romans shoulder as his and Virgil's hands reached across Roman and Patton. Fingers intertwined together… like they were meant to fit with one another. He covered his face as he heard Virgil sing with his heart...

And when I was sad they were there to dry my tears. And when they were happy so was I. When they loved me.

Virgil’s memories drifted to the times he would close himself off… To times when he was not all there and was afraid of what could be. Where he would hide away to face his darker thoughts… Only for gentle hands and soft kisses to reach his face, his hand. For arms to wrap around him and keep him close. Memories to where their laughs and soft words would break his walls down a little at a time. Where he allowed their happiness with him to fill his heart with love… He felt his chest ache as he continued singing.

Through the summer and the fall, we had each other that was all. Just them and I together, Like it was meant to be.

Memories filled Patton as he thought of all the holidays and events they had shared together. Intimate moments where he and Virgil… Connected. He would be there for Virgil and slowly Virgil began to flourish… His soft smiles becoming a gift to Patton… His small laughs he allowed them all to hear… He felt his heart squeeze tightly as he heard the longing in his voice. He felt himself begin to cry as he watched the gentle singer take a soft breath from time to time… as he watched those eyes he had come to love shine with unshed tears...

And when I was lonely they were there to comfort me

Roman eyes watered as they stayed glued to the table… unable to face the man he had hurt so deeply. Memories of moments they shared together. Where he and Virgil allowed one another to show their vulnerability. As he would hold his small shaking frame against his as he cried quietly over the small mistakes he would make from time to time… As he would soothe his worries away and just let him cry…

And I knew that they loved me

Memories of him getting angry that he would not… he flinched as he heard the singer continued their story through his song. He watched Virgil maintain his composure as his voice filled with sorrow and wavered ever so slightly.

So the years went by I stayed the same, But they began to drift away. I was left alone.

Virgil remember that night.. So clear… it had been their anniversary and Roman had asked him such a simple request.. One he at the time could not bring himself to do… He did love them and cherish them… but fear held him back. He refused… and the night had become and endless sea of yelling and screaming.

They tired waiting for the day, when I’d say “I will always love you”

He felt his breath become heavy… He could never bring himself to say those words… He had always been afraid to speak them. He had once before… and that had caused him harm… that had cost him trips to the Emergency Room… Caused him to grow insecure… When he began his relationship with them… he had been so afraid… And his fear had costed him… the three men that had stolen his heart. As he reveled in his memories, diners around the crowd crying and holding one another. The music and signing moving..

Now, lonely and forgotten. Wishing they’d look back my way. They’d smile at me and hold me, just like they use to do.

Virgil of course would see the three in the streets… But he did not want to cause them anymore harm… He kept away. Even though he longed for them. He could only dream and wish that they would love him once again.

Like they loved me… When they loved me…

He felt his eyes water and his voice waver more. He wished he could have been strong enough for them… He wished that they… could have waited longer for him… He wanted to trust them… he wanted to express that love… but after that night… all hope of that went with them. All he could do was long for them.

When somebody loved me. Everything was beautiful. Every hour we spent together, lives within my heart.

As he reached the end of his song… His voice began to give out… His eyes watered and threatened to spill over. He felt his heart stop as his eyes gazed into the crowd… As he spotted them… His voice cracked and tears spilled as he sang the last verse.

When they’d love me.

The crowd was quiet before they erupted with clapping and gentle encores for more, surprised however when the singer ran off the stage and to the back. It was Roman that had moved first. He had to… he ran after the signer. He had to. Close behind his two other loves made chase as well…

Patton was settled as soon as Roman moved… He wanted Virgil back into his life… He couldn’t lose him.

Logan wanted the same… the four of them together again.

As they reached outside there was no sign of the singer. They held each other's hands and they called for him. They held each other when they could not see them… As they cried together.

In a distant… Sad eyes watched them. Their heart ached as he sang to himself. “When.. they… loved me…” With that the singer thought it would be best if he went back to his apartment.. He had ruined their night enough...

#lamp/calm #LAMP/CALM Post Break Up #when they loved me au #when somebody loved me au #virgil sanders #logan sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #implied past abusive relationship #insecure relationships #song fic

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smokeandjollyranchers · 5 years

Text

Here’s a little mighty nein fic that’s been running through my head for the past few days and I wanted to get it out.

