#like you know the line: “i was a fool at best; a traitor at worst. and the grand duke ravenguard suffers neither”

[fallen-goldfishcracker]

Still on my Ulder & Wyll bullshit but like

I keep thinking of Ulder Ravenguard, sending away his only son at seventeen, and years later hearing of a hero with a fine rapier and mismatched, kind eyes and manners from a storybook, and thinking, demanding surely not. that cannot be my son. my son is a devil's servant. it cannot be. i have no son.

and then after seven long years meeting Wyll again, at Wrym's Rock through a mindflayer's thrall, and feeling something like relief, not at seeing him but at this cold surety that this boy, this man, this hero of the frontiers could not be his son, because his son was not this tall and old and sure-footed, and did not have curling horns and a devil red eye, and the rumors must be wrong, and this Blade must be a stranger.

And then Wyll looks at him, with such kind eyes- his mother's eyes still, even devil-tainted- and calls him "father", and he knows, he knows, and his son is here, so much older and wearier and stronger, too, and he's a hero and a man and by gods he's a monster and by gods he's his son.

[fratboykate]

So what’s your opinion on the directors renewing their contract and not striking? Cause from an outside perspective who knows nothing about the industry, it doesn’t look good for them. At best they look like a bunch of cowards who didn’t want to rock the boat. At worst they’re a bunch of unsympathetic assholes who a riding high while everyone else is a few days away from a bread line. From my perspective they kind of looked pathetic when they didn’t join the strike. Especially with the actors joining in you know?

They're the butt of the joke for literally everyone in all unions and other workers right now. Even some of their own membership is pissed. That was cowardly bullshit 101. They "wanted to get back to work". Yeah...now you're not doing it and stuck with a truly ridiculous contract that doesn't even match inflation. They were led to the slaughter by bootlicking leadership and now they look like damn fucking fools. There's no "work" to get back to. We told them it would happen. We also told them that them taking their shitty ass deal would be used to hurt anyone else who went on strike and SURE ENOUGH that's exactly what fucking happened. This morning when Iger was running his bitch ass mouth and calling us "disturbing" and "unrealistic" he basically also said "look at the nice little obedient boys and girls of the DGA. They made a deal why can't the mean writers and actors do the same?". Now their deal is being used to undercut us. We fucking told them they were being traitors if they took that deal and they still did.

Their contract didn't expire until June 30th like SAG. They could've held off. They made a deal weeks before instead. Fuck them now. They deserve to be stuck with that turd of a deal for letting their clueless leadership bully them into ratifying that contract with zero real gains or meaningful AI protections. As someone who is probably only a year or so away from joining the DGA myself I'll say that I couldn't be more disgusted at everything they've done during this process. Pure betrayal of their fellow workers. And for what??? For nothing. To look like fucking idiots.

[meowthefluffy]

I have Thoughts about the Evil King AU... Namely just how Roman's utter devotion is what's going to doom him. All he wants is to love Virgil and have Virgil love him back, and it gets so out of control, because Roman doesn't know where to stop and Virgil has very loose morals. Loving Virgil is the thing that will be his destruction.

Conversely, Virgil is almost certainly doomed to be alone. He was alone, isolated by his distrust, before he let Roman in, and he will be alone when Roman inevitably gets himself killed trying to protect his King. Even if/when Roman comes back (because I loved that concept so much), Virgil will surely have a hard time letting his guard down, a hard time believing that Roman won't just be ripped away from him again, and thus push Roman away.

I just love that they are, by nature, doomed by the narrative. Makes you feel almost bad for them, but then there's the Crimes Against All That Is Good.

YOU, YOU GET THIS AU!!!

They are doomed!!! From the moment they meet each-other their fate is sealed, and they know it! They know from the start there is no way this can end happily.

Roman knows that loving Virgil is going to get him killed, but he’s willing to risk it for a chance at loving Virgil, at least for a while. Not even necessarily in a reciprocated way either. When Roman signs on to be Virgil’s guard he doesn’t except to become Virgil’s mistress or anything like that. He is fully prepared to be used up and die pining after a man who will never look his way. So when Virgil DOES love him he holds tight to it. He holds tightly to the idea that his feelings are not misplaced.

But even when he has everything he could have ever wanted he’s never truly at ease, never truly off the job. Because he’s Guard first, mistress second, and ROMAN third. He’s willing to lose himself, his hopes and dreams for a life beyond his fanatical obsession for a chance at being with Virgil.And he knows that his place at Virgil’s side is nothing but a target on his back

And Virgil knows it too. He knows that Roman is going to in the line of fire. He knows that Roman is his final defense, and with all the people who want him dead it’s not a good idea to get attached. Roman isn’t his first personal guard and he won’t be the last. Worst case scenario Roman does his job a bit too well and ends up dead.

Best case scenario Virgil ends up dead.

A part of him always tenses when Roman has his sword out. A part of him is always expecting it to be at his throat. Virgil isn’t a fool, he knows Roman’s “HISTORY” with the rebellion.

But he pushes the fear and paranoia aside every time. Because every time Roman smiles and Virgil forgets what he was fearful of. He loves Roman so much it hurts, because Roman is the only thing that makes him forget. Forget who he is, forget what he’s done.

To his people, to his servants, to his family.

To Roman.

And he holds tightly that feeling of freedom, he holds so tightly he’s sure if it had been anyone else he’d have surely suffocated them. But Roman is in just as deep and doesn’t notice the lack of air anymore. When Virgil sees the red flags all he notices is their resemblance to Roman’s eyes.

Virgil knows that every step he takes to protect Roman takes him closer to his life becoming a self fulfilling prophecy. Every person he kills for getting too close has a family member joining the rebellion in revenge. His love and obsession with Roman blinds him to the Nobels in his ranks scheming against him, but it doesn’t blind him to kill others under the false pretense of being traitors. Without Roman Virgil wouldn’t be nearly as liberal with the executions and thus the Rebellion wouldn’t have the power or strength to cause a real threat.

The strength and power to get Roman out of the way.

Their love is what will be their doom but they dare to love anyway.

[sburbanrelapse]

i held an apple in my hands and dreamed it a heart

it's not your fault. never really was. you've never asked for any of my adulation, not a lick of my obsession. i sit here dancing on telephone poles and choking myself to death in power lines and you're supposed to take responsibility for the hanging corpse gently swaying in the breeze? no, no; you were innocent. you were under no duress, no pressure. you made the best choice you could

and i'm happy

because if i set aside my all-too-characteristic trepidation for a second i can tell you'll be happy, too

but i was born with a void in my stomach i only ever filled by weaponizing you. and so now i'm left with nothing but this gnawing, crushing misery, that hollows me out as if with a spoon. scraping, scraping, scraping away at my cilia, at my flesh, at my bones

want to know something awful? does it matter, if you do? i've trampled all over you with my presumptions already, anyways, one more can't hurt

every foghorn in my mind screams that none of this will work for you. calling out that it's too soon, too quick. that all this is being made under too much duress. your boyfriend made a group chat just to worry about you and he's so close to the brink of a mental breakdown it'd be tragic if i wasn't a monster who didn't care even a lick about him. he can't handle this, those traitorous speakers whisper into my ear, blaring at a hundred sixty decibels. he's already falling apart. he's already sacrificing his other relationship for you. all this is doing is keeping the cage around him shut tight

i'm smarter than the foghorns, luckily. i know that he loves you. that you love him. that nothing else matters, but that. that i should check to see if i can get a bridesmaid's dress in black

if you aren't fiances, frankly, you might as well be. his parents may as well be yours by now, given the job your father's so steadfastly failed at. he's as much a home to you as you are to me, and you've seen how i act around you. want to go ring shopping? there's pop-up jewelers all over the streets here, i know a place if you want to sign all that away, away, leave me behind as you finally embrace that light you'd shown me

maybe it'll be too quick. maybe it'll hurt. i'll try not to say it's good if it does

christ, look at me. you're inviting this into your house tomorrow? all this? this ruined, thorned wreck of a woman who can't make up her mind as to whether she wants the best for you or the very worst, who aided and abetted the revelation that's blinded you instead of waiting for it to shatter you naturally, this crying, desperate girl begging you not to leave her when you have to go out for groceries for an hour? terrible. why? why do you tolerate me at all?

why do you care about me?

why do you like me?

why do you love me?

i should have talked to you sooner. immediately after that campaign. i was already intrigued by you then. i could have coaxed you out of your shell, instead of the other way around. i could have wormed my way into your life like a parasite so much sooner. we could have been together, by now. and you'd be straining against the stitches waking up every day and wondering why you felt like dying just that little bit more

all i had were the mad fantasies of a gibbering fool, all along. you don't like women that way. even if you did, you'd never like me. i'm so resolutely not your type you'd catch frostbite in seconds. but,

but i wish,

god, i don't even know why, i know it's not going to amount to anything, i hope,

i pray,

i wait for the day you get married to him. what was it i said, earlier? i can handle planning your wedding, but not your funeral? i stand by that. so i wait. think about what i'd do to make that day all the more special for you. wonder how many amaryllis flowers are too much, too tacky

and when you walk down the aisle, hand in hand,

i'll be sitting there, radiant in my delusions, waiting for you to leave him there and take me with you

i'm so sick. bring me a bucket? i want to vomit all this out.

[sadprosed]

𝑳𝒀𝑹𝑰𝑪  𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑻𝑺.

↬   REPUTATION  ( 2017 )  by  taylor  swift.

taken  from  or  inspired  by  the  lyrics  of  the  album.  some  sexual  themes  present.

+    feel  free  to  change  pronouns  !

‘  i  see  how  this  is  going  to  go.  ’

‘  i  knew  he / she / they  was  a  killer,  the  first  time  that  i  saw  him / her / them.  ’

‘  every  love  i’ve  ever  known  in  comparison  is  a  failure.  ’

‘  i’ll  keep  him / her / them  forever,  like  a  vendetta.  ’

‘  touch  me  and  you’ll  never  be  alone.  ’

‘  no  one  has  to  know.  ’

‘  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  in  my  dreams,  you  should  see  the  things  we  do.  ’

‘  are  you  ready  for  it  ?  ’

‘  i’ve  got  some  big  enemies.  ’

‘  you  and  me  would  be  a  big  conversation.  ’

‘  we  tried  to  forget  it  but  we  just  couldn’t.  ’

‘  i  bury  hatchets,  but  i  keep  maps  of  where  i  put  them.  ’

‘  in  rumors,  i’m  knee  deep.  ’

‘  i  can’t  let  you  go,  your  handprint  is  on  my  soul.  ’

‘  you’ve  been  calling  my  bluff  on  all  my  usual  tricks.  ’

‘  i  never  trust  a  narcissist,  but  they  love  me.  ’

‘  for  every  lie  i  tell  them,  they  tell  me  three.  ’

‘  this  is  how  the  world  works,  you  gotta  leave  before  you  get  left.  ’

‘  i  can  feel  the  flames  on  my  skin.  ’

‘  i  did  something  bad,  why  does  it  feel  so  good  ?  ’

‘  they’re  burning  all  the  witches,  even  if  you  aren’t  one.  ’

‘  don’t  blame  me,  love  made  me  crazy.  ’

‘  for  you,  i  would  cross  the  line,  i  would  waste  my  time.  ’ 

‘  i  once  was  poison  ivy  but  now  i’m  your  daisy.  ’

‘  for  you  i  would  fall  from  grace,  just  to  touch  your  face.  ’

‘  i’d  beg  you  on  my  knees  to  stay.  ’

‘  my  reputation  has  never  been  good,  so  you  must  love  me  for  me.  ’

‘  we  can’t  make  any  promises,  but  you  can  make  me  a  drink.  ’

‘  just  think  of  the  fun  things  we  could  do.  ’

‘  is  it  too  soon  to  do  this  yet  ?  ’

‘  sometimes  when  i  look  into  your  eyes,  i  pretend  you’re  mine.  ’

‘  i  don’t  like  your  tilted  stage,  don’t  like  your  twisted  games.  ’

‘  the  role  you  made  me  play  of  the  fool,  no,  i  don’t  like  you.  ’

‘  i  don’t  like  your  perfect  crime,  how  you  laugh  when  you  lie.  ’

‘  the  world  moves  on,  another  day,  another  drama.  ’

‘  i’ll  be  the  actress  starring  in  your  bad  dreams.  ’

‘  you  make  all  my  grey  days  disappear.  ’

‘  i’m  so  chill,  but  you  make  me  jealous.  ’

‘  i  break  down  just  a  little,  but  when  you  get  me  alone  it’s  so  simple.  ’

‘  i’m  in  a  gold  cage,  hostage  to  my  feelings.  ’

‘  you  cut  me  into  pieces.  ’

‘  you’re  so  cool,  it  makes  me  hate  you  so  much.  ’

‘  you’ve  ruined  my  life  by  not  being  mine.  ’

‘  i’m  so  furious  at  you  for  making  me  feel  this  way.  ’

‘  you  should  take  it  as  a  compliment  that  i’m  talking  to  everyone  here  but  you.  ’

‘  there’s  a  consequence  to  you  touching  my  hand  in  a  darkened  room.  ’

‘   i  feel  like  i  might  sink  and  drown  and  die.  ’  

‘  you  make  me  so  happy,  it  turns  back  to  sad.  ’

‘  i  struck  a  match  and  blew  your  mind,  but  i  didn’t  mean  it.  ’

‘  we  never  had  a  shotgun  shot  in  the  dark.  ’

‘  don’t  pretend  it’s  such  a  mystery.  ’

‘  we  were  flying,  but  we’d  never  get  far.  ’

‘  you  should  have  known  i’d  be  the  first  to  leave.  ’

‘  it’s  no  surprise  i  turned  you  in,  because  us  traitors  never  win.  ’

‘  that  was  the  last  time  you  ever  saw  me.  ’

‘  i  made  up  my  mind  i’m  better  off  being  alone.  ’

‘  all  at  once,  you  are  the  one  i  have  been  waiting  for.  ’

‘  i’ll  never  let  you  go.  ’

‘  your  love  is  a  secret  i’m  hoping,  dreaming,  dying  to  keep.  ’

‘  the  taste  of  your  lips  is  my  idea  of  luxury.  ’

‘  is  this  the  end  of  all  the  endings  ?  ’

‘  all  at  once  this  is  enough.  ’

‘  i  loved  you  in  secret,  at  first  sight  we  loved  without  reason.  ’

‘  i  could  have  spent  forever  with  your  hands  in  my  pockets.  ’

‘  you  said  there  was  nothing  in  the  world  to  divide  us,  but  i  had  a  bad  feeling.  ’

‘  we  were  dancing  with  our  hands  tied,  like  it  was  the  first  time.  ’

‘  i  loved  you  in  spite  of  deep  fears  that  the  world  would  divide  us.  ’ 

‘  can  we  dance  through  an  avalanche  ?  ’

‘  my  love  had  been  frozen  deep  blue,  but  you  painted  me  golden.  ’

‘  i’d  kiss  you  as  the  lights  went  out,  swaying  as  the  room  burned  down.  ’

‘  i’d  hold  you  as  the  water  rushes  in  if  i  could  dance  with  you  again.  ’

‘  they’ve  got  no  idea  about  me  and  you.  ’

‘  you  made  your  mark  on  me,  a  golden  tattoo.  ’

‘  my  hands  are  shaking  from  holding  back  from  you.  ’

‘  say  my  name  and  everything  just  stops.  ’

‘  i  only  bought  this  dress  so  you  could  take  it  off.  ’

‘  carve  your  name  into  my  bedpost.  ’

‘  i  don’t  want  you  like  a  best  friend.  ’  

‘  if  we  get  burned,  at  least  we  were  electrified.  ’

‘  everyone  thinks  that  they  know  us,  but  they  know  nothing.  ’

‘  even  in  my  worst  lies,  you  saw  the  truth  in  me.  ’

‘  i  woke  up  just  in  time,  now  i  wake  up  by  your  side.  ’

‘  it  was  so  nice  throwing  big  parties.  ’

‘  there  are  no  rules  when  you  show  up  here.  ’

‘  why’d  you  have  to  rain  on  my  parade  ?  ’

‘  this  is  why  we  can’t  have  nice  things,  darling.  ’

‘  did  you  really  think  i  wouldn’t  hear  all  the  things  you  said  about  me  ?  ’

‘  here  i  was  giving  you  a  second  chance,  but  you  stabbed  me  in  the  back  while  shaking  my  hand.  ’

‘  herein  lies  the  issue:  friends  don’t  try  to  trick  you.  ’

‘  i’m  not  the  only  friend  you’ve  lost  lately.  ’

‘  here’s  a  toast  to  my  real  friends.  ’

‘  i  brought  a  knife  to  a  gun  fight.  ’

‘  i’m  doing  better  than  i  ever  was.  ’

‘  call  it  what  you  want  to.  ’

‘  all  the  liars  are  calling  me  one.  ’

‘  all  my  flowers  grew  back  as  thorns.  ’

‘  you  don’t  need  to  save  me,  but  would  you  run  away  with  me  ?  ’

‘  i  know  i  make  the  same  mistakes  every  time.  ’  

‘  bridges  burn,  i  never  learn,  but  at  least  i  did  one  thing  right.  ’

‘  your  starry  eyes  spark  up  my  darkest  night.  ’

‘  i’ll  be  there  if  you’re  the  toast  of  the  town,  or  if  you  strike  out  and  you’re  crawling  home.  ’

‘  don’t  read  the  last  page,  but  i  stay.  ’

‘  hold  on  to  the  memories,  they  will  hold  on  to  you.  ’

‘  please  don’t  ever  become  a  stranger  whose  laugh  i  would  recognize  anywhere.  ’

[maseshine]

could you do traitor with mason please?x

YOU ARE A TRAITOR

Mason Mount

Warning: Angst, Heartbreak

Words: 646

Notes: The prompt is Y/N writing a letter to Mason. No happy ending. Lately I'm enjoying writing sad and distressing things, don't blame me.

Author's Note: I know a lot of people write with the use of quotes, but I'm used to using the dash, so I hope it's not a problem.

A pen never seemed to weigh so much in your hand, but you were fully aware that your hands would write down all the words you couldn't say to them in person without breaking down.

Then the first line began to be written.

Mason,

The truth is, I could make a fool of myself, but we both know that doesn't suit me.  I could tell you acted normal whenever you said to go to one of the boys' houses.  Saying that your eyes didn't look guilty whenever you said you loved me, that your little lies went unnoticed.  But I always knew.

You phoned her and talked in whispers, maybe you did even worse.  I was quiet, so I wouldn't lose you, which was funny, because in the end you ran to her side as soon as we were done.

You always said they were just friends, I can't really believe it, seeing it all now

You betrayed me, Mason.  And you can say you're sorry about everything, but you sure as hell didn't apologize for the way I hurt.  And maybe you're not the same any more, the man I dated, because he wouldn't hurt me like you did.

I loved you, Mason.  I loved you with everything in me.  At the worst and at the best time, but wins and losses.  I was there at its worst, but in the end none of it really mattered.  Because I stayed and you didn't.

And it took a short time for you to be with her by her side.  Two weeks exactly, two fucking weeks.  You moved quickly, I could never do that.  And now you parade her through the places we used to parade, and everyone talks about it.  And I look terrible.

And I'm trying to believe you didn't cheat.  That you didn't kiss her or sleep with her while we were still together!  I'm trying to believe you weren't a cheater of the worst kind.  But still, you are still a traitor.

You made me question everything, Mason.  I don't doubt you loved me.  I truly believe you did.  But now I wonder if you loved me as much as you claim to love her now.

Let's be honest here for a minute.  Have you been really in love with me?  Because there's no way you could fall in love with her so fast if it was really crush what you would be for me.  I think all the games we play are hilarious, and now I really understand why you avoided all the questions about her.  You always claimed to be my paranoia when I quoted you.  It wasn't, after all.

You assured me you want everything with me.  But it wasn't true.  Because if you wanted everything with me Mason, really wanted everything you wouldn't have betrayed me.  If you really wanted it all with me, Mason, the dogs, the kids, and the damn upper-class house, you would have told me the truth.  But you really didn't want to, not with me.  Maybe you want with her.  But I can't believe she's going to want to spoil her perfect body.  No of course not.  And she hates dogs too, so you won't have them.

This was all I wanted.

And I want you to promise me just one more thing.  After all, it's the least you owe me.

When you and your new girlfriend are sleeping in the bed we made, don't you dare forget the way you cheated on me.

━  Y/N

You signed your name and folded the letter, tears streaming down your cheeks.  The letter being placed in the envelope.

To: Mason Mount

The Traitor.

Those were the pained words that Mason read a week later when the letter reached the recipient.

God, I wish you had thought about this before I fell in love with you.

[enigmainvestigations]

ENI Season 1 Premiere (episodes 1-7)

AO3 post: ???    Series link: ???

Episode 1 - Matchbox

Something banged below him. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it was enough noise to wake him. He stirred lazily, feeling his undershirt sticking to his skin. The room was humid this morning -- if it even was morning. He could feel the nausea creeping in after all those drinks the night before, it made his muscles hurt, and his throat drier the more that he woke. He slowly opened one eye, and the hazy outline of his window met his vision. He wasn’t sure if he’d left it open the night before; all he knew was that everything was much louder this morning. He let out a deep groan and reached a hand out to the floor to grab his glasses. Putting them on, he stared at the cracked ceiling above him, willing the nausea away. Throwing one leg off the couch, he slowly pulled himself up, trying to get his mind into gear enough to make it to the bathroom. His throat protested as he cleared it. Finally pulling himself up to his feet, he made his way to the small kitchenette in the next room. He opened the icebox, plucked the ice cube tray from within, and made his way to the bathroom. Cursing, he struggled to fit his tall frame in the cramped room, where he turned on the faucet and plugged the sink. He cracked the tray to release the ice and dumped them into the basin. Discarding the tray to the ground, he took a deep breath and pressed his face into the cold water. The sting sent a jolt into his mind, making him recoil quickly, gasping for air. Feeling his glasses sliding to the tip of his nose, he reached up and removed them, wiping his free hand across his face.

Placing his glasses back on, he leaned over the sink again, rapidly splashing the freezing water through his hair and around his neck. The sensation was horrid, but he could feel his brain waking up. He began to rinse his arms too, but stopped when the phone started ringing. Its dreaded sound filled the office, forcing him to turn off the water and grab the small towel by the sink. As he made his way over to his small wooden desk, he dried himself off, and, picking up the handset, answered:

“Yeah?” “Inmate 71170, this is officer Blue 334. Check in.” came the usual droll voice. “Not an inmate, on release.” Edward responded. There was a sigh. “We’ve gone through this, it's just procedure.” “Well, it’s a dumb procedure, and you’re dumb for following it,” Edward grumbled, as he sat down in his desk chair. “Good morning to you, too, Nigma. Glad to hear you’re your usual chipper self.” There was the slightest pause, then the voice became stern once more. “Check in.” “Still alive. Still in the exact same spot as the last time. You should know that, you called me.” Edward said, plucking the cigarette pack off of his desk. “Paperwork says you attended all your meetings. Employment?” the voice asked. There was no emotion or finesse to its tone; it bored Edward. “Self-employed. Can I just answer ‘nothing has changed’ and be done with it?” Edward asked hurriedly, speaking around the cigarette in his mouth as he lit it. “No. We’ve gone through this, Nigma. Profits?” “None,” Edward answered, unable to keep the anger out of his voice.

There was the sound of typing on the other line. “Alright, you’re all set. Your appointment with Dr. Lewin is at 11am on Thursday. Expect another follow-up call in a few days.” “A few days?” Edward arched his back, stretching. “Are my daily activities so boring you fools think I don’t need babysitting every morning?” He heard the sound of the line going dead and slammed the handset back on the receiver. He took a deep drag on his snipe, hissing in anger as he blew the smoke out. He’d come to expect such rude behavior from the officer, but the disrespect still got under his skin. Standing up from the desk, he shuffled back to the bathroom. Instead of entering, he snatched a clean shirt from the back of the bathroom door and pulled it on, buttoning it and tucking it into his pants. A belt, socks, and his shoes quickly joined the ragged ensemble before he grabbed his coat and made his way out of his office. He descended the rickety wooden stairs down to the main entrance of the building and stepped out onto the sidewalk, squinting at the sunlight. The heavy air was already making his skin feel dirty. He wondered if the grime of the streets was seeping up through the moisture. The thought was revolting.

Edward checked for a break in the traffic then hurried across the street, the action making his muscles ache in protest. Once across, he ducked into the small corner shop, snuffing out his cigarette on the wall by the entrance. The dawn work rush was long over, leaving the shop mostly empty. There was just enough change in his pocket to get his usual goods; a quick check confirmed that. He ordered a coffee, and a copy of the morning’s paper. Tossing the coins to the counter, he noted the owner's expression. It was the same every morning; a look of distrust and, perhaps, a twinge of fear. The man never spoke, but he also never caused Edward any trouble, and Edward was happy for that.

He grabbed his newly purchased items and darted back across the street, but slowed down significantly when he reached his building and climbed the steps back up to his office. He took a sip from his coffee and he took off his coat, then tossed it to the couch as he passed by and flopped back into his desk chair. He set the coffee down and rubbed his palms together rapidly, trying to relieve some of his nervousness. A small breath escaped his lips as he flipped it open, skimming some of the articles just to make sure there hadn’t been some catastrophic event while he’d been passed out. He was sure he’d have plenty of time later to read through it. He was rarely busy on his appointment-free days, and he needed to check the classifieds for any potential work. Leafing through the pages, a small headline made him stop: “Riddler Released,” it read in bold. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes rapidly skimming the small article. It was on his release from Arkham, and said something about it not being in the public’s best interests. He was dangerous, the journalist declared, and it was clear that they had only “set him loose on the city” because of a lack of funds. Reading the words, he could feel the muscles in his jaw tighten and his teeth clench.

He’d been out for about three weeks now, and the idea of his release only now being reported made him feel somehow small. Typically when his name had been in the paper it was front page news, with the flashiest of zingy headlines. “The Riddler’s Rampage” had always been his favorite -- he used to have a clipping of it, and he’d kept it pinned up at one of his hideout’s workstations. But now, here he was, barely important enough for a small blip on the fourth page. Is this what he’d been reduced to? Is that what they thought of him? And what did they mean that his being released was just due to funding? Did they really think that they would let him, of all people -- someone the mayor once called one of the most dangerous criminals in all of Gotham -- would they really let him out on the streets simply because they couldn’t afford to keep him? One time, during a blackout, the asylum had redirected power from external generators just to keep the locks on his cell in place. One would think the people in the city would be more frightened. He was sure having him out and about would instill fear in the public; the looks he received on the street certainly cemented that thought. But the funding conclusion was insulting, irritatingly so. But, then, that annoying inner voice crept in, the voice that had started months ago and hadn’t stopped bugging him since.

Things are different now. None of you are really all that scary anymore, not after the real fear that the public felt. In their eyes, your release is just another example of how the city has turned its back on its people. They’re more afraid of that reality. He felt his confidence seep away and pushed the paper away from him on the desk. Those thoughts always seemed to choose the worst moments to creep in, second-guessing his rationality and stalling him whenever he needed confidence. He took a sip of coffee and reminded himself it wasn’t always bad, that it’d saved his life more times than he could count. Right now, though, wasn’t one of those times. He really wished he had better control over that voice, but it always chose the worst moments to creep into his thoughts. He’d always been critical of others, and was used to his mind picking apart the weaknesses and flaws of the people around him. It always felt like an advantage he held over them -- but then, his mind had done something rebellious. It looked inward. It found his flaws, his weaknesses. And now it refused to stop or yield in its examination of everything wrong with him and his thinking.

He leaned back in his chair. What little energy he’d had to be productive today had gone, and his frustration was making his hangover worse. He could feel a slight headache coming on; his first thought was that he would never drink again, but he knew that was a lie. For the first time in his life, his mind was an enemy, unrelenting and traitorous, and, sometimes, the alcohol was the only thing that got it to stop. Bad nights, like last night, were just too exhausting to deal with on his own.

The phone rang again, yanking him from his thoughts. He stared at it as if confused, pondering who it could be, and reached over to answer. “Enigma Investigations, this is Nigma,” he said plainly into the handset.

There was a silence at first, then came the tender voice of a woman, “Mr. Nigma? Edward Nigma? As in, the Edward Nigma?” Edward rolled his eyes, but kept his voice as professional as he could. “Yes, miss, that’s me. What can I do for you?” He assumed it was a reporter, probably desperate for some scandalous headline to please her editor; he was sure he was going to get a lot of those, now that the story of his release was getting around. There was a pause on the line. “My name is Donna Hattie, I-” she paused for a moment. Edward could hear the nervousness in her voice when she continued, “I’m sorry, I’ve never done something like this before. I feel rather foolish. I was just wondering if I could speak with you?” Edward frowned at that. “About what, exactly, Miss Hattie? I’m sorry, but I’m not really interested in speaking with any papers at the moment.” “Oh, oh, no! Nothing like that! It's just -- I read in the paper you’re a private investigator?” Hattie said hurriedly.

Edward felt his brain jolt back to life. “Yes! I’m so sorry, Miss Hattie. I’d assumed I’d be hearing from reporters a lot today. My apologies, what can I help you with?” “Oh, it's fine. I’m sure you get a lot of those kinds’a calls,” she huffed lighty, and the next words she spoke were much softer, as if she was whispering, “I wanted to speak with you about my apartment building. It's just -- I’d prefer to speak to you in person, if that’d be alright?”

“Of course,” Edward could feel his pulse quicken, “let me give you the address.” The next few moments were rather swift. He gave her the easiest route to his building from her side of the city; she wasn’t that far away. Bidding her safe travels, Edward hung up the phone. His eyes scanned the room in horror, and he began quickly tidying up, opening the windows to help air it out as he went through the room. He chucked the garbage out the window onto the fire escape, sifting it out of view with his foot. He flipped the couch cushions over and snatched his coat up, hanging it by the door. He gave the room one last look over and, deciding this was as good as it was going to get, he hurried back to the bathroom. The water in the sink was still cold, but he didn’t have the time to worry about that now. He had to get at least some of the city grime off. He removed his clothes and glasses and dunked his head in the freezing water, ruffling it through his hair. Cleaning and drying himself off the best he could, he grabbed his only set of clean clothes from the bathroom door, expertly putting them on. Adjusting his glasses in the mirror, he fixed his hair and made a mental note of how much he hated how the grey color of his suit looked on him. The color, combined with his weight loss, made him look unhealthier than he actually felt. He took a deep breath, taking one last look at himself in the mirror, and hurried back to the main room, closing the bathroom door as he left. It wasn’t much of a wait for Miss Hattie to arrive. He’d had just about enough time to gulp down the rest of his coffee when he’d heard the knock on the door. Answering it, he let her in and held out his hand to her. “Nice to meet you, Miss Hattie. Hope it wasn’t too hard to find?” At first she seemed apprehensive, but she shook his hand. “Oh, no, dear. Your directions were rather clear, it's nice to meet you as well.” Pulling her hand back, she rested a painted fingernail to her lip, a small smile forming there. “It is you,” she said softly. “I’ve seen your picture plenty’a times. Y’know, I thought this was just someone trying to make money off’a your name? It wasn’t until I saw that article in the paper that I got up the courage to call you.” Edward was taken back by that, but quickly put on a smile to cover it. “Ah, I see. Well, I’m glad you did. Please, sit,” he said, and he motioned her to the small wooden chair in front of his desk. He pulled it out for her, making sure she was comfortable, before sitting down himself. He noticed her looking around the office, though he didn’t detect any looks of fear or disgust. He was used to surprise meetings in his previous line of work, but now he felt like a fish out of water, almost sure he’d overlooked something. It is odd she looks so relaxed around you, not many would be. The thought struck him suddenly, and he decided to take a closer look at his prospective client. Miss Hattie was a short woman; it was hard to determine her age, but she certainly had seen some years. He noticed her attire, crisp and clean, though nothing she wore cost over a dollar. He’d heard the West Side accent over the phone, and even though his ego slumped when he saw she clearly wasn’t some millionaire here to have him follow her rich husband around, something about this scenario made his mind itch for more information.