Fjord/Jester and Caleb/Jester cuz I have conflicting fEELINGS about both.

Jester hears Fjord’s genuine laughter as she and Beau pull a fight club in the middle of the Gentleman’s hideout. She hears the difference now, the way he laughs is lighter, softer, more like him than the usual chuckles he offers. He’s always so stilted, always so in control of himself, even when everyone is joking around with each other, and it makes her feel happy for whatever reason. So she didn’t technically have to whisper those nasty words in Infernal to cause wounds to break over Beau’s arms, but the shocked laughter and gasps gave her that thrill from the chaos the Traveler taught her to harness, and Fjord’s deep laughter that seems to light a fire in her stomach that is so addicting, it makes it so hard to stop.

But she does, and she laughs and heals Beau up and smiles at everyone, but lets her eyes linger on Fjord’s a little longer than she has to, long enough that he knows she’s staring at him and she’s not being shy about it at all.

He smiles back, and she knows he knows she knows, and it makes her heart flutter a little.

But only a little. Technically

It’s been a while since she’s actually played piano.

She played it a lot when she was younger, it was a really good way to pass the time her mama had to work. Jester used to like to play with the breeze that came off the sea, seeing if she could make the wind music too, and she came close a couple times, but she stopped playing so much once the Traveller started visiting her. Once she made her friend, magic and pranks and tricks became more fun than playing some stupid piano, but regardless, she sits down at the piano in that bar in Hupperdook, and she cracks her fingers.

Oh no she was nervous.

Her fingers press the first few keys and suddenly she’s flying across the piano, her mind moving a thousand miles an hour, and her fingers following as fast as she can think. She happens to catch Caleb’s gaze and she can see him finishing up some gesture, mumbling slightly to himself. Ohhhh he made her quick! Like he does with Beau.

Jester throws her head back and laughs, her fingers still slamming away at the keys. It feels like Mania, like insanity, and she keeps playing and playing and playing, and everyone in the bar is watching and she might not necessarily be good but she is loud and right now, that’s basically the same thing. She finishes her song, her maniacal laughter finishing on the same note, and she hears her friends cheer for her at least, and a few patrons too.

Behind her, she feels a tap on her shoulder, and she looks over at the annoyed pianist she stole the bench from. The look on his face could stem from her tiefling blood or from the fact that her pupils are probably blown out like crazy. He snootily asks her to step down, and Jester smiles trying to turn on the charm for this guy.

She’s not super successful with it.

Behind them both, Caleb shuffles up, dropping a gold piece into the tip jar for the pianist. “Loved the song.” He mumbles, his accent thick.

The pianists eyes flash with such a rare flavor of anger, Jester feels that same chaotic surge, and she looks over at Caleb’s retreating form, a new sort of respect for him igniting in her chest.

He dances with her later, his feet a few steps off where he should be, but all of Jester’s friends are druuuuuuuuunkkkk, including Caleb. Especially Caleb, based on what he keeps mumbling between them as Jester tries her best to lead him since he’s not very interested in leading her right now.

“You were always a better dancer than me, Astrid.” He whispers this, the name Astrid leaves his lips like a prayer and it almost floors Jester. She knows that he’s so so gone right now and he’s saying stuff he usually wouldn’t and she should probably not let him do that. Usually, she would let him keep going, the Traveller loves a good secret but there’s something...special about the way Caleb says Astrid’s name. Like she’s important. Like she means something to him.

“Come on Caleb, let’s get you to bed.” Jester tells him, shuffling him up towards the stairs that lead up to the rooms they booked that night. Caleb follows along, mumbling about this and that, and nothing really. They stumble through his room, and he snickers, mumbling about the alarm going off in his head. Jester leads him to his bed and he falls backwards on it, heavy as a stone. “Good night Caleb. Thank you for the dance.” She beams at him and he reaches out and grabs her hand, just for a moment, very softly.

“Thank you Astrid.” He mumbles again, his hand gone as quick as it come, and Jester blinks, surprised at the contact. She gets up and leaves him to sleep, closing the door behind her.

She didn’t know Caleb had such a side to him, but now that she’s seen it, it makes perfect sense, really.

She wonders if anyone’s ever looked at her like Caleb looks at Astrid’s Ghost.

She’s never scared, or she tries not to be, but it’s hard.

Jester’s never been kidnapped before. Which, okay fine, maybe most people haven’t been kidnapped either, but she was so scared. She’s been shaking for days, and she’s not sure if it was from the ice that Lorenzo had nearly killed them with in the Caravan, or if it was from the soul crushing fear that wouldn’t go away. She tries to keep her spirits up, but it’s hard.

She’s never been gagged before. It reminds her of drowning, it reminds her of being erased, of being forgotten. It makes her want to panic, it makes her want to die, but she doesn’t.

She notices she’s not the only one who’s scared. Fjord is chained up next to her and he’s trying to be relaxed but he’s just as scared as she is. So Jester mumbles against her gag, until Fjord looks over at her, and she hums. She hums the first thing that comes to her mind, one of those old sailor songs that her mom sings when the ships come to port. Fjord looks surprised that she knows it, but he nods his head along with her, eyes never leaving hers.

He stares at her, like he’s trying to tell her something.

Like he’s telling her I’m here with you.

She doesn’t know how to answer him back.

So she hums songs she knows he’ll love, so he has something else to focus on in the dark.

I’m here with you, too.

Fjord gets to learn who he is.

It’s exciting! Jester is happy to help him find the answers he’s so desperately been looking for. It’s important to him and she knows that, it’s always been something that confuses him, and makes him question himself, and Fjord just wants to know who he is. That’s not too much to ask, but Jester will kind of admit it’s not been super easy on them.

Or her, specifically, actually. Mostly her.

And maybe Nott and Caduceus, they aren’t having much fun either.

But she’s been so...conflicted ever since they got on the ship.

She was confused back before they even met Avantika, her stomach was in knots ever since they left Nicodranas, but Fjord had promised her that they would get her back to her home someday, so she could see her mom again. He promised her this over the iridescent glow of the jellyfish and she had believed him so wholeheartedly. Because she does believe him. Fjord has never broken a promise to her, or lied to her, or anything bad!

He just...there was something different about him now, something that seems to be bothering him too.

It’s like...Avantika doesn’t bring out anything good in Fjord, like she only wants to corrupt him, to make him something he’s not. But she’s nervous that maybe she’s only thinking that because of how she feels about Fjord? What if Avantika isn’t doing anything at all, and this is just who Fjord is? Maybe...maybe she never knew who Fjord was, maybe the real Fjord wasn’t who she thought she was…

But Fjord also gave her the air from his lungs to keep her alive when that temple flooded.

He was willing to die for her.

Right? Is that something friends did? Or did he care about her? Why does this make her feel so fucking stupid?

She doesn’t mean to word vomit all of these thoughts to Caleb, and she can tell he wasn’t expecting it either, judging by the way his glass of ale stops before it even reaches his lips. She gives him an apologetic smile, and begins carving a dick into the wood of the table to avoid the awkward silence she’s accidently created.

“I’m sorry.” He tells her, “I’m not actually good with these things.”

“You’ve had a girlfriend before tho!” She reminds him. “Remember, you told me about her, when we were dancing.”

“I...remember everything.”

“So...so you know when someone likes you, when someone genuinely cares about you! You can tell the difference right?” Jester looks up at him, and Caleb leans forward on the table, lowering his voice.

“I could, once, but now? Not so much. Are you worried about Fjord?”

“Always.” She tells him, fighting to keep the smile on her face. “And no, it’s not about Avantika, or anything-”

“Isn’t it?” Caleb asks her, a worried look on his face as well. “She’s a very crazy woman who cannot be trusted, and she’s pretty much the only thing happening to Fjord right now worth worrying about.”

“I know...I just…”

“You’re right to be worried about Fjord, and it’s okay to worry about...about your friends. I worry about him too. And about you.”

“Me?” She giggles, going back to carving the dick in the table so Caleb can’t look at her face. “Why would you worry about me? I’m totally fine!”

“Ja, ja, I know, except I still worry about you. Because, I care about you, you know? Like how you care about Fjord, you just...you want him to be okay, ja?” Caleb asks her, clearly tripping over what he’s trying to say. Jester pauses for a moment, trying to decipher what he’s trying to say. Caleb clenches his fists, and he looks up at Jester. “I worry about you, because you say you’re fine, just like Fjord says he’s fine. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

“Yeah,” She answers him, a little surprised at the way he looks at her. He nods, sitting back in his seat, satisfied with their conversation, but Jester keeps looking at her dick carving, trying to make sure Caleb can’t tell she’s blushing.