It was especially odd, considering that the city had only just now started to get itself back together. And after what had happened he knew the citizens of Gotham were anxious of the survivors, especially those who were criminals. The unease was palpable, as if at any moment they were expecting retaliation, retribution for their hand in the events. That the criminals were going to do to them what they’d condoned. The people of the slums were especially nervous; they’d already been through enough of the chaos, and he knew they were already bracing for the second round of destruction. And now, here sat Miss Hattie, in the office of a criminal -- a survivor -- in a slum not too far from where the horror had begun. He wasn’t sure if she was brave, smart, desperate, or if she was simply a cog in another scheme to get to him. He’d gotten used to desperate calls from investigators trying to get his statement, and the doctors at the asylum had spent most of their time trying to crack into his mind to see what possible damage had been caused by the events. Or, maybe, someone wanted to take advantage of his new lot in life to get revenge. That wouldn’t be surprising. Miss Hattie didn’t look the type; rather than some sort of malicious spy, she looked like a woman who had worked her whole life and probably had a family. Normal, boring human behavior. She did seem a tad nervous, but, if she was genuine, he understood why that was. He broke himself out of his thoughts and flashed her a calm smile. “So, you said you’d feel more comfortable talking here. Are you in any kind of danger?” Miss Hattie looked shocked by the assumption, shaking her head with a light chuckle, “Oh! No, no. It's nothing that serious. It’s just, I’m staying with my son currently. I don’t think him or his wife would approve of me coming here to speak with you.” Smart kid, Edward thought. “I see. Is your son aware of -- well, you said something happened with your apartment building? It was a little hard to hear you over the phone.” “Yes, he’s aware. It's why I’m staying with him,” Miss Hattie said, a twinge of nerves showing in her voice. “So it's not just a quick family visit, I take it?” Edward asked. She clutched her handbag tighter, and the muscles in her arms tensed. She was shutting down. Edward leaned forward, lowering his tone to calm her. “Miss Hattie, you don’t need to be nervous. Anything you say to me, I’m not going to repeat, not to anyone. I legally can’t, even if I wanted to. Nothing you say leaves this room.” Her eyes brightened at that, and he could see some of the tension leave her. “Really?” she asked, before letting out the breath she’d been holding, fanning herself with the handkerchief she’d plucked from her bag. “I’m so sorry. I’ve never done something like this before. Thankfully, never had to. I wasn’t sure-” she stopped suddenly. Leaning forward, she dropped her voice. “If I tell you about a crime, do’ya have to tell the cops?”

Edward raised his brows. “No,” he said flatly. That didn’t seem to calm her as much as he’d hoped. “Miss Hattie, you really don’t need to worry about the cops with me. I’ve had plenty of experience with them. Trust me, they won’t get anything out of me.” He thought the boast might’ve been overdoing it, but, to his surprise, she chuckled. “Oh, I bet you do! I thought as much, but I wasn’t sure if -- didn’t know if you had to report crimes, and things of that sort.” she said through her laughter. “I wouldn’t be doing this job if I had to. Anyway, I can run circles around them if need be. You really don’t need to be concerned about that.” He was rather surprised by this development, he hadn’t pegged her as someone who might be involved in the more seedy elements of the city.

“Good! I don’t trust them with this. I mean, they’re already involved, and that’s part of the problem. Fools aren’t doing a very good job, as I see it.” She leaned back in the chair, appearing much more relaxed than she had been since she arrived. Not a predator, she’s the prey, he thought. “They don’t have the best track record. But, they are rather busy at the moment. So, was it a break in?” he asked.  

“No. It’s -- the building caught fire,” she said. The words sounded hard for her to get out. “The whole thing just went up in flames, like a matchbox.” That statement brought back some memories Edward preferred not to think about. “I see. And I take it they have already investigated, and found no foul play?” He saw her nod, and continued. “You don’t agree?” Miss Hattie took a deep breath, letting it out slowly before she spoke again. “The firemen said it was an electrical fire. Something about how the grounding had gone bad, chalked it up to damage that must’ve happened during the lockdown, or some such nonsense.” She wiped her face with the handkerchief. “Thing is, though, the landlord had everything checked. I remember, I had to let some workers into my apartment. Tore a hole in my wall to get to some of the wiring, never did completely pick up after themselves.” She huffed, annoyed. “Wait, they just did maintenance on the wiring in the building?” Edward asked. She nodded in response, making him frown. “Was the building part of the lockdown?” “No. See what I mean? It's strange,” she said, frowning down at the floor for a moment. Looking back up, her eyes met his, and he could see a determination in them that wasn’t there before. “Mr. Nigma, I’m just gonna be honest with you. I can’t pay you much. I know that I don’t have that much of a reason to even be suspicious, but I just have a feeling. You ever just know something’s wrong? And the feeling just won’t go away? No matter how much you try to talk yourself out of it?” Yeah, you know what that’s like, all too well. Edward nodded, enticing Miss Hattie to continue, “All I really need -- you’re a very smart man. I’ve heard of the things you’ve done, I read all about what you did with the Gunners Boys. I followed it through the papers. If something is wrong, I’m sure you’ll be able to find it. I just -- can you just go take a look? That’s all I need, just your eye, just look and see.” She took a breath before continuing, “It will only take about an hour of your time, and if you tell me you don’t see anything suspicious, I’ll accept it.” “And if I do find something suspicious?” Edward asked.

“If you do… I guess I’ll just have to keep pestering those cops.” Miss Hattie finished, sitting up in the chair. Edward remained silent, his mind running through the potential issues this case could bring up. If the police were already involved, he knew his presence would surely get people talking -- as if many people talk about you these days -- but he really didn’t want to give them an excuse to come knocking at his door. And going out to the slums at night wasn’t a very safe idea, either. Normally, he wouldn’t feel any concern over it, but he really had lost quite a bit of his muscle mass over the last few months. The lack of money and food aren’t helping in that department, but you’ve been in worse shape and survived. This could still be a trick, but using some woman with a story of a fire sounded like an idiotic ploy just to lure him out to some abandoned slum. His mind started to wonder if this could have anything to do with Penguin, when that voice grew more insistent. She’s going to pay you to go look at some burnt rubble, stop overthinking it. You need the money. Hell, you don’t even really have to go. You could make up some story, she’d probably believe you. “Alright, I’ll give the scene an examination,” Edward finally said, making a small smile cross Miss Hattie’s lips. “Thank you. Thank you very much, Mr Nigma,” she said. During the rest of their exchange, her mood seemed to have improved. Edward found it strange but oddly comforting that she happily handed her money over to him. She seemed in full confidence he’d be true to his word, which was certainly not the treatment he was used to receiving, especially from regular citizens. He grilled her for a few more moments, asking questions of any potential concerns he should take into account and jotting her answers down in his notebook. He helped her to her feet and reiterated the directions for the quickest route back to her side of the city. She thanked him for his concern, and, just before he closed the door behind her, she looked him in the eye, still with that calm smile. “I really do hope I see you again, Mr. Nigma,” she said, before descending the stairs. Not as gullible as she seems, he thought.

He spent the rest of the daytime hours eating what little food he had left in the kitchenette, taking a much-needed nap to help with his hangover, and washing his other suit in the bathroom sink. He hung it on the laundry line outside his window on the fire escape. With the humidity he knew it was going to take longer than normal to dry, the rains were really lingering this year. After finishing picking up the garbage he’d dumped there this morning, he looked to the sky, noting the low hanging clouds that looked full enough to burst. He frowned as he climbed back through the window to the kitchenette. He’d had enough of the rains, to be quite honest. He never thought it was possible, but he was ready for the chill of the Gotham fall. He took the money Hattie had given him and hid it in the narrow crack in his desktop, while his mind began working over the case again. What would be the best way to handle it? He was sure if he simply did a walk by the premises he’d be able to gather enough visual cues to make up a convincing story, hopefully something that would ease her mind. He looked out the window behind him, staring at the rain clouds rolling over the slums around him. The rain would be good cover. He’d be able to sneak in without many witnesses, and he was sure the storm would keep many unsavory people off the streets. He sat down at the desk, reached over to grab the paper he’d discarded that morning, and began flipping through the pages. His neighbor’s radio turned on -- it was always loud enough for him to hear it with the windows open -- and he listened periodically to the news reports that broke in. Eventually it became too dark for him to finish the article he’d been reading, so he flipped on the tiny lamp on his desktop. A light tapping sound began on the window behind him. It was raining. He leaned back in the office chair, letting out a deep breath; he figured now was time to make a final decision. He listened to the streets below, hearing the vendors begin to close their windows and pull their displays inside. The city was closing down early. If he planned this right, he could finish in enough time to stop by one of the shops and grab some more whiskey. His fingers were tapping out a rhythm on the desk as he thought, his mind rapidly deciding on the best plan to get there and back. Standing up, he grabbed his switchblade from the desk drawer and stuffed it into his pocket, turning off the light as he went to grab his coat. Throwing it on, he placed his hat on and locked the door behind him as he headed down the stairs. He stepped out onto the sidewalk and looked around. There were a few children down the street playing in the rain, but otherwise people were quickly shuffling about, trying to find shelter. He turned on the spot and began the walk to the streetcar stop. Walking the city blocks there would be unpreferred in the rain, but he decided it would help ease more of the fog his hangover still had over his body. The walk wasn’t as horrible as he’d figured it would be, and the streetcar wasn’t as packed as he’d imagined. He easily found a spot to sit on one of the benches, his aching muscles thankful for the rest. As the streetcar rattled along its track, his mind began to mull over all the information again as he formed a plan to get in and out quickly. He vaguely watched as riders got off at different stops, eventually leaving the streetcar almost empty. Being lost in his thoughts for most of the trip, he was alarmed when a sickness began in his stomach. Then it hit him. It was the smell of the city around him, the rain, and that familiar sickening smell of rotting, burnt wood. The smell of the river flooded his senses. He’d forgotten they’d changed the streetcar route. He didn’t look up, he didn’t need to, he could already hear the sloshing sounds of the water as they got closer to the island bridges. His eyes scanned his surroundings for a street sign, but as he did, he could feel his hands start to shake. He willed them to stop. The sign for Billington passed by, and he hurried to the back of the car, hopping out into the street. The sudden silence of his surroundings made the sounds of the river so much louder in his ears. He hurried onto the sidewalk, silent. His breath was quickening, and he could hear the blood flowing through his head. The sickness in his stomach was becoming almost unbearable. He shook his hands at his sides, trying to relieve some of the nervousness and the tension. Without looking up, he turned down the sidewalk, beginning the remainder of his trip. Keeping his eyes low to the pavement as he walked, he heard a car turn down a street behind him. It made his nerves spark in anticipation. He tried to keep his focus just on his steps, one foot in front of the other, ignoring the memories trying to creep back into his mind. Another step forward and his foot went right through a puddle. The sensation of the dirty water filling his shoe opened up a floodgate; suddenly, flashes of events tore through his mind.

Knee-deep water, the weight of the gun in his hand, the pulsing pain in his right leg.

He stopped on the sidewalk and shut his eyes tightly, trying to get the memories to stop, but the smell of the river kept bringing them back. He let out a pained groan. He didn’t understand. He felt so out of control. The one thing that had always been his greatest ally was turning on him. The fear quickly turned to frustration. He opened his eyes, deciding he was sick of it, sick of avoiding it all. All he was doing was just desperately patching holes on a sinking ship. He turned and looked at the island bridge, thinking it was time to stop running, and start confronting it head-on.

Some remnants of the barricades remained: large trunks of wood and brick were pushed up against the railing, razor wire glistening in the rain. The street was still damaged nearby, and the city had done some rush patch job to fix it, leaving the cracks still visible on the uneven pavement. The island across the river looked tiny. The dark buildings speckled the horizon; it looked like the remains of something dead, a carcass, rather than a once-populated island. It smelled different now, and the silence of it made him uneasy. He’d expected an intense barrage of memories, like what happened often at night, but he was met with something lifeless. He stared for a moment longer, noticing the fencing the city had put up around it, seeing where they’d cleaned a route on the main roads for the construction traffic. Looking to the street signs above, he saw the directional signs for the Narrows had been blocked off. Large “detour” signs took their place, directing traffic to the overhead bridges. The sight gave him a feeling of finality. The island held no answers, and it provided no closure. It was just dead. Letting out a deep breath, he took one last look at the island and continued down the opposite street toward his destination.

The farther he got from the Narrows, the more the sensations began to ease. His fear and frustration was replaced with a sense of emptiness he hadn’t expected; he felt almost numb to it all by the time he reached the buildings he was headed to. He’d thought actually looking at the island would be like confronting some horrific beast, and the lack of that resolution or answers of any kind was wearing on him. Stop worrying, talk to Lewin about it in your next appointment-- but that thought frightened him. He took a deep breath to compose himself, then he looked up at the buildings around him. The lights inside them and the soft sounds of people filled the air; he hadn’t thought this block would still be inhabited. Then he saw it: the darkened shell of what he assumed to be Miss Hattie’s previous residence. He could see the smoke damage on the remaining two buildings beside it. He noticed that both were still housing residents. He watched a cat slink inside an open window of a dimly lit room, heard one of the residents dump some wash water to the alleyway. All of it struck him as odd. It appeared Hattie’s building had sustained most of the damage, and it was enough damage to make the whole building uninhabitable. Yet the other buildings appeared to only have minor damage. Hurrying up to the entrance, he checked his watch and noted the time. Taking out his notepad, he skimmed his notes quickly, refreshing his memory and reinvigorating his focus. He climbed the few steps to the main entrance and gently pushed what was left of the front door open. The main hall didn’t appear to be too damaged by the fire, and he took a few steps inside, noting that the upper floor had been torn open by the firemen. Gotta watch your step up there, he thought as he saw the floor above through holes in the ceiling. He took out his flashlight and flicked it on, checking the apartment to his left first, before making his way slowly up the steps. He looked between the two doors on the top landing before going through the door on his right, per Miss Hattie’s instructions. He frowned while looking over the damage. It was quite bad, like a matchbox he remembered her saying -- and it certainly looked it.

Everywhere he looked was burned, the skeletons of her furniture scattered around the apartment, with every inch blackened by either smoke or fire. Moving further in, he kept his eyes to the floor, hopping over the weak spots as he picked his way to one of the back rooms. He reached a doorway and looked inside, searching the small room with his torch until he finally spotted the hole in the wall Miss Hattie had mentioned. He stepped over to it, avoiding another hole in the flooring, and bent down to check inside the wall.

Suddenly, a floorboard creaked in another room. He could hear what sounded like footsteps behind him. He frowned and turned his flashlight toward the door, bathing the hall in light.

He listened, hearing only the tapping of the rain water throughout the building.

Continue reading: 

Ep 2  *  Ep 3  *  Ep 4  *  Ep 5  *  Ep 6  *  Ep 7

[marshmallowprotection]

[Previous Post]

By his calculation, it was no real surprise that she couldn't remember anything that she'd said to him. 

She had been floating on the edge of elixir and the aftershocks it left in her system, most of what left her lips was nonsensical, at worst. She had far more clarity with her ability to speak but she had been easily distracted and confused if he let her talk without some kind of motivation. 

Ray hadn't even had to pry. It was as if she were a Goddess who truly knew everything. She knew things that Ray had to double check for their authenticity but found she was right every step of the way there. There were things that he would have otherwise had no way to know, but she was right enough for him to put every word to thought. 

She had firm thoughts and opinions, and it was precious to see her get upset over nothing. She would get so inflamed over this or that, but she spoke of the stories of himself and those around him like it was her livelihood. As if the world around them was her everything. 

However, some of her tone needed to be corrected. She spoke highly of much of the RFA, even if she was able to easily proclaim what she saw as a perceived fear or hesitance. He didn't care if she pitied the most of them… he just didn't want her to feel anything for the liar and the traitor. It's why he didn't ask about them. 

But, the rest of the members? 

He had enough information to draw out anything he wanted from them. She even had her own suggestions for what could work on them. He noted it in her phone, where she had been trying to figure out what may bring the RFA to Mint Eye. It was amusing to think she had considered it before meeting him. It was just another reminder that she was meant to be a saint to Mint Eye. 

Setting aside his feelings in knowing that her information had been given to her because of a game, he knew it didn’t matter how she got it. She wielded it with grace and luxury in her hands. She built upon the backs of what she had been handed and made it stronger... she found holes in stories and mended them by her hands. 

"Princess, relax for me," he was as gentle as he could be but she simply hadn't had the time to learn how to sit still. She was coming more and more out of her gaze so she was having such a hard time with her tremors. "I know it's hard. But I need you to look your best today." 

Either way, Ray had what he needed and plans could begin. But, right now, he had something even more important to think of. His Savior wanted to meet the person who would save Paradise with ease, his precious one. He tutted when he felt her squirm underneath his hand, smoothing out the brush against her messy curls as he did. 

Kaitlyn blinked a few times and then looked at the reflection in the mirror. She would see Ray fretting over little things as he did but she hadn’t quite realized how much work he was doing. He had taken great care to make her look exactly as radiant as she was. If they didn't see it before, they would see it in front of the Savior.

He caught her hand before it could touch her hand, and he lowered it back down onto her lap with a tight smile. He spent an awfully long time making her messy curls tighter and consistent. He didn’t want her to mess any of it up because she wasn’t in the state of mind to look at herself just yet. 

She was easily placated, though.

All it’d taken to make her listen to him in the first place was to wrap his coat around her shoulders. She stopped shivering and shaking when he did. It was almost adorable. Compared to the acidic mint and undertones of alcohol within the potion, he imagined the floral scent calmed her down. Aromatherapy was a good idea! If he could’ve taken her back to the garden... 

As the clarity was slowly returning, she seemed like in a daze and more of a frenzy. Her eyes darted all over the place as she strained to figure out where she was and why she was there. He knew that feeling, it happened often as he came out of the buzz that elixir warranted to those that survived the first trial. 

"Why…?" 

"You're meeting with my Savior, remember?" 

He frowned. What did she have to be afraid of? Did she misunderstand how lucky she was? Or, was the elixir still making her fearful to be alone with other people except for him? She would cry out with names that he couldn’t recall or know, after all. She might’ve been scared to make a fool of herself in front of his Savior. 

Something akin to fear flashed in her eyes, “I thought... I thought you said she was okay with us being together, Ray.” 

“Of course! My Savior promised that we’ll be together, but she wants to meet you so our mission can begin. After all, she wants to formally greet you as a true member of paradise! You took the elixir so well, too. It’s amazing. So, she wants you to see our paradise now that you’re able to function properly.” 

She’d seen worse. 

—

“I’m...” 

“A member of paradise,” Rika spoke with resolution. Her emerald eyes flickered over the newcomer, as if sizing her up and trying to figure out the best way to be able to pick her mind apart. “It’s a pleasure to welcome you to Magenta, for the first time, officially. While you must be surprised to be here with you, I must thank you for offering your wisdom and insight to ensure our success.” 

To put it plainly, Rika was searching for something in between the lines. Ray had said over and over that her information knew no bounds but there were parts of it that he couldn’t gain access to quite yet. She knew everything about them and yet, she was devoted to the cause. She had no doubt in her mind after what he’d shown her on that phone. 

She always imagined that she would have to tether Ray with a string to keep him to obey but now she had two tools to use at her disposal. She not only had Ray who worked himself like a dog for the smallest grain of affection, and now, this girl who would do anything for Ray and the paradise that he wanted to hold so badly. 

Photos that couldn’t exist in this world as they existed in quality unlike their own. Information about everything and everyone that nobody was ever meant to get into their hands. Reports and essays that could rival anyone in their terms of control and clarity. Her devotion to Ray was something else, and it could readily be used and manipulated. 

An idealistic young woman who believed in empathy and shining love. She was a realist but her romantic heart could sway her to be bent easily. It reminded her much of herself before she realized her true potential. A shining light was easy to capture as long as you had the right tools. 

Then, she would finally feel the light of salvation. 

This could be a useful love. 

Love built upon obsession that came from sincere bonds. Unlike the way that her former flame had done. His love had burned and devoured every part of her heart and now... she could take back her precious family from his clutches and wave this love in his face. She could use it, she could use them, and she was going to do so.

Though, Ray seemed to have dosed her with more than she expected. Her eyes still looked glossy even though she had enough clarity to realize the situation at hand. Her hand nervously fiddled with the fabric of the borrowed coat she wore, as her eyes darted left to right, not wanting to meet Rika’s gaze. 

No matter, it was a delight either way to see things working. 

Though this girl was taller than she was, she paid no mind, resting her hand against her shoulder to catch her attention. “You don’t need to worry about a thing. You’ve proven your capability already with your charming perspective, I must say, you’re a delightful read when you tear people down. You’ve seen the things I’ve always overlooked.” 

“Ah, I...” Kaitlyn murmured. It was a small nod to indicate that she’d heard what Rika said. “I... I like to study people, it’s a hobby... I’m not that great for what it's worth.” 

Oh. 

An insecurity. 

“Ray has shown me otherwise. Your words will be the very thing that save my precious mistreated family. I’m interested to hear more about what you think we should do. After all, someone as devoted as you can only know talent. Trust me, I know skill when I see it. I welcome it to our paradise because we need people like you.”

“...Thank you, Savior,” the words seemed foreign against her lips but she had managed to catch herself in time. She seemed to be good in print but in need with her actual words. “I... I’m thankful you see it that way. I’m...  I’m happy you have welcomed me.”

Rika’s attention shifted back to Ray. He seemed to be eyeing his plaything with a serious fever in his eyes. It could’ve been a problem, but... as long as she knew that this infatuation was going to secure paradise, she would allow it. It wasn’t as if they would be able to turn away from their promised future. It was a given, and Ray would never let go of it, now. 

She smiled. 

What a frightened little rabbit. 

“Ray, be a dear and see to it that she’s comfortable. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us if we want to achieve our goals within the next few months... aren’t you pleased it won’t take years to succeed now? All you’ve ever wanted, you’ve got it in your grasps. Don’t lose sight of that,” her voice was clear. “To get what you want, you must never look away from what’s ahead. No matter how ugly it seems. After all, I have a strong feeling that our dear Kaitlyn will have them on their knees soon enough.” 

His expression changed with that. His lips curled upward and he nodded, his way of saying he understood. The bloodlust in his eyes... now, that was what she wanted to hold onto. As long as he behaved, as long as he kept his dream ahead, paradise would thrive, and she would have what she wanted. Jihyun on his hands and knees, begging for mercy. 

And she’d snap him like a twig for thinking she’d given him a chance after what he did. 

Rika stepped back and Ray stepped forward. He took her by the hand and let her gaze into his eyes, that cloudy look leaving him as he played the role that he wanted. Pity, he wanted to be a prince when he was better suited for something else. Well, in due time, she thought. 

“I’ll begin preparations, my Savior. For eternal paradise.” 

“For eternal paradise, my children.”

[besanii]

Hi! Am rereading your shattered mirrors verse and I love it so much. Are we going to get the scene in which WWX explains everything that’s happened to him (with the poison) etc to LWJ after they meet wen yuan?? I’m dying for the angst but also fluff and comfort 🥺🥺🥺

@lurkingscientist asked:

I can’t wait to hear about all the sad things wwx experienced!!! :D my “stabby stabby stab stab stab” is feeling slightly neglected

Shattered Mirrors #61

“I haven’t told you everything.”

In the thirteen years Wei Wuxian had been gone, Lan Wangji searched desperately for every scrap of information he could get his hands on, from every channel he could access, in hopes of finding him. Or finding out what had happened to him. What he could find was piecemeal at best and unreliable at worst, often conflicting depending on the source. The result was him, driven mad by desperation and grief, chasing ghosts in the shadows until he could no longer tell what was real.

Even now, with Wei Wuxian back at his side these last two years, happy and content and safe, he still does not have a clear picture of what had happened during the war. If he’s being honest, he’s afraid to ask, and even more afraid to know. He tells himself it’s enough just to have Wei Wuxian by his side again. He doesn’t need to know, if Wei Wuxian does not want to share.

So Wei Wuxian’s confession punches the air from his lungs and he feels in its wake, his hands trembling where they’re entwined. Wei Wuxian watches him with the same care one would give to a startled animal ready to flee.

“That is,” he amends hesitantly, “if you wish to know.”

Lan Wangji inhales, and exhales again, with a shudder. Squares his shoulders. Looks him in the eye.

“Yes,” he says. “I do.”

It is Wei Wuxian’s turn to take a deep breath, the tentative little smile on his lips giving way to steely resolve. On his other side, Wen Yuan kneels by the bed, wordlessly offering his unwavering support. Despite all this, it takes Wei Wuxian some time to find the right words to convey the enormity of what he is about to disclose.

“I don’t know where to begin,” he admits with a shaky laugh, looking down at their joined hands. “I suppose you already know how Yunmeng fell.”

Lan Wangji nods. He has heard scattered details, enough to know that there had been a traitor in their midst, someone who had fed false information through their intelligence network while Wei Wuxian had been in Gusu. They had managed to secure Yunping, but sustained heavy losses that severely weakened their defences. The traitor had been found, but by then the Qishan Wen army was already at their doorstep, ten thousand strong, and they had no way out.

“We evacuated as many civilians as we could. Jiang Cheng, Jiang-wang and Yu-wanghou stayed behind to defend the city,” he says. His eyes and voice are distant, lost in his memories. “I took Shijie and we escaped via the lakes, with the rest of the civilians. Our priority was to get to Yunping, and then to Lanling. Shijie was engaged to Jin Zixuan, so they would definitely come to our aid—or at the very least, they would keep her safe while I gathered reinforcements.

“They were there,” he continues, still in that far-off voice. “Wen Chao and his men. They had split their forces to ambush us while we were defenceless. Our boats were burned, our people drowned—we in Yunmeng are strong swimmers, but even the strongest swimmers cannot survive when arrows rain down from the sky.”

He shivers with his next breath, but his voice is steady.

“I entrusted Shijie to my lieutenant, instructed them to use one of the overturned boats to cover their escape, while I distracted Wen Chao.” He smiles, but it’s stark and without humour. “We’ve had…altercations in the past, so I knew I would be an adequate distraction. I held him off for as long as I could, kept his attention on me. But I was only one person, and he had an army.”

The reports that had come out of Yunmeng around that time—the ones Lan Xichen had allowed him to read while recovering from his punishment, at least—had painted a picture so bleak, so devastating that he had wept. The lakes of Yunmeng, once teeming with colour and life, stained red with blood over the course of one night; and Lotus Pier, its seat of power, that had once risen from the depths of the lakes like a mirage, burned to ash. He had been back to the ruins of Lotus Pier in the intervening years as it was slowly rebuilt after the war—Gusu had offered aid wherever possible, in both money and manpower, as well as political support for the Yu family of Meishan, the maiden family of Queen Yu Ziyuan, who had been installed as stewards in the absence of the ruling family—but the shadows of war still haunts its streets and darkens its waters even now.

Wei Wuxian’s eyes fall closed and his fingers tighten around Lan Wangji’s.

“There’s a stronghold in Yiling,” he says. “Some call it the Burial Mounds, or the Mass Grave. Beneath the fortress, there’s an extensive network of cells that run beneath the mountains. That’s where they keep their highest security prisoners, the ones who get…special treatment.”

There is no need to ask what ‘special’ means, so Lan Wangji stays silent. His blood, however, runs cold—as cold as Wei Wuxian’s voice as he continues his narrative, detached.

“Wen Chao had a special—” that word again, spoken with such venom that it curdles in Lan Wangji’s stomach and burns his throat, “cell prepared. More a cage, really. Every second shichen, it would be submerged in water up to the neck, and stay there for another shichen until it was raised again. In the interim, the prisoner would be left soaking wet in the cold, damp cell.”

The memory of Wei Wuxian at the water’s edge, the frantic terror on his face as he struggles to breathe despite not having come into contact with it, the frailty, the susceptibility to cold and illness—it is all starting to fall into place, one horrifying piece at a time. But Wei Wuxian is not finished.

“There were beatings, of course.” A sudden, fierce anger wraps around Lan Wangji’s heart at the matter-of-fact way in which he says it. “Wen Chao always did have a sadistic streak. He liked to hang people up by the arms and have them whipped, or burned, or flogged. Sometimes he’d leave them there for more than a day, weighed down at the ankles, blindfolded, while they tortured others around them.”

A hand extricates itself from Lan Wangji’s death grip and peels back the edge of a sleeve to reveal the scars along his arms. Dozens of them, some longer and thicker, others as thin and fine as thread, criss-cross along the pale flesh. As he traces quivering fingers along the skin, Lan Wangji feels each cut, each slice, on his heart. Then Wei Wuxian turns his hand over, revealing a large, pale scar on the inside of his wrist, and a matching on on the other, too precise to be self-inflicted. He inhales sharply in realisation.

“Your hands—” he chokes, eyes wide as he stares at the scars. “He didn’t—”

Wei Wuxian lets the sleeves fall back down to cover the scars.

“If you fight back,” he explains woodenly, “they cut the tendons in your wrists and ankles. They’ll send a doctor to look over your injuries, of course. There is no benefit, no value, in a dead prisoner of war. That’s how I met Wen Qing and her brother, Wen Ning.”

“My aunt and uncle,” Wen Yuan, who has been silent until now, explains. Lan Wangji had almost forgotten his presence. He smiles sadly. “They were taken by my great-uncle as hostages to ensure our branch of the family supported the war effort, and served as doctors on the front lines.”

Wei Wuxian’s lips curl into a smile—not the harsh, bitter ones from before, but softer, tinged with grief.

“They took care of me,” he says. “Wen Qing was the best doctor in all of Qishan. There was no illness she could not cure, no injury she could not fix. And Wen Ning…Wen Ning was the kindest person I have ever met. Too kind, too gentle for war. They did their best to help me—slipped me medicines and food whenever they could, diverted Wen Chao’s attentions away from me when it got too much.”

His voice wavers and breaks.

“They died trying to get me out,” he says hoarsely. “First Wen Ning, then Wen Qing. And I couldn’t—I couldn’t do anything to save them—”

Lan Wangji gathers him into his arms, crushes him against his chest as he cries out in anguish, his body wracked with sobs. His own eyes are hot, and he sees Wen Yuan’s are also bright with unshed tears when their gazes meet over Wei Wuxian’s head. They stay like this until he quietens, curled in Lan Wangji’s embrace, eyes hollow and wrung out. Lan Wangji is about to suggest that they continue this another day when Wei Wuxian rouses himself with a shaky breath, and continues.

“They killed Wen Ning in front of me,” he says. “And then they forced Wen Qing to take the same deadly poison they had been using to experiment with on us—”

“Qianji poison,” Lan Wangji says before he can stop himself. Both Wen Yuan and Wei Wuxian turn to him in shock. He lowers his eyes. “You fell ill after your performance at Caiyun Pavilion,” he tells Wei Wuxian. “I had a physician brought in to see you.”

He is careful to leave out Mo Xuanyu and Madam Zhang’s involvement, but Wei Wuxian is not fooled. But rather than get angry, as they had feared, he only shakes his head and laughs.

“I should have guessed,” he says. “They always liked to make a fuss.”