When Beau and Nott come back to make a plan, she steals another look at Caleb, wondering if she was crazy, cuz she could’ve sworn the last time she saw him make a face like that was when he was talking to Astrid.

The idea that he was looking at her like that makes the air catch in her lungs again. Like she’s drowning above water, but without the fear.

Fjord comes and sits with him, a few feet away from her and she looks between him, lean, eyes shadowed, and worry lines on his face, but he gives her a genuine smile, then settles into his chair, their friends sitting around him. Then she looks over at Caleb, quiet and contemplative, usually looking out of the corner of his eyes to see what Nott is doing, then Frumpkin, then...her. He makes his rounds and keeps his eye on everyone and listens as they try and plan their escape from this place.

Jester smiles to herself, and makes a note to ask the Traveler what he thinks about all this.

Thanks for reading! Here’s a bonus chunk that didn’t fit in anywhere:

Jester chews on the edge of her pen, looking at the Traveler. “So, what do I do when two boys like me?”

“I don’t understand the questions.”

“I mean, how do I pick?”

The Traveler looks up from his nails. “Why would you pick?”

#critical role #the mighty nein #jester lavorre #fjord #caleb widogast #forjester #widojest #BOTH SHIPS ARE SO COMPELLING #smokey writes

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far-away-stars · 5 years

Note

THE EXTREMELY DETAILED OC ASK MEME for Iegan AND Apate!! I warned you. :P Stay tuned for more. Probably.

There you are. At the best of my abilities. may it curse your sleep and bless my crops. :’D

under cut cause it’s damn fucking long.

Illyrio

1. Age, Birthday, Star Sign

So, I don't really have month/day precise birthdays for my ocs? :'D I don't even know how that would work on SW and I suck at star signs so… I can say Illyrio is born in 3682 BBY and that makes him 42 during the events of Makeb (which is the year he meets Muhn, if that works as a reference), and that I fancy calling him a Scorpio cause I guess it kinda fits.

2. Gender Identity

Cis man. It never really went further for him, he always was comfortable that way.

3. Orientation and Relationship status (single, taken (by who?), crush (on who?))

Bisexual. Married to Muhren in 3637 BBY in canon universe; alternatively fancying his mess agent Blakk in other ones and .. well, both in some others. >>

4. Race and Ethnicity

Human, in SW standards, and then I couldn't really go in many more details 'cause, well, I still kinda want it to apply to his universe rather than trying to stick Earth labels and I don't have a clear faceclaim… let's stick to "not white".

5. Height and Body type

He's 1m77 aka 5'9". He's not overly muscular, but still very much in shape. He has a pretty athletic body even if he's essentially built for agility.

6. Headcanon VA

I cannot find headcanon VA for the love of me, so, well, I suppose simple the Inquisitor VA for now. :'D Euan Morton is a Broadway actor and singer after all.

7. Occupation

Dark Council Elite, leader of the Sphere of Expansion and Diplomacy, with direct oversee on the Voss' diplomatic situation.

8. Weapon of Choice(?)

already answered here

9. Hometown and current residence

He was born on Ziost, in a slave breeding and training facility. He lived some years in an apartment at Dromund Kaas but now has set residence in his mansion on Voss, despite his work not often allows him to spend long periods of time there.

10. Do they have any markings, piercings or scars?

They have a number of scars, most prominent being the slave marking on his face, the whip scaring on his back and the lightsaber mark on his chest.

11. Do they have any notable features, like horns, tails, or so on?

Aside from the slave markings and, I guess, the white hair (not that much of a significant feature when alien races are involved :'D ) he doesn't really have any, no.

12. Own any pets?

Nope, thank the Force, he doesn't have to deal with his daughter's Nexus anymore and he's happier this way.

13. Have any kids?

Yes, his daughter Khatyrkite, that he had at 23 and adopted when she was 7.

14. Can they cook? Can they bake?

No. Let's leave it to that. :’D

15. Can they sing? Can they dance?

They can sing but it's not that easy to make them. They can formally dance with dignity, but not much else. Too rigid.

16. Can they drive?

Yes, but prefers to be driven around.