“They care about you,” Lan Wangji chides him gently. “And I am glad they told me, so I was better prepared to take care of you like I promised.”

This time when Wei Wuxian turns into the cradle of his arms, it is out of exhaustion, as if a great weight has been lifted from his chest, and his eyes drift closed as Lan Wangji strokes his hair with gentle motions. There is still more to the story, Lan Wangji knows—and there are questions burning in his mind. But he feels the sag of Wei Wuxian’s body against his, the heaviness of his breath, and cannot bring himself to press him further. They have time. After a moment of silence, when Lan Wangji thinks him asleep, he stirs.

“I’m tired,” he murmurs. “So tired.”

“You’ve done well, Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji reminds him. “Get some rest.”

Wen Yuan excuses himself as Wei Wuxian hums and nestles deeper into his arms. Lan Wangji nods at him gratefully and watches him leave, keeping his movements quiet so as to not disturb Wei Wuxian’s rest.

“I think I’ll close my eyes for a while,” Wei Wuxian agrees, his words already starting to slur. “I just need…a little break.”

Lan Wangji presses a light kiss on his forehead.

“Take all the time you need,” he says. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

--

master post in sidebar!

--

buy me a ko-fi: ko-fi.com/besanii

[writeblrfantasy]

i am thrilled to present to you another short from acogs: khyris mi'hail, or khyris the beloved in my conlang!

i'm especially happy with this one, but i say that about all of them, don't I? this one is inspired by the story behind the hanging gardens of babylon, how the king had them built for his homesick wife.

like most of my shorts, you don't need to know acogs to understand this <3 enjoy!! word count about 5k

~

“Everybody wake up, c’mon, everybody up!” The sound of pans banging together accompanies Major Malika’s shouts.

Khyris has been awake for an hour already, but he still groans at the thought of leaving his warm cot. The other corporals in the tent with him grumble and swear at the major with more colorful language than Khyris would dare risk.

Khyris sticks his head out of his blankets, bracing against the freezing winter air and squinting into the bright morning light of the tent. A few bastards who wake with the sun are sitting on the floor drinking coffee, the smell of which finally draws Khyris out of his warm cave.

“We were afraid you were dead,” says Eric, mumbling like he’s half dead himself. “You don’t move at all.”

“Nice to know you’re watching me sleep,” Khyris retorts, pulling on his three extra layers to fight back the biting chill. “Give me some of that.” Coffee in his system makes him feel a little more human, enough to make him realize there’s a group huddled around the morning campfire just outside.

Khyris joins them, coffee in hand, and finds them all staring at a map. “What’s going on?”

“Big news today,” Aeron says, grinning, full of energy no matter the time. “The queen’s visiting.”

Khyris almost spills his coffee. “What? Why? That man couldn’t lift a sword to save his life, what does he want with us?”

“Stow your hatred for a moment, my dear Khyris. He’s here to pick a spouse.”

Khyris stares, then laughs. “For a moment I thought you were serious.”

The other’s smiles slowly fade. Delia stares into her coffee like it holds the answers of the world—or more accurately, an escape from Khyris.

“You are serious. Sweet Cai.” Khyris buries his head in his hands. “Explain.”

“He’s here exactly because he can’t lift a sword to save his life. He wants someone who can. Solid strategy, I think.”

Khyris shakes his head. “He has hundreds of willing options back at court, the experienced soldiers paid too well to be out on the field. Why doesn’t he pick from them and leave us alone?”

“He doesn’t want a lazy court soldier. He wants a fieldman. Someone he knows he can trust with his life.”

“So he wants a bodyguard for a spouse, is what you’re saying. I thought he already had a team of those.” Khyris looks around. “Do you think Major Malika would notice if I disappeared for a week or two? Tell her I was indisposed. I was longing for home. Let me be a deserter, anything but having to see that bastard’s face.”

“Why are you so against him?” Aeron asks.

“Because he doesn’t give a damn about any of us. He just throws money at us, gives us more orders to build more cities, and every year checks in to see how we’re doing. He’d rather entertain the fools and artists of his court than pay mind to us.”

“So you don’t want to see him, but you’re mad he hasn’t come yet? Make up your mind, man!”

Khyris sighs. “I just don’t think you all should be kissing his ass, is all. He should be appreciating what we do for him. We just finished building him al-Hasa, he should be grateful.”

“We’re not kissing—” Aeron breaks off into a devious grin Khyris has seen before, and it’s never ended anywhere good. “You like him, and you’re mad he doesn’t like you back?”

Whistles and laughter go around the fire. “What?” Khyris sputters. “This is the queen we’re talking about, not some barmaid. You lot are ridiculous.”

Apparently happy with being labeled ridiculous, what Khyris thought were friends begin singing, “Khyris the Angrily Smitten” in an off key parody of a song he can’t remember.

“You sound like you’re drunk and it’s only sunrise,” he says in disgust, burying himself in coffee, his only friend this morning.

Later that day, he’s in the middle of a group training session and managed to forget about the queen’s newest joke. The stress of the major’s shouts during exercises in the middle of winter doesn’t leave much room for Khyris to think about anything else, though Aeron finds a way around it as always. Aeron’s only here to support his family’s farm—cooperation doesn’t matter much to him as long as he still gets paid.

In the middle of another round of hot yet cold push-ups, Major Malika calls for a sudden stop. “His Majesty is here,” she snaps. “I want to see some salutes, hear some respect. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Major,” they chorus, lining up to watch His Majesty Amoun’s brown and gold carriage pull up to the campsite. Khyris’ left hand goes to the side of his head like all the others, trying to keep his eyes in line as the carriage stops in a cloud of dust. The door opens with a click, and out steps a shadow cloaked in black, unusual for Kadar. Khyris’ eyes drift despite himself.

Khyris forgot how young the queen is, and how attractive, despite his own dissenting opinions. A dark, neat sheaf of hair and mustache frame a smiling face. His long winter cloak shows hints of Kadar yellow in ribbons and pins, but otherwise everything from the fur to his shoes is black.

“Welcome, Your Majesty,” Malika says with a deep bow.

“Thank you, Major. I’m delighted to be here.” Queen Amoun approaches the line of soldiers with his coat sweeping out behind him, just short enough not to get dirty on the sand. The soldiers drop their salutes as Amoun slowly walks in front of them like he’s inspecting them. Khyris fights not to close his eyes and disappear into a safer, less ridiculous world. He has many choice words for the queen, but keeps them all wisely to himself.

Amount is just passing Aeron and Delia, about to pass a stiff Khyris, when he stops and looks him up and down. “What’s your name?” Amoun asks.

Khyris swallows, cursing Cai in every way. He can feel Aeron’s traitorous, poorly smothered grin on his profile. “Khyris, Your Majesty.”

“Khyris,” Amoun repeats, slowly, like the sly tongue of a snake. He grins. “What a beautiful name.”

What to say to that?

Amoun solves the problem for him. “I look forward to seeing your face during my trials, Khyris.”

Khyris’ mind races, thinking of the Cairic Trials of Taru. They are Kadars, dammit, not Cairic. But, if the queen wanted to find a spouse who could defend him, there is not a much better way than that. “Trials, Your Majesty?”

Amoun laughs, a gentle, warm sound. “Wipe that fear off your face. I am not referring to the Trials of Taru, as thrilling and testing as they are. The trials I have created are much simpler, and will be much more to your taste, if that quiver on your back means anything.” He takes a step back so more soldiers can hear him.

“I wish we had a forest to do this, but alas, we are not in the north or in Tel Cairis. As you can see, there are three targets there.” Amoun gestures grandly to the three red targets being set up several hundred paces away, in the middle of the desert. “Whoever can perfectly hit the three targets”—he pauses for effect— “will get a private dinner with me.”

Khyris struggles not to laugh.

“The trials begin immediately, for all of you,” Amoun says. “You are soldiers, I’m sure you’re used to quick thinking and quicker requests. Come on, now.”

Khyris shuffles into a single file line with the others, Aeron at his back. “Not a word,” he hisses.

“Not a word,” Aeron echoes, but Khyris can hear his grin. Worst of all, he begins humming that awful song, Khyris the Angrily Smitten. He actively wishes for death even as he’s pulling his bow off his back and nocking an arrow into it.

Fail Amoun’s stupid target challenge. The easiest task in the world. He’ll be officially taken out of consideration, free to go back to the idiots at the campfire in the morning.

His focus drifts in and out while waiting for the other soldiers to shoot, even if they’ve never touched a bow before. Evidently Amoun believes miracles are possible. He seems like the type.

Amoun stands to the side of the line drawn in the sand where the archers must stay and shoot, his presence undoubtedly helping no one. Ever since he was a child, Khyris couldn’t stand people watching him practice or hunt. He savored the quiet of the northern forests where he grew up, savored the peace and focus in his heart while he hunted his family’s dinner. To have anyone else watching him, waiting, judging if he shot wrong, would ruin that sacred peace.

He sighs and shifts his weight impatiently.

“Relax, would you? You’re the best archer here, I have more reason for nerves than you do,” Delia says from somewhere behind him.

“That’s exactly the problem,” Khyris says. “I’m afraid I’ll do well.”

Someone scoffs ahead of him. He doesn’t keep his dislike of the queen private, but the way Amoun looks back toward the sound makes Khyris flush. Please don’t notice me, don’t notice me, look away.

“Then miss and make a fool of yourself,” Delia says. “You’ll be known as the army’s best worst archer, but not the queen’s spouse, a title I wouldn’t mind having. It’ll be a steady source of income for my family, at least.”

Khyris smiles. He and Delia became friends because of their similar situation. Aeron barged his way into their lives with no possibility of leaving. “I’ll be in the front row at your wedding.”

“I’d prefer your blessing on my bow.”

Khyris watches sorry swordsman after swordsman point their bows at the targets only for their arrows to land somewhere far off in another direction. Major Malika barks at them that they’ve failed, which is not an unusual thing for her to say, but they’ve never had to perform in front of the queen before.

People who have never touched a bow in their life still stutter and apologize for wildly missing. That’s the effect the queen’s presence has—not that it affects Khyris, of course. He glances sympathetically at the losers and thinks, I’ll be joining you in a minute.

At last, it’s his turn. Major Malika orders him forward with her usual grit, but Amoun is smiling with his big brown eyes and it’s every bit as unnerving as Khyris predicted.

“Let’s see what you got,” he says quietly, where only Khyris can hear. Khyris grits his teeth, mentally ordering him to shut up and let him focus.

Why is he trying?

Because it’d kill him to miss, he decides. He hasn’t missed since he was eleven, and he won’t start now. He has too much pride in his finest skill to be a laughingstock. Major Malika would know he wasn’t trying and would make him try again. He’s too good an archer for his own good.

He closes his eyes, trying to ignore Amoun’s presence, and lets the bow do the work.

The first arrow hits. He doesn’t stop to check. His focus is on the second target, and a minute shift of his position readies him for the next shot. Khyris disregards all other sound but the grip of his fingers adjusting on the bow, the whoosh as the arrow flies free. He can’t quite block out the gasp Amoun makes, but shaking it off is easy.

The wind begins picking up just slightly, hardly noticeable to anyone else, but Khyris knows the song of the bow like his own skin, and it’s not what he needs.

You’ve done well, says the voice in his head. No one will believe you purposefully failed if you miss. You will be free, and your dignity will be intact.

The other archers shot in quick succession, too eager or humiliated to wait. Khyris knows he’s already taken longer than anyone else, but he waits another few seconds before nocking another arrow and letting it fly.

Khyris opens his eyes to find his arrows in the center of all three red targets. He sighs in relief.

Relief for what?

All is deadly quiet, and then some idiot begins cheering. Khyris shuts his eyes again.

Aeron. Of course it’s Aeron.

Soon, everyone is cheering or clapping, Amoun loudest of all. Khyris flushes hot, looking around for him, who’s grinning like someone just handed him all the wealth of Kadar.

Khyris goes over to him and wraps him a hug, drawing laughter and ‘aw’s from the onlookers. It’s just an excuse to whisper, “I hate you to the skin of your bones,” in Aeron’s ear, who just laughs louder.

#

Khyris stands in front of a little pond where some fool spilled water outside Amoun’s tent, turning left and right to inspect his outfit. It’s the only fine thing he has, provided by the army, meant for rare banquets at the palace.

It’s a velvet jacket in Kadar yellow decorated with the few gold medals he has to his name, one for exceptional scouting, another for bringing down the largest hog anyone had ever seen, large enough to feed the whole camp for an evening.

The yellow tent flap opens and Khyris quickly snaps to a stiff position, relaxing when Amoun gestures for him to. “Khyris,” he says with a warm smile. “Thank you for joining me.”

You didn’t leave me much of a choice, Khyris thinks, though even he’s not bold enough to say that to the queen’s face. He’s wearing a thin golden circlet with soft brown gems embedded, the crown of Kadar. Khyris has never been close enough to see it; it sparkles in the evening sunlight.

He’s never been close enough to see the queen’s face like this—the kindness deep within earthy eyes, his short, well-trimmed beard and mustache, the single lock of black hair hanging down on his forehead. His black cloak doesn’t have a smattering of dust, and the long fur hairs poking out of the collar make Khyris ache for the crude fur coat he made himself the last time he was home—these velvet jackets don’t do much in the way of warmth.

Amoun even smells like the forests of the north, Khyris’ home, with a hint of soft incense.

“Please, come in.” Amoun steps aside to let Khyris slip past him. He takes a quick look around. Amoun’s tent is nicer than any camp tent he’s ever been in, a colorful carpet covering the sand, a table of golden wood with two chairs set up in the middle, a white curtain hiding what’s presumably a bed in the corner. Even the lanterns, burning with blessed warmth, are polished and new compared to the grimy ones in the tent Khyris shares with five others.

“Sit,” Amoun says softly, latching the tent flap closed to keep out the abhorrent wind. Khyris sits, happy to be out of the cold with a plate of hot food in front of him, if nothing else. The faster he can fail this and get it over with, the better.

Amoun sits opposite him and unclasps his cloak, revealing a finely woven black waistcoat over a long sleeved yellow shirt.

“Ah, so His Majesty is capable of wearing color,” Khyris says before he can think about it. He refuses to go back on it, even as Amoun looks at him in surprise. Khyris won’t be the timid little soldier afraid to even look at his queen. He respects himself more than that.

“I admit my dress is rather unconventional for Kadar,” Amoun says, slipping into a relieving smile. He picks up a white teapot and pours them both steaming cups. From the smell, it’s coffee—in the evening? Another oddity. “It’s one of many reasons for people to distrust me—or worse, dislike me.” He smiles again over the rim of his cup.

Khyris is holding his for warmth until he remembers that he’s not in the tent waking up to Aeron jabbering in his ear, he has manners. He quickly puts it back on the table. All the manners he learned from his father and his one visit to court suddenly leave him. Hopefully his country boy ignorance doesn’t show too much.

No, he wants it to show, doesn’t he? He wants Amoun to be disgusted with his choice and let him go.

Khyris grips the handle of the coffee cup again but after a few seconds of indecision, leaves it on the table.

“I do hope you’ll enjoy this meal,” Amoun says, oblivious to Khyris’ inner turmoil and the fact that this is the best meal Khyris will ever have in the field in the middle of winter. “Have you ever been to a palace banquet? Forgive me for not remembering your face—you all look the same in those jackets.” He shovels a forkful of something into his mouth—wait, what are they eating?

Khyris gathers himself and picks up his knife, reminding himself to breathe. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he says after what’s probably too long of a pause. “I have been to a palace banquet once, shortly after I joined your army.” He focuses on cutting what he now discerns to be lamb, a delicacy they don’t get out here at the building sites, laying on a bed but of golden rice. It’s hot and warms him to the bone, but it’s not as spicy as the kind his father used to make.

Amoun laughs, speaking with a full mouth. “Let’s not pretend it’s my army. Cai knows I don’t pay enough attention to it. Oh, forgive me”—he smiles sheepishly— “when I’m alone with someone, especially here instead of the palace, I forget my manners. My upbringing is coming back to haunt me. Perhaps that’s another reason people detest me.”

Khyris pauses. Suddenly the food is vastly less interesting than Amoun. “You grew up humble, Majesty?”

“Please, call me Amoun. I am here to court you.”

The reminder makes Khyris bring his eyes back to his plate. Make him throw you out.

“Yes,” Amoun continues, “I came from the forests of the north. My parents were well off, and I have no siblings, but it was not a glamorous childhood by any means. Not compared to what I’m used to now.”

Khyris chews slowly, hyperaware of everything. “I also came from the forests of the north, M—Amoun.”

“Really?” Amoun’s silver clatters against his plate. “I knew I chose well. Where exactly were you raised?”

Khyris tells him about the cabin his mother built, four young siblings and a father too crippled to hunt, a mother too overworked to cook, the privilege Khyris considered hunting.

He loses track of time as Amoun talks about those same forests, hiding from great imaginary beasts that were only the howls of the wind in the trees as a child, the warmth of the curry Amoun’s mother made—the same one Khyris’ mother made for his birthday.

Khyris has never met someone who grew up in the north forests before, and he soon finds he can’t keep the smile off his face.

Before Khyris knows it, they’ve both finished their meals and wine has replaced the coffee. No attendants come in to bring them dessert, Amoun only gets up and accepts plates from them through the tent flap.

Khyris doesn’t have to leave his chair the whole time—he feels like the queen here, dipping a spoon into the bowl of warmth honey cake soaked through with cream. Amoun asks him about his friends, his family, laughs at every story of his siblings, goes somber when Khyris tells him why he joined the army.

Amoun makes him feel like everything he has to say is worth something to him, that his nods aren’t the polite, diplomatic ones he’s no doubt used to putting on. Khyris is only too happy to return the favor and admire the reflection of the lamplight in Amoun’s eyes.

And then it’s ending. The wine has faded from Khyris’ system, and the warmth of Amoun’s hand as he helps Khyris to his feet is bittersweet. He doesn’t know when he stopped trying to make Amoun dislike him, if he was ever trying at all, but now he’s foolishly praying that Amoun will ask him back.

“Thank you for such a wonderful evening, Khyris,” Amoun says, smiling like the witches of legend are said to do—so strong, so beautiful, they make it impossible to look away. Khyris’ limbs seem to draw closer of their own accord before he realizes and quickly puts distance between them.

“Thank you,” Khyris says, a shadow clouding over his heart as he turns toward the tent flap that Amoun holds open.

“Would you like to go out with me again?” Amoun asks as Khyris is about to leave. He stares in hopeful disbelief. “It’s perfectly alright if you don’t. I would never force you into anything you would not want—I have heard the stories your companions tell. Khyris the Angrily Smitten.” Amoun’s lips curve into a smile with an unescapable hint of pain. “I think the angry part is more prevalent. You are one of the ones who would detest me at court.”

Khyris is again mad at Aeron, for an entirely different reason. Has this whole magical evening gone to shit?

“Majesty—Amoun”—he takes a deep breath— “I—I was wrong about you. I would like to go out with you again. It is possible for minds to change.” He laces his own fingers behind his back, arms held taught in the stiff jacket.

Amoun’s answering grin is brighter than the sun.

#

Amoun has to go back to Ramia, of course, and Khyris back to the city building corporal’s lifestyle, but they spend every chance they could get together, alone, in a welcome relief from life for both of them. Aeron and Delia have been nothing but evil about it, but it’s no less than Khyris would expect.

His and Amoun’s second outing comes mere weeks after their first, when Khyris thought he might go mad from anticipation. Would their next meeting be just as perfect as their first? He frets, despite Aeron’s relentless teasing about the fact that so recently, he’d despise himself for fretting about this.

He made the mistake of addressing the queen as Amoun in Delia and Aeron’s presence. At the risk of his own sanity, he’s been careful to censor himself since, though Aeron probably sees right through it.

Their second date is every bit as good as the first and more. Amoun invites Khyris to the camp where he’s staying, visiting another battalion of soldiers in the north. Khyris was happy to go just to escape Aeron’s teasing, but the smile Amoun gives him upon arrival did things to him he didn’t know were possible. After a few days together and the blistering kiss Amoun gives him when they part, Khyris knows his mind is made up.

It should not come as a surprise when Amoun proposes only a few months later. The whole purpose of Amoun’s visit, after all, was to find a spouse to court.

He’s not just falling for the queen of Kadar for all the perks of being his lover. when Amoun first announced this challenge, Khyris thought the steady income for his family would be the only reason he’d ever agree if miraculously chosen.

As soppy and awful as it sounds, as much as he’s becoming the very lovestruck fool he loved to hate, he enjoys Amoun for him, not for his money or his power or his safety. His company. His smile. His mix of ease and nerves, how he both seems to know exactly what he’s doing and has no clue at all.

Now, he’s in Ramia again for the first time in four years in the part of it he never thought he’d get to visit in his lifetime: the queen’s private palace apartments. Amoun is looking at him the warmth of the sun in those eyes and asking if Khyris will be his forever. What can Khyris say but yes?

Khyris might hang around court more often than he ever thought he would, but he still can’t bear to leave the army. He sees past the humor in Aeron’s voice when he asks, “Don’t forget about your fellow corporals when you’re the queen’s husband, alright?” Khyris spends half of the days leading up to wedding with the soldiers, working hard and crashing harder just like he did before, and the other half in some kind of paradise of luxury with Amoun.

He invites Aeron and Delia to the palace when he visits—he’s learned, as the queen’s betrothed, there’s little he can’t get away with, including sudden leave for any soldier he likes. Seeing the raw awe on Aeron’s face makes his own adjustment a little easier to bear.

He and Amoun decline to get tattoos of betrothal—that’s a Cairic tradition at heart, and the queen of Kadar couldn’t be seen with that, especially since they’re trying to move away from Tel Cairis’ traditions.

Being suddenly waited on and served food even better than the stuff in Amoun’s tent on their first date is nice, but jarring. He’s so used to the humble life, getting everything himself, being independent. The army only enforced that, even when he gained friends.

Now the clothes he wears puts his yellow dinner jacket to shame, and every bit of building has been made by hundreds of men compared to a few. He can only wonder how Amoun adjusted.

Amoun is a sweetheart, empathetic and sensitive. Unfortunately, this means Khyris can’t keep a secret around him, and he quickly notices Khyris’ discomfort.

“Mi’hail, please,” he implores one night, because of course he’d be the type to use old fashioned terms of endearment like that. “Tell me what I can do to make this place feel as much as your home as it is mine. All I desire is to make you happy.”

Khyris sighs, closing his eyes for a moment. His cheek is pillows on the silk nightshirt covering his arm, so light and soft and decadent you can hardly call it a shirt. His feet are made warm by the sheets of Amoun’s bed, the warm orange glow of candlelight turning Amoun’s skin the most beautiful gold.

This is not the first time Amoun has asked, but Khyris always tells him not to bother, he’s busy enough, he’s done enough already. “If we are to be married,” Amoun tries, “it cannot be on unequal footing. I will not have you be a sacrifice to be with me. You grew up with so little—let me repay you now.”

“Oh, and you grew up in luxury?” Khyris counters.

“Stop trying to switch the subject.” Amoun sits up against the cushioned headboard. “Tell me, or I will not leave it alone.”

Khyris knows how capable he is of that. He manages a small smile.

“A garden,” he settles on at last, thinking of the northern forests, how he loved the trees but always wished for a more glamorous, well-tended grove. “Remind me of the north, where we are from. Give me a version of our forests that’s neater, that shows the nicest parts without all the ugly ones.” He sighs, already picturing it, almost able to smell the richness of the tree sap if he concentrates. “With a fountain,” he adds. “Is that too much?”

Amoun’s eyes are shining. “Not at all. I will do it, mi’hail.”

Amoun builds him a garden. He commissions a fountain. He brings the forests of the north to Ramia.

Khyris underestimates him once again.

It takes so long and takes up so much space, Khyris is eventually banned entirely from the west side of the palace in case he catches a glimpse of Amoun’s hard work. All he knows is that Amoun is always beaming and giddy with excitement and anticipation of Khyris’ reaction.

The damn thing takes so long to build, Khyris doesn’t get to see it till three weeks after their wedding, when they get back from their trip alone to the forests of the north.

When everything is finally done to Amoun’s liking, Amoun can’t let go of his hand as he leads him out to see it. He even makes Khyris close his eyes, an incredible trust exercise. When Khyris is allowed to open them, his jaw falls open.

He’d been prepared by the sound of flowing water, but nothing could truly brace him for this. From the top of the steps leading inside where they stand, Khyris can see the whole thing: the fountain of himself holding his bow, quiver at his back, free hand reaching up to fix his hair. “Wh—how did you get a statue of me commissioned without needing me there?”

Amount just grins.

None of the trees are old enough to provide shade yet, but stone beds with soil inside house several young, green trees that will grow up to be the great sprawling ones of the north. The floor is stone, not dirt, and it’s much nicer and cleaner to look at than the leafy forest floor. The smell of the trees is absent, but it’s more than made up for with the greenery tucked into every spot, the rare pops of pink flowers from the east. Everything is well tended and trimmed, from the hedges to the plants to the shape of the trees.

Each layer up to the palace entrance is covered in some of potted plant, and an artificial river runs around every bit of it to feed them, the channel carved into the stone.

Khyris can’t fathom how he imported everything and how it’s stayed so fresh—the wont of a queen, he supposes.

“The gardens of Khyris,” Amoun says quietly at his back, wrapping an arm around his shoulder to pull him closer.

After another minute of silence, he laughs nervously. “Speechless, mi’hail?”

“Uh, yes.” Khyris turns his head to kiss him. “I don’t know how to thank you. it’s absolutely gorgeous. I—seriously, all of this is for me?”

“I would be happy to ban the public if you asked,” Amoun confirms. “Does it take you back to the north forests as it does for me?”

“You know it does. It’s perfect in every way.”

Amoun walks him down the steps to the garden itself, showing him every carefully chosen detail. Khyris is happy to stand with him near the fountain, enough for the sound of the rushing water to lull him into a sense of calm. He wonders how he could’ve ever hated Amoun.

“Khyris the Angrily Smitten, they called you all those months ago,” Amoun murmurs. Khyris’ ears burn hot.

“I find it endearing,” Amoun confesses, “but I know you find it rather—embarrassing. I’d like to call you something else.” His fingers curl around Khyris’ neck, soft and warm. “Khyris mi’hail? Khyris the Beloved?”

Khyris fights the smile threatening to break out and fails. “Better than Khyris the Great, or something awful like that.”

Amoun laughs. “I am great enough for both of us,” he says, and pulls Khyris to the sound of the water mingling with the wind. An earthly heaven without Cai.

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[stutterfly]

Swipe Right 02 | Crosstalk | JJK (M)

Rating: M (Explicit 18+)

Pairings: Jungkook x Reader, brot7 x friendship

Genre: E2L, fluff, angst [later on], humor, [eventual] smut, PersonalTrainer!Jungkook, fuckboy!Jungkook, Nerd!Jungkook, Nerd/IT!Reader

Word Count: 10.2K

Last time on SR01: Namjoon introduced you to his friends and you find yourself absorbed into their little group rather quickly. While on your way to a Halloween party hosted at Jimin’s beautiful condo, you admit to your best friend Jennie that you have a crush on the sweet, shy, nerdy Jungkook. This just happens to be the same night he reveals his true nature: fuckboy. Now that’s just embarrassing, isn’t it?

Tags: Fuckboy Jungkook, let’s play some drinking games, dirty jokes, innuendos, friendship feels, jealousy, flashing, sexual tension, dumbBitch reader is drinking her dumbBitchjuice tonight, Tae makes things weird for half a sec, hint of foot fetish?, flirting with Hobi, flirting with Jin, embarrassedJoon who is also a mediator part time, tsundere softYoongi, Jimin is a traitorous snake who lives for the drama, Jungkook is like the kid pulling the pigtails of the girl he likes, tiniest glimpse at softboyeJK underneath

CW:  excessive drinking,  filthy language

Series: Activate your SIMCard Fic: Swipe Right (2/?- Ongoing)

Do not repost. masterlist // previous chapter // next chapter

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

It's been months since the fiasco with Jungkook. You do your best to avoid any opportunity to hang with the group in a stationary setting when he’s present, but he’s kind of an unavoidable obstacle at this point. Pissed doesn’t begin to cover your feelings towards him and hurt doesn’t quite do it either. You’re angry about the things he did, the things he said, the way he covered up his true self, but most of all, you’re furious that your feelings didn’t just evaporate with the shift in his persona.

You thought time would heal everything, but so far it’s only turned you bitter about the whole thing. He still smells so fucking good. He’s still got a body like the weightlifting champ he is. He’s still dorky and funny in ways you wouldn’t expect a tool of his calibre to demonstrate. But he’s also a player and a crass asshole. A crasshole. Has he ever stayed with the same girl for more than a few days? You’d wager a confident sum of money that he never has.

Even though you hate his guts, your brain still finds ways to remind you that even if he’s a dick, he’s a dick you’re still attracted to. He’s the kind of dick you suck one night after getting drunk on cheap beer, and in the light of day you are disgusted with everything about it. So don’t get drunk and don’t suck that dick. Easy peasy, especially since fury overtakes you any time you look at him.

Pissed at him? That doesn’t cover it. Pissed at yourself? That’s closer, but it's still not quite all-encompassing. It’s some sort of culmination between the two that has you absolutely livid with the entire situation any time you think about it. He made you feel like a fool. You genuinely liked the person you thought he was, and he embarrassed you. That made not talking to him the way you did when you thought he had the emotional capacity of an actual decent human being hurt even more. At least you know now that he’s got more in common with a lifeless, unfeeling rock.

Not that he hasn’t tried to get you to talk to him. He has, texting you jokes, sending articles on upcoming game titles, spamming invites to a party on xbox live any time you log on, making a point to stand next to you, interrupting all of your conversations with an obnoxious “Hi, Princess!” and pestering you until you acknowledge him. Thankfully Namjoon has kept him from sitting next to you when you carpool, whether it be for dancing, dinner, karaoke, or any other external hangouts. Nevertheless, he still finds a way to annoy you despite the barriers in his path, and you are ready to claw his eyes out at a moment’s notice.

To keep your mind off how your last crush, well, crushed you and continues to let you down, you’ve been downloading and trying out a few different dating apps. You figure it’s time to find someone to connect with, and this is definitely how people do it these days, but your experience has been less than stellar. Jennie helped you set up your profiles and mentioned it in passing to Namjoon, mistakenly believing you told your other bestie about it. He's been teasing you about it every week since, but has been sworn to silence around the others under fear of you telling everyone about the time you caught him making out with a couch pillow.

He doesn't crash on your couch anymore.

Ever since Hoseok and Yoongi moved into the apartment down the hall, he's spent more evenings on their comfy sectional than you can count, but always after binging Kung Fu movies and bringing gratuitous amounts of takeout over your place. You’re grateful for the solitude so you can attempt to converse with strangers via text — maybe even flirt a little. Most of your conversations have become stagnant, but there’s been one guy texting you back and forth for a month now. You’re waiting on him to ask you out since you’re too much of a chickenshit to make the first move.

Now, as you walk down the hall with Namjoon, he elbows your ribs. “So... how’s your Jay-Jay?”

You wrinkle your nose at him. “Jason is fine.”

“He text you this week?” he asks, stopping in front of the apartment door.

Kind of.

“Mm-hmm!” Your reply is overly enthusiastic and it makes him suspicious.

“Did you text him first?” he questions, pausing before his knuckles touch the door.

Yes. But only because I saw a meme I could use as an excuse to talk to him.

“No.” The tone is questionable so you shake your head violently, scoffing. “I told him I wanted to meet in person.”