17. Can they fight?

Yes, double-bladed lightsaber and Force training. When younger he was also quite dangerous bare-handed but he hasn't trained that skill in a while.

18. Have any special keepsakes?

Not really… his lightsaber, I suppose. Old beads for his braid. But he isn't emotionally attached to many of his belongings.

Interests

19. Hobbies

Some not-so-light reading, meditation, napping, listening/going to the Opera.

20. Clothing/Aesthetic

Dark clothing with gold accents, rich reds, furs, and expensive tastes. Sith aesthetic meets some vague Arabian vibes and have a hedonist child.

21. Fave food(s) and drink(s)

He likes finger-foods; salty, small quiches are probably some of his favorites. As a drink he likes fruity and spiced wines, cold or hot.

22. Fave Color

Blood red.

23. Fave Genre

History books.

24. Fave Season

Autumn.

25. City or Country?

He spends enough time in the city working, so country for his relaxing times, but he wouldn't give up the comforts of the City easily.

26. Guilty Pleasure

Power? Witch sometimes turns into sex.

Storytime

27. What’s their family like? Who’s in it? What’s their relationship with them?

Before Muhn his family was basically only his daughter, Khatyrkite, and they were close, despite Illyrio's initial efforts not to be so. She grew on him and managed to slowly but surely make his fear more of an after-though. He didn't want to get attached to someone so easy to love. An alien child with no practical education thrown into the Academy of Korriban? Khatyrkite had to work hard to prove she could do it. And he did make her work, considering it necessary that she could prove and defend herself without her father's title to protect her. They have great affection for each other, even of it's often left unspoken, and even if not as strong as before, they still have their Force bond to prove it, even to each other.

28. Are they literate? Did they go to school? How long? What level?

They are literate, and learned most of his basic knowledge during slave training. The rest he took up keeping company to the young Master during his studies and generally during slave life. Then there was the Sith Academy and then he was taken as an Apprentice and Abraxas finished his education. He learned the rest on the way.

29. What was childhood like?

Not much of a childhood, let's say that. Studies, collars, biological engineering, slave training directed into obedience and alienation to self.

30. What was adolescence like?

Spent serving as a company slave in a high ranking noble family in Ziost. Let's say stunted.

31. What’s their current main conflict?

Finding any peace between overworking and starting to let go but risking losing status/power and a certain state of security born from habit.

32. What steps have they taken to overcome this conflict

Trusting more of his emotional baggage, vulnerability and work on his husband.

33. How have they changed over time?

He has become less.. unstable. Sith training following his slave one had pushed on many of the emotions he had been repressing beforehand, so, well, it made for a powerful Sith, but not much of an emotionally stable individual. He got in touch with more of himself and on what truly he wanted to be for his Muhn.

For Fun

34. What’s their room look like right now?

It's a mix between his rich but organised deco and Muhn's pretty clutter and his plants. Rich, elegant colors overall, generally elegant but comfortable looking, cushions, big bed, big windows, woods, a library. His room is his comfort place, really, and probably one of the rooms he spends more time in aside from his training room and the gardens.

35. What are they like as a friend?

Bad. Bad-ish.

36. What are they like as a partner?

He.. gets better at it, given a little time. >> The sex is good.

37. Do they have any phobias?

They are not fond of deep waters, but can manage them. They detest Force inhibition devices.

38. Did/do they go anywhere special for vacations?

They haven't gone in one in… dam forever. They wouldn't know at this point, really. It's a mix between wanting to be in a place where he wouldn't be recognized and his desire to keep his status and power close.

39. Your character walks into a cafe. What do they order?

Rich, hot, spiced coffee.

40. What time do they go to bed, usually?

Depends, they are very used to an irregular sleep pattern.

41. What’s their morning routine like?

Depending on how much time they have, the very least composes shower and a minimum of beauty care, they usually pick their clothes the day before. They usually snack something quick if they have the time and take a caff or directly a stim, if need be.

42. What’s the dumbest thing your character’s done?

That's not to be discussed here.

43. What pokemon would your character be (if they’re already a pokemon/gijinka tell us what they are, and how that’s affected them)?

I.. don't really know? Struggling between a dark type or simply a snob-looking one.

44. What’s their pokemon team? Try to pick all 6.

Dear Force, so.. Any snake Pokemon is valid and he should have them, this being said :

Arbok

Serperior

Ninetales

Spiritomb

Sableye

Chandelure

+if I may, a couple of legendaries that rule the Sith snake aesthetic :

Zygarde

Shiny Mega Rayquaza

45. Theme song (and a playlist if you’ve got it!)

I will always put "How can I refuse" here, no matter the consequences. :'D

46. If this character was in a musical, what would their motif be (what kind of instruments do you hear, what’s the tempo, ect).

Oh my god, I don't have that knowledge. Something low and a bit fear-inducing, but with a melody of strings, violins and violas, cutting it like the fresh falling of rain in between dark, tempest-heavy clouds. Some quiet, deep, rich drums.

The Deep Lore™

47. What was this character’s biggest turning point in their life, something that changed them almost completely?

Discovering he was Force Sensitive.

48. What was their lowest point? What was their highest point?

Lowest : his years at the Academy. Highest : Becoming a Darth/marrying Muhn.

49. What are some themes tied to your character’s story? I'm sorry, I'm getting too stuck with some of those deep© questions, I'm giving them up for now. :'3

50. What are some motifs associated with your character?

Villainous behavior, hedonism, manipulation, pragmatism, hyper-emotionalism.

51. What were some inspirations for your character (people, movies, games)?

Well, the Inquisitor storyline from STWOR, certainly, tho I didn't end up keeping much of it. Aside from that nothing really comes to mind but I'm sure I'm missing stuff. :/ In six years he has been through stuff.

52. How are you and your character the same? How are you different?

We struggle with other people's expectations and we don't want to be seen as weak or exploitable, I suppose. For how different we are I suppose the rest is pretty more obvious, but, mhn, I blame myself much more quickly, despite my barriers, so, well, instead of killing people I just get sad, I suppose. :'3

53. Expectations vs Reality: what did you expect and what did you get with this character?

I expected a hot, sassy, dark side playthrough. I guess I didn't expect the angst, the fluff and the attachment. :'33

54. What does your character want, and what do they need?

He wants power, but he needs to unlearn what truly gives him value.

55. What’s your character’s core trait? What’s their best trait? What’s their worst trait? When happens when these all interact with each other? see point 49.

56. What’s your overall goal with this character? Will they get a happy ending or will they succumb to their faults?

They.. eh. I don't really believe in endings? People go on, one way or another. He's much more than a simple narrative for me, now. If I were to just see how much he has already done in his life I would say he's in a happier place now, so, I'm glad. But that's not who he is either. It's not about getting him fixed, not really

---

Apate

1. Age, Birthday, Star Sign

Born in 3678 BBY, the rest is not in my book. :’3

2. Gender Identity

Non-binary/agender, intersex.

3. Orientation and Relationship status (single, taken (by who?), crush (on who?))

Bisexual, kinda taken by Kitty, but it's in the "it's complicated" folder cause we technically didn't even set a meeting point for them. :'D also, precedently entangled with Mikawlas, and generally involved with many other . >>

4. Race and Ethnicity

Togruta. Their faceclaim-ish is Ezra Miller, so some ethnic inspiration there.

5. Height and Body type

They are 1m81 aka 5'11". They are slender with some athletic features, especially on the abdominal area.

6. Headcanon VA

I have no clue. :'D I'm sorry.

7. Occupation

Went from sex worker to owner of the Golden Rose Pleasure Center.

8. Weapon of Choice(?)

Sniper Rifle. They don't really consider their body or their pleasure expertise a weapon, no matter its potentialities.

9. Hometown and current residence

Grew up in a Coruscanti orphanage, now resides on Nar Shadda.

10. Do they have any markings, piercings or scars?

Aside from their natural Togruta markings, nope, and if they were to get them/had got them in the past, wouldn't hesitate to have them removed.

11. Do they have any notable features, like horns, tails, or so on?

Lekku and Montrals? :'D they are curved in the front so they do catch the eye.

12. Own any pets?

No. They didn't have the position for one for a long time and then never really gotten to it. Probably scared they would do a bad job taking care of one.

13. Have any kids?

Nope.

14. Can they cook? Can they bake?

They can't really, no. :'3 they can manage a survivalist meal but they essentially rely on other to get food.