“Good. Good. Either he responds or he doesn’t,” he surmises, as if what he said isn’t the most obvious thing in the world. He snakes his hand around the back of your neck, massaging his fingers in circles over muscles you didn’t realize you’d tensed up. “And either way, I’m 100% certain you’re way too good for him. So don’t worry about it so much, okay?”

He snickers when you cast your gaze at the floor with a shy smile. “Joonie… That’s really sweet of you to say. I... Thank you.”

He shrugs off the gratitude with a smirk, trying to not let it get to his head. It’s true and you need to hear it. He clears his throat and knocks, nervously glancing over at you with his other hand still working small circles into the back of your neck. You’ll figure out soon enough that he’s also buttering you up since Jungkook is definitely home tonight, contrary to your belief that he certainly would not be.

The door swings open and a very sweaty, very shirtless Jungkook stands with his leg propped against the door, showcasing every glistening muscle of his body in the dim light. He dons an innocent smile, spreading his stance to push the door open wider and making sure you get a good look at the muscles tensing in his thigh. Your eyes helplessly scan the sculpted lines of his stomach, even as he purposefully flexes to draw the tiniest gasp from your lips. Pert brown nipples threaten to steal your attention, but you drag your eyes to the ink splattered across his skin instead. The myriad of tattoos that line the right side of his body tell a story you don’t have time or desire to explore, and you hate the way that your brain notes the curl of black ink disappearing beneath the band of his shorts and reappearing across his thigh.

“Princess, you made it.” He clicks his tongue with a devilish smirk as he watches you look him up and down with your mouth hanging stupidly agape.

Feeling your fight or flight response kick in, Namjoon’s fingers clamp down hard on your neck to keep you from bolting.

“What is he doing here?” you hiss in your friend’s direction, too distracted to fight against his iron grip on your neck.

“I live here,” Jungkook snorts, crossing his arms. “What? Didn’t you come here to see me?”

The anger on your tongue short circuits the connection your mouth has with your brain. Your jaw snaps shut and you roll your eyes, mirroring his action by folding your arms across your chest.

Jungkook seems amused by your irritation, offering a small laugh. “Client canceled so I decided to do a little exercise at home. Problem?”

He lets his hands drop to his sides, knowingly hooking his thumbs beneath the band of his shorts. Your eyebrow twitches and your jaw tightens. He knows the effect he has on women. He knows the effect he has on you. You’re determined to deny him the satisfaction so you simply stare him down. Douche.

Namjoon forces a dimpled smile to cut the tension. “So... I brought jenga! Do I smell pizza?”

You attempt to push past Jungkook, but he makes sure to bump a sweaty shoulder into you. “I’ve gotta shower. Wanna join?”

If you roll your eyes any harder, you might sever your optic nerve. “Don’t touch me.”

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

Somehow you’ve been stuck with the worst jenga player in the world as your teammate. Namjoon may be a good friend and smart as fuck, but he is terrible at anything requiring coordination. He’s been the only one to knock the tower over. Four times now. That’s four times you’ve had to drink the disgusting gin offered in the form of a shot by Seokjin.

“I think I’ll sit this one out,” you declare, wiping the taste of evergreen trees from your mouth as you set the empty shot glass back down. “Jin, jump in for me?”

You sit back in your chair and pulling out your phone to check your messages.The man grimaces at your request. “Do I have to? The odds seem stacked against me. I can only compensate so much, you know.”

Hoseok and Yoongi snicker into their beers and Jimin laughs out loud as he reaches into the communal bowl of popcorn possessively wedged between his teammate and himself.

“I think these teams are very fair,” Taehyung says, licking the salt from his fingers as he sets the last of the blocks back into position.

“I feel like my luck is changing. Different teammate, different energy, come on,” Namjoon assures him, making the first move.

The block slides out without issue and he drops it on top of the tower with a grin. Hoseok hums a thoughtful sound as he pushes a middle block with the tip of his pointer until it falls onto the other side of the table.

“I’m not sure you’re paying enough attention to be the referee,” Jin pouts.

“Are you really so mad that she’s not looking at you?” Jimin teases with a giggle while making his move. “This is one game where you can’t use your face as a bargaining chip, Jin. It’s all skill.”

The older man scoffs, rolling his eyes as he takes a side block and wagging it in your direction. “How will you know if someone cheats if you’re looking at your phone the whole time, hmm?”

“I’ll know,” you mutter, not bothering to look up. “Besides. How do you cheat at jenga? You knock the tower over or you don’t. Team that knocks the tower over does the shots. Those are pretty simple rules.”

Seokjin grumbles something unintelligible underneath his breath in response. You ignore him as you reach for your bottle of spiked root beer, trying to figure out some clever joke that might impress Jason enough to respond to you. You rack your brain, furrowing your brow in contemplation as you stare at the blinking cursor and take a big swig.

Out of the corner of your eye you catch the flash of white and subconsciously spare a glance up. Your stomach flips like it’s trying to win a gymnastics competition and you wish you could press undo on the double take your eyes have just performed without prompt. Maybe he didn’t notice.

Jungkook pauses in the hall, adjusting the white cotton towel around his waist. He’s grinning at you like the cat that ate the canary as he slowly drags his fingers over the edges of the fabric, peeling it from its resting place on his hips. Of course he fucking noticed.

You force your eyes back to the safety of your phone screen just in time, barely missing the flash of his glossy ink-covered skin. When he realizes you’re not watching the show he’s putting on, he fastens the towel around his waist and walks into the light of the den. You swallow, feeling his eyes rake over your form as he passes the table with a loud sigh.

“All clean,” he announces in a singsong voice as he continues towards the kitchen.

You hate the way your jaw threatens to betray you by attempting to drop at the sight of the rippled muscles carved into his upper back and the thick line creased into the meat of his spine. Even with the broad artistic strokes of color swathed across his back in the shape of a phoenix spreading its red-orange wings wide, you can still see the definition of his form chiseled beneath it. You try not to lose yourself in the flawless details painted into his flesh and grind your teeth to keep your jaw wired shut.

Wet, tangled locks of hair fall into his face as he reaches into the refrigerator. When he stands up straight, he arches his back to stretch his chest towards the ceiling. He’s got a tiny jug of banana milk in his palm and he’s working on chugging it down.

He pauses and licks remnants of the cloudy liquid from his lips. “Thirsty. Relatable, right, Y/N?”

You scowl, tapping furiously on your keyboard. “Put some fucking clothes on.”

Jungkook throws his hands in the air in defeat as he casually wanders out of the room. “Okay, okay. I’m going.”

Your eyes settle on the tower. Minutes pass and still it hasn’t fallen. Turn after turn around the table, the game has gone on far longer than anticipated. Namjoon is determined to not lose this time; it’s actually kind of impressive how careful he’s been. You’ve almost forgotten about Jungkook until he reappears, this time fully covered in black sweats and a long-sleeved shirt. The tension in the room is palpable. You’re afraid to even breathe in the direction of the wooden blocks precariously stacked on one another.

Hoseok is sweating as he prods the stack with his index finger, making a high-pitched whining sound as he tries to determine his next move. Jungkook wedges himself between Jin and Taehyung, forcing you to acknowledge his presence as he sits on the opposite side of the table and steals a fistful of popcorn.

After a few seconds, Hoseok sighs at Yoongi. “I give up. You do it. We’re a team. I’m gonna knock it over if you don’t,” he whines.

Yoongi rolls his eyes and quickly shoots his finger out at a random block. It flies across the table at Seokjin, causing him to dramatically duck out of the way just in time. The table erupts with laughter.

“Damn, that didn’t do it. I was hoping we could play cards now,” Yoongi mutters to himself.

“Hey, what are you doing? You almost hit me with that! You have to put that on top! Go get it!” Jin yells across the table, mind already heavily clouded with booze. At least he’s laughing so you know that heightened tone doesn’t indicate any serious animosity.

“It’s right next to you. Pick it up and give it to me,” Yoongi replies while leaning over the table, which causes the tower to immediately wobble. Hoseok dramatically gasps, bringing his hands to his mouth. Seokjin picks up the block and slides it across the surface as he gives you a pointed look.

"Isn't this cheating? Don't they forfeit since it was on Hobi’s turn?"

"They're technically a team.” You shrug.

"You are a terrible referee," he groans, rubbing his temple as Yoongi carelessly throws the piece on top.

Taehyung and Jimin fervently whisper to each other over their strategy before Taehyung reaches out for an easy-looking target. The slightest touch sends the blocks crashing down, causing the man to blink in disbelief.

“Time to drink up your handsome competitor. Gin served by Jin.” He snickers.

Jimin and Taehyung cringe as Jin slides two shot glasses full of the vile liquid towards them. They link elbows and tilt their heads back, downing the burning liquid in solidarity. Jimin seems unaffected while Taehyung’s face scrunches up and he coughs.

“It burns!” he sputters, clutching his chest. He walks into the kitchen, dragging his tongue across his palm as though it will remove the taste from his mouth.

“Thank god. I don’t think I could have stomached another,” Namjoon murmurs, rising to his feet. “Be right back.”

As soon as he heads off in the direction of the restroom, the others start cleaning up the mess of blocks scattered across the table and Yoongi begins shuffling a deck of cards. Jungkook takes the opportunity to slide into the empty seat beside you. You toss an annoyed glance his way in warning. “Can I help you, Jungkook?”

“You could if you weren’t so busy pretending like you don’t want to look at me.” His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek and he smiles innocently when you look up from your phone to glare daggers at him.

“You’re in Namjoon’s seat.”

He ignores your statement, peering over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of your phone screen. “Who are you texting? Is it your hot friend?”

“She doesn’t want to bang you, dude,” you tell him in a flat tone, flicking the power button to hide the message.

“Oh, just like you?” he asks, unable to hide the amusement striking his features.

After years of practicing this song and dance with other women, he’s grown accustomed to everyone wanting a piece of this cookie. There’s no way you’re immune, especially after his performance on the ocarina a few months ago. He charmed you before you could sink your teeth into his neck and do the same to him, and now you're mad about it. That’s your category, right? Your spite is obviously a cover for your disappointment.

Unless it isn’t. His conviction wavers as your jaw tightens and you take a swig from the dark bottle on the table. People don’t get close unless they want to get fucked. Literally. But you are Joon’s ‘friend’ and you seemed genuinely interested in getting to know him, at least for a little while. Most people are good at faking the first time, but it’s been a while and you’re still here. What if you’re actually hanging around his friends for all the right reasons? What if you had something other than shallow intentions? What if he actually hurt your feelings? He sinks back in his seat, silently stewing in his assumptions.

You set your phone face down on the table, a forced manic smile settling on Yoongi. “What are we playing?”

The man spreads the cards face down over the table in a circle, placing a single shot in the center. “It’s called the circle of death. There are a bunch of ways to play so I’m just gonna pick my favorites.”

He gets up, taking the magnetic whiteboard off the refrigerator and furiously scribbling notes on its surface. You crane your neck to get a good read, but it’s still fairly challenging to make out his chicken scratch.

“There’s a lot you can pick up after hours at bartending school. I had fun playing this with the other people in my class but it’ll probably be even better with you guys.”

ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ  RULES:

A - Face

2 - You

3 - Me

4 - Floor

5 - Jive

6 - Forehead master

7 - Heaven

8 - Hate

9 - Rhyme

10 - Social

J - Never

Q - Eat

K - Rulemaker

Joker - Waterfall

Your eyebrows furrow at the words you can make out. “This seems complicated.”

Yoongi scoffs, setting the board on the counter and leaning it against the wall. “Trust me. It’s not as bad as it seems. Besides this will be right here in case you forget.”

“Does that say eat? Yoongi, what the fuck does that mean?” You tilt your head to the side and try to read the list in its entirety but still at a loss for what it means.

Hoseok scratches his head, equally as stumped by the list.

“I’ll go over the rules once everyone is back at the table. I have a feeling I’ll be repeating them enough once we start.”

You slump in your chair with a pout as you proceed to polish off your beverage. Namjoon returns and sees his spot has been taken.

"Kook," he warns, tapping his friend in the shoulder to try to get him to move over.

Namjoon isn't stupid in the slightest. He may lack common sense at times and he definitely is the clumsiest person in the room, but perception is his strength. What do you get when you add up the subtle glances, the nervous stutters, and shy smiles? Multiply that sum by the times you've tucked your hair behind your ear needlessly, gotten starry-eyed while talking, or claimed a seat nearby. Tallying your distracted behaviors yields a simple answer: a crush.

You don't have to say anything. You never have to say anything because you wear that shame so well. Even subtracting the stunt Jungkook pulled on Halloween and the distance you've put down since then, it's not enough to negate the total. You say you hate him, but those glances are still there. Pressing your lips tight to keep yourself from smiling has become your default defensive tactic. Playing with your hair quickly turns into tugging loose strands back into a ponytail. It’s almost painful to watch. He wonders if anyone else sees it for what it is because Jungkook sure doesn’t.

Staying out of it is tough because he knows both sides. But it’s not his place to spill the tea to either one of you. You’re both his friends and it’s hard not to feel like the mediator that he definitely doesn’t want to be. You’re adults. You can figure your shit out without him to take care of every little thing. Yeah, it would be easier just to do it all for you, but you’ll never learn that way and neither will he. However, that doesn’t mean he can’t drop some caution tape out every once in a while.

Jungkook digs his heels into the floor and huffs. “But I like this seat and you got up so it’s mine now.”

“Joonie, it’s fine.” You manage to keep the irritation out of your voice, talking over the man to your left like he’s not even there. “He’ll get bored eventually. Don’t feed the troll.”

Namjoon shakes his head and takes a seat on the opposite side of Jungkook, grumbling how you’re going to come crying to him later when Jungkook snaps your bra straps or some shit and his friend is gonna end up with a black eye but whatever not his problem. At least that’s the gist of what you get out of your friend’s griping. He may have a point, but you’re not going to acknowledge that. You’re busy looking at the plastic cup full of beer set down in front of you.

You crinkle your nose at Yoongi but he answers before you can ask. “Everyone is drinking the same thing. Even playing field. Not really fair if someone's got more alcohol in their drink."

You catch Taehyung's eyes across the table and mirror his disgusted expression, both of you sticking your tongue out at the liquid.

"Alright. There's only one rule you really need to be worried about in the beginning: my rule to keep you all from getting distracted. If you touch your phone, whoever catches you is allowed to send any message to any contact in it.”

Jungkook grins wickedly at you, noticing the way you drop your mobile device on the table and leave it where it lands face down. Yoongi goes over the rules one by one and gives an example of each being used. Everyone blinks at him stupidly once he gets to the Queen and delivers a deadpan explanation that whoever pulls that card has to eat it. None of you are drunk enough to believe him, so he scribbles the rule out on the whiteboard and writes a question mark instead. He sets the board back in place and continues with his explanation, looking at everyone expectantly.

He points at the board behind him, not bothering to look back at it. "This is here in case you forget what any of the cards mean, but we’ll go slow since there are eight of us.”

A full round around the table and you are all feeling pretty comfortable and giggly. Some of the more tame cards have made their way into the discard pile beside Yoongi.

Jin pulled an eight and made Tae drink until he said stop, which was hilarious and equally terrifying when you realized someone could do the same to you. Luckily the enemy beside you didn’t have the pleasure.

Taehyung pulls a King and tries to make a weird rule that any time a four is played and you’re all scrambling to the floor, the last one to touch the ground has to kiss the feet of the cardholder. When you collectively agree you are not doing that he huffs and makes a rule that for the rest of the game if you have to drink, you have to dirty talk your beer before taking a sip. This rule makes you determined not to lose any rounds.

Laughter erupts from the table when Yoongi calls his drink a filthy little slut before having to take a sip. Hobi is so thrilled when Yoongi pulls a five and starts dancing immediately after that he ended up cackling instead of focusing on the game. He’s less than thrilled about needing to drink after missing the opportunity to dance so he ends up glaring at his drink.

“Oh, you think that’s funny, you filthy bitch? You want me to put my hands around your throat, put my tongue on you and drink up? Alright then.” He coos a ridiculous sound at his cup and guffaws before taking a huge swig.

Jimin covers his eyes and laughs, downing the rest of his drink like it’s water without a thought of whether he was supposed to or not. He gets up to refill his cup as an excuse to hide the heat in his cheeks.

“Hobi’s upping the game. Woooooow.” Jin leans back in his chair, mouth agape with wonder before bursting into a squeaky laugh.

You gulp, hoping everyone is too distracted by their own laughter to notice the way your legs clamp together. What the fuck. What the fuck. What the actual. Fuck. Hobi. I gotta text Jennie. She’s not gonna believe this. No, don’t touch your phone. Don’t look at anyone. Just wait for your turn to pick a card.

Hobi pulls a three and has to drink again. “Ah. This slut wants more. Here we go, baby.”

You desperately scan the circle of facedown cards, a smile forcefully smattered on your features. You strain to reach the one you’re trying for. Hoseok slides it towards you with an innocent smile, as though those lips weren’t just spewing absolute filth. “I hope it’s a good one.”

Your eyes drop to the card as you flip it back on the table. Jack. You squint at the board, trying to figure out what “Never” means when Yoongi puts three fingers up.

“Alright, Y/N. This is Never Have I Ever. We all put our fingers up like this. You come up with something you’ve never done and say it out loud. If any of us have done those things,” he pauses and drops a finger so he only has two standing tall, “then we put them down. First one to have no fingers up has to drink.”

Oh no. What haven’t I done? What haven’t I done? The guys all expectantly wait for you to say something. You purse your lips as your mind blanks on every moment you’ve ever experienced.

“Never have I ever…” your mouth is dry. “I don’t know.”

Yoongi laughs. “Don’t think too hard. It doesn’t have to be anything crazy, but it does have to be true. It’s not fun otherwise. People have different goals. You can use it to learn or you can just try get as many people to drink as possible.”

Suddenly a lightbulb goes off in your head. They’re all men. “Never have I ever peed standing up.”

Everyone around the table puts a finger down. The mirth in Yoongi’s face becomes strained and his eyelids flutter as he sighs. “Careful. There are a lot of cards left and you’re about to make yourself a target.”

You press on anyway. “Never have I ever had sex with a woman.”

A few of them tut in annoyance as they’re all left with one finger up.

Jungkook pokes his tongue into the side of his cheek. “You’re not living your best life then.”

You furrow your brow while trying to think of another easy thing that could get them all to lose. Tapping your fingers on the table, you make an effort to focus on each one’s concentrated gaze. It comes to you and you filter your bottom lip through your teeth for a moment. Have they...? You’d bet they all have.

Jungkook rolls his eyes at you. “Come on, Princess. Just say whatever it is.”

“Never have I ever been to a strip club.”

There’s a collective sigh as their hands drop and they stare at their drinks. You grin like a maniac, taking in the garbled sounds of each one dirty-talking their drinks like it’s a goddamn orgy.

Jungkook looks over at you, making sure he has your attention as he offers an amused smile. “You really haven’t been to Wings?”

You’ve seen signs for that club, hating to admit the ads garnered intrigue. It’s split down the middle, supposedly one side angelic and the other hellish. “Nope. Drink up, Jungkook.”

He maintains eye contact with you, bringing his drink to his lips. “Maybe I can get you to come. Will you give me permission to taste you?” He tilts his head back and makes a show of closing his eyes and slowly slurping his beverage. You narrow your eyes at him before he puts the cup back down. “Delicious. My turn.”

He flips the card. “King. Ooh. My rule. Starting now, every time you say something you have to start with the word hashtag and end with dotcom.”

“Jungkook, that’s so stupid,” you say without thinking.

“Hashtag, drink up Princess, dotcom,” he replies with an impish grin.

You bite your lip and stare at your drink. How could you be so careless? They all lean in, waiting for the words to leave your mouth. You hold your hands up in a T-shape. “Hold up. Time out. Pause the game. I need some clarity. Do I have to say hashtag dotcom thing WHILE talking to my drink?”

Namjoon looses it, laughing like a maniac. “Hashtag, I think you fucking do Y/N dotcom.”

Jungkook just smiles, crossing his arms and waiting for you to continue. God, you fucking hate him. This is the dumbest rule you’ve ever heard. It’s going to get old fast. Still, you stare down at your cup. “Hashtag… Uh… I’m gonna... s-slurp your fluids out now, dotcom?”

Jungkook’s obnoxious laugh is piercing your eardrums as you down a few big gulps. The rest of the table roars with laughter and heat burns your cheeks, not daring to make eye contact with any one of them.

“W-What was that?!” Jin yells. “You sound like an alien! Can I give you some pointers, please?”

“Hashtag, Seokjin! You forgot dotcom!” Jungkook says, pointing to his friend’s cup.

Jin curses under his breath and stares at his cup. “Hashtag, this is how you do it, Y/N.” He focuses on his cup without missing a beat, raising it up to the sky longingly like he’s about to start serenading it. “You wish you could hear me say this every day, don’t you? You love how my mouth feels on you. I can tell by the way you’re dripping for me, my lovely. Dot. Com.” He makes a point to run his tongue along the rim of his cup and takes a sip.

Fuck these guys. But also… Fuck? These guys? You’re one dirty comment away from soaking your panties, but they don’t need to know that.

“Hashtag I’m sorry I’m not a slut like the rest of you. Also Seokjin, you’re a bitch, dotcom,” you grumble, gripping your knees to keep your hands off your phone. Jennie will absolutely scream once you tell her about this night. She’ll be sad she missed out.

Jin’s eyes go wide as though you smacked his ass in front of the world, a smile is taking over the corners of his mouth. “Hashtag, stop trying to flirt with me, dotcom.”

You roll your eyes but you can’t help the shy smile that creeps in. Jungkook sits up straight and sighs dramatically. “Hashtag let’s keep going so we can get the rest of this bread dotcom.”

Jimin pulls a king and has made the rule that hashtag dotcom is abolished. It comes as a relief when you’re a few more rounds in, and everyone has already consumed way more booze than expected because of Jungkook’s rule. An uneventful round of drinking passes before Seokjin pulls the last King out.

“A rule, hmm? Alright. When you ask someone to drink you have to hold their chin, stare longingly into their eyes, and ask them to drink.” He demonstrates, holding Taehyung’s jaw in his fingers. “Like this. Will you please drink for me, my dear friend, Taehyung?”

Tae bashfully giggles waving his hand away. “You’re too much sometimes. I think you need a girlfriend.”

Since it only applies for certain cards, you end up forgetting about it as multiple turns come and go without utilizing it. Your turn rises again and you slide the eight face up across the table. After kicking your chair with his feet for the millionth time, you completely forget about the rule Jin made and pick based on your irritation. Eight is hate indeed.

“Jungkook, go until I say stop.”

The words feel satisfying as they leave your mouth, but Namjoon grimaces, anxiously baring both sets of teeth.

“Uh… You gotta…” Namjoon taps his cheeks twice with his fingertips.

Horror replaces that smug satisfaction in the pit of your stomach and it churns a sickness deep inside that pit.

Jungkook cocks his head at you. “You really wanna put your hands on me that badly, huh?”

You exhale loudly and tightly grip his chin with sweaty, hot fingers. Your eyes threaten to burn holes into his. “Jungkook, go until I say stop.”

He’s stunned into silence for a second, adam’s apple bobbing ever so slightly. He blinks at you a couple times before regaining his composure. Who knew princesses can breathe fire? Grabbing his cup, he grins and chuckles an amused sound even as you’re tearing yourself from him.

“Don’t worry I can go all night when you taste so good, baby,” he says, tilting his head back as he drinks.

You keep an eye on his cup, watching the liquid slowly disappear. You have to be careful not to let him finish, but you kind of want him to suffer a little bit. Even though he drinks like a fish, he’s still not on Jimin’s level. This has to be affecting him somehow. He watches you through an annoyed side-eye when you don’t say a word, not allowed to stop until you say so or until he finishes his drink. Your phone chooses this exact moment to vibrate a long sound against the table and your concentrated gaze wanders for a second too long, allowing him to gulp down the remnants of his drink.

Jungkook slams his empty cup down in time for you to look back at him in horror before looking at your own full cup. The room fills with the sound of everyone “ooooh-ing” like this is the sixth grade. With a heavy sigh, you bring your cup to your lips.

“I was distracted. I would have said stop.”

Jungkook leans his elbow on the table and rests his head on a folded palm. His smile tells you he’s ready to dish it back. “Mmm-hmm. Go on. Oh… Wait.”

He sits up, cupping your jaw in his hands so lightly, like it could disintegrate at the slightest touch. He leans his head back slightly, soft eyes imploring you to move closer. He slides his fingers up your jawline, nestling them behind your ears like he’s about to draw you to his lips. “Will you be good and drink that for me until I ask you to stop?”

Jin scoffs. “Wow. Look at this guy.”

The others hold back their snickers. Your eyebrow twitches, smacking his hands away from you. Instead you focus on the cup in your sweaty palms.

“I can’t wait to feel you… dripping from my mouth,” you whisper to your cup, trying to redeem yourself for earlier and doing your best not to think about how fucking good it felt having Jungkook’s hands wrapped around the sides of your face. You don’t spare a look at any of them as you tilt your head back and start gulping the liquid down.

“Much better,” Yoongi says with a smirk, but you don’t hear him over the sound of blood rushing in your ears.

Namjoon smacks his hand to his forehead. “Yeah... I’m gonna need you to dial it back just a bit. I still have to see you at work.”

Jin pretends to wipe a tear from his eye. “Ah, maybe our Zelda isn’t so bad at this after all.”

Jimin, Taehyung and Hobi all have their elbows on the table, cheeks in their palms as they watch your throat make its swallowing motions. They simultaneously grunt differing words of affirmation. About three quarters through, Jungkook puts his hand on the bottom of your cup.

“Stop.”

Mercy? From Jungkook? You don’t believe it, but you’ve been struggling so you’re kind of grateful. Just as you’re about to put the cup down, he taps the bottom of it, forcing liquid to splash upwards onto your chin. You slap his hand away as he cackles and you wipe your lips.

“Fuck you, Jungkook.”

“What time, sweetheart?” He grins when you glare at him.

“Just pick your fucking card before I strangle you.”

“Kinky. You know, I might let you if you asked nicely.”

You get the pitcher of beer from the fridge and start refilling everyone’s cups. He pulls a card that has him whispering dirty words into the rim of his empty cup, holding it out for you to fill. At least most of the cards seem to be gone now. You hate to admit you’re feeling a bit dizzy and out of sorts, but you reason that it’s just a few more rounds, so maybe you just sip on water after this game is over.

Just as you get back to your seat, Namjoon throws a sheepish grin your way. “Joker.”

“There’s only one of these,” Yoonngi begins, looking around the room to make sure he has everyone’s attention. “Waterfall is when everyone starts drinking and you can’t stop until the person to your right stops. Namjoon can stop whenever he wants, but Jin has to wait until he’s done. Then Taehyung waits until Jin is done. Make sense?”

Normally the waterfall card is played in the opposite direction, but there’s so much tension between you and Jungkook tonight and he’s so used to his friend getting his way with women that he can’t help wanting to give you the edge on him. Everyone nods. The realization dawns on everyone that before this can happen, they all have to do two things per the rules.

One after another the guys ask the person to their left to drink while gripping their chins. It would be a fairly intimate scene if people weren’t giggling every three seconds. Still, your heart damn near skips a beat when Hobi’s slender fingers curl under your jaw, drunkenly pulling you closer to his face than you’ve ever dared to get. Heat builds in your stomach and travels up your chest, spreading across your back and prickling your neck. You hope it doesn’t move into your cheeks.

“You gonna take this drink, Y/N?” he aks, unable to hold the giggles in as he wags your head back and forth in his steady hands.

Oh… He’s fucking gone, isn’t he? “For you? Maybe,” you flirt, rubbing your shoulder against his as you turn away.

Jungkook sits up straight, muscles tensing as you twist your body towards him. Suddenly, he looks a lot bigger than you remember. Is he puffing out his chest? You wilt under his irritated stare but are determined not to let it show. You slip your fingers underneath his chin, just barely registering the stubble there. Your slow blink hides the flutter of your eyelashes, alcohol clouding your brain with desire. But damn if the room isn’t still spinning. He flashes you boyish grin when you clap your palm to his shoulder to steady yourself.

“Yes?”

“Drink up, buttercup,” you giggle, pinching your fingers closed beneath his jaw.

A choked laugh escapes him. “You should sit this one out. At this rate, you’ll be passed out with your face on the toilet seat in an hour.”

You spin back to your drink with fury in your eyes; if there’s anything you hate more than Jungkook, it’s being told what to do. Especially by Jungkook. I’ll show you, asshole.

Everyone turns to their cups and mutters a few dirty words before Namjoon begins the circle of drinking. One by one the cups come down, everyone seemingly grateful for the person before them showing at least some kind of mercy. You slow your gulping when you realize Jimin is dragging it out in an attempt to annoy Yoongi. Both of them still seem surprisingly sober for the amount they’ve ingested. Maybe they don’t wear their intoxication as easily as the rest of you. Hobi exchanges a worried glance at you, trying to not let it slip that he’s only pretending to down his beverage, but you can tell by the steady level of the liquid in his cup that he’s pretty much ready to tap out.

As soon as Jimin finally pulls his cup back from his lips, Yoongi stops, immediately followed by Hobi. Yoongi is keenly aware of his roommate’s inability to hold down liquor in large quantities. He doesn’t fare much better with beer. Saving his friend means you can be saved too. He looks at you, raising his eyebrows in warning. You spare a fleeting glance in his direction, but it’s long enough to catch his message loud and clear: Don’t be an idiot, Y/N. Don’t go overboard.

But you turn your attention to Jungkook, who is still effortlessly allowing his beverage to slither down his throat. You gulp in segments, a commendable attempt to keep yourself going. Even for all your efforts, booze spills from the corners of your mouth and leaves cold sloppy trails down your neck as you watch Jungkook. He’s not even struggling. Fuck. You finally give up, allowing the cup to smack down on the table with a messy splash.

He keeps going just to spite you, polishing off his drink with a smack of his lips and a satisfied sigh. He rises from his seat, patting your shoulder as he gets himself more to consume. “It’s cute how hard you tried.”

The final round passes and you are ready to strangle Jungkook for the way he keeps knocking his knees against yours. It’s gotten to the point where you’ve moved your chair so close to Hobi’s that he’s put his arm around you, thinking you are just as sleepy as he is. Truth be told you kind of are. The room is a little too spinny for your liking, but you can’t seem to persuade your brain to make your legs get up and get yourself a glass of water.

“You want to nap too?” he whispers, rubbing the eyes he can hardly keep open. “Come here. Let’s sleep together.”

The innocent words make your stomach spin in place but you don’t have time to ruminate on them. Jungkook hooks his ankle around your chair and jerks it back towards him. Furious eyes flicker on him in warning just as Hobi’s cheek slumps over your shoulder and draws your attention away. Luckily Yoongi springs into action to keep his friend from falling any further into your personal space than he already has.

“Okay, Hobi. We get it. You need to sleep,” he chuckles, cradling his friend’s arm around his shoulder as he helps him to his feet.

Hoseok weakly grumbles a sound of acknowledgement as they shuffle down the hall into what you assume is a guest room. Their apartment is bigger than any you’ve seen so you find yourself wondering just how many guest rooms they could possibly have. Then you remind yourself that it doesn’t matter because you are definitely not staying because getting an uber is always an option.

When Yoongi returns alone, people have started migrating into the living room. Jungkook and Jin are still seated, heatedly talking about some game nearby, but you’ve elected to ignore them in favor of checking your messages. Jason has sent you a few messages that have piqued your interest, including one finally asking you on a date. Does ignoring guys really fucking