15. Can they sing? Can they dance?

They can't really sing, but it's not a passion of their so they never really did any practice worth of it. They can dance, but only a selection of simple things, essentially for their job. They don't mind dancing casually, and are pretty good at it. At least, they are pretty to look at doing so.

16. Can they drive?

They can, they shouldn't, but they can. :'D

17. Can they fight?

They are better at ranged combat, but they can throw a hell of a fight nonetheless.

18. Have any special keepsakes?

I'm not sure if they have anything of Mikawlas, or even of their orphanage life.. they spent too much time on the street, if they managed to salvage something during those years it would certainly be a precious possession for them.

Interests

19. Hobbies

Taking care of themself with beauty products or with a mani-pedi is a luxury they couldn't afford for a long time and it does marvels to their mood so they indulge in gladly it when they have some me time. Also they have a sometimes strained relationship with their looks, so making themself pretty makes them happy. Aside from that they like simple pad games, to run and spend some time in shooting ranges.

20. Clothing/Aesthetic

They like shiny, they like precious fabrics, gold, their heels, shorts, skirts and dresses, some fashionable frills and classy, eye-catching outfits.

21. Fave food(s) and drink(s)

They like experimental foods, jellies and escargots the most probably. If they could only drink vodka and lemon sprite they would. Also champagne.

22. Fave Color

Rose Gold.

23. Fave Genre

Detective/crime stories.

24. Fave Season

They haven't experienced much of those, living mostly in ecumenopolises, so, if it's not artificial weather they probably would have complaints one way or another. Something temperate I suppose, late spring.

25. City or Country?

City.

26. Guilty Pleasure

Aside from sex? Mhn. The thrill of the hunt, maybe. But both of those things have been incorporated in jobs for a long time, so, well, aside from having a particular relationship with both, defining them "guilty" pleasures is complicated. I guess they like being pampered, sexually or not, so there's that.

Storytime

27. What’s their family like? Who’s in it? What’s their relationship with them?

They don't have a family, nor good memories from the orphanage, so, probably the closest they got to family was, first, at Madame's institute, where they really come in touch with a positive collective/community. They started coming in touch with themself and with others in a way that was more than family than ever before. Of course they wanted to rebuild that with the Golden Rose, even if it became with times more "officious" with the number of workers and clients and regulations that came with it. But they do want people to feel safe with the Rose, and want them to feel at least a little bit like family.

28. Are they literate? Did they go to school? How long? What level?

They are literate, and studied at the orphanage until they left, so, they are not very knowledgeable after that. They didn't continue studies, only tried to pick up some decent bases to start being more independent after Madame picked them up. They worked hard to be functional as owner of the Golden Rose, and that's where they are at.

29. What was childhood like?

They weren't very happy at the orphanage, didn't felt like they belonged. It ended up with them running away, so...

30. What was adolescence like?

A mix between rebellious orphanage life, naive Nar Shadda and bling/bling fascination and the basically spoiled, responsibility-free life as a Crime Lord doll. It was.. maybe not as practically formative as it could have, overall.

31. What’s their current main conflict? I'm sorry, I'm getting too stuck with some of those deep© questions, I'm giving them up for now. :'3

32. What steps have they taken to overcome this conflict? see above

33. How have they changed over time?

They became more self-aware, more conscious of themself and their choices. More independent, and such, with a bigger presence, allowing them to also create better and stronger bonds with people. With a helping hand they started shedding all the bad preconceptions they had on their life, even if it really took years and years to come to terms with some truth about themself and their past, but well, they got back on their feet. Now they have a house, they pay bills, they own and handle a host house that oversees many people that Apate wants to protect. So, well, I can't really tell how they changed, cause they didn't, not really. It was still them, all along, but I guess they own themself a bit more every day.

For Fun

34. What’s their room look like right now?

It's a pretty big room, but essentially on the minimalist side. Very clean and shiny, with its marble floors and big window on the High District. It's not cluttered and Apate doesn't spend that much time in it, but when they do they find it more peaceful for it to be essential but pretty and expensive looking in its decor and composition.

35. What are they like as a friend?

Devoted, sometimes harsh and too up-front, but also generous and affectionate.

36. What are they like as a partner?

They haven't had much experience in that field yet, so, maybe, distant, even if not on purpose. They are not really used to the practicality of building ties so ever-present and strong, they are still very much used to deal with things on their own. But very sweet, very tactile, very inquisitive, playful.

37. Do they have any phobias?

Of losing themself in someone's idea of them. Again.

38. Did/do they go anywhere special for vacations?

They haven't taken a vacation in ages, they want to quite bad. Anything different from Nar Shadda would be welcome, but they probably want the pampering vacation treatment. They do have an affinity for water, because of their ex, so maybe somewhere they could swim a bit.

39. Your character walks into a cafe. What do they order?

Everyday something different, they don't like caff but drinks it daily so spicing things up is their way. Now it's usually Terjam that buys caff for them, so they enjoy being surprised.

40. What time do they go to bed, usually?

It depends, the Rose usually "opens" late in the morning and closes later at night, but it depends if there are events or not, and if Apate has plans or not. They are more akin to the night life, and Nar Shadda Never really sleeps, so it's not unusual for them and some friends to have late evening shopping sprees or date nights or such. It will depend on how much work there had been during the day.

41. What’s their morning routine like?

They take their time. They wake up slow and then stretch and drink water and then shower, quick breakfast with either milk/yogurt/sweet cheese and some fruits while listening to radio/the news, and then make up and dressing up and then to the Golden Rose where they take a coffee and some pastries with Terjam before starting work around 10:00.

42. What’s the dumbest thing your character’s done?

Thinking it was a good idea to escape to Nar Shadda with no money or friends or knowledge of the city at the peak of 15 years old.

43. What pokemon would your character be (if they’re already a pokemon/gijinka tell us what they are, and how that’s affected them)?

Zughhh... Tsareena.

44. What’s their pokemon team? Try to pick all 6.

Shiny Goldeen

Gorebyss

Mega Diancie

Mega Altaria

Alola Ninetails

Sylveon

45. Theme song (and a playlist if you’ve got it!)

I don't really have one, ahh… Lady Gaga-ish feelings, but not as "hard".

46. If this character was in a musical, what would their motif be (what kind of instruments do you hear, what’s the tempo, ect).

Mhn, something lively and clear, but with a solid accompaniment, like some piano. Maybe a discrete but deep beat underneath, like almost a techno base.

The Deep Lore™

47. What was this character’s biggest turning point in their life, something that changed them almost completely?

There's been two. One when Mikawlas died, and Apate found themself mourning, furious, hurt and dependent on the little skills they had to survive from there on. The second was when Madame picked them up and helped them detox and then got them back on their way to manage themself independently and redefine boundaries in a way that could better connect them to themself and a thriving comfort zone.

48. What was their lowest point? What was their highest point?

Apate almost lost themself, and skipped many steps of their emotional and practical development growing up in not-so-healthy environments. They never really had a family, they rushed and yet mellowed through their adolescence without any real friends of their age, they suffered a big loss pretty young and then started living off favours and on the street without really a support and foundation to evolve.

Then they got back to their feet, and found their ambitious drive again, and created the Golden Rose and wasn't that just *chef kiss*.

49. What are some themes tied to your character’s story?

Former drug addiction, stunt in personal growth and past trauma being overcome, sex work and its relation to their own sex drive and desire, curiosity and extroversion, sex positivism, grooming, fashion and beauty care.

50. What are some motifs associated with your character?

Unsuspected assassin, Diva, fashion expert, sexy and capable, sass master.

51. What were some inspirations for your character (people, movies, games)?

Mhnhnjnnnn I dunno. There are pieces here and there but.. nothing that flashes in my mind.

52. How are you and your character the same? How are you different?

We like shiny things. They can pull it off.

53. Expectations vs Reality: what did you expect and what did you get with this character?

A character for smutty action, and I kinda got myself into angst but also a more vivacious and free-willed character I expected.

54. What does your character want, and what do they need?

They want the Golden Rose to thrive, they probably need a vacation.

55. What’s your character’s core trait? What’s their best trait? What’s their worst trait? When happens when these all interact with each other? see point 31

56. What’s your overall goal with this character? Will they get a happy ending or will they succumb to their faults?

Same as Illy's point.

#that was so long #aaaah #:'D what a mess #I hope it makes some resemblance of sense #oc : illyrio #oc : Apate #ask : Illyrio #ask : Apate #thank you for the ask(s)#u evil xD #askshivanulegacy

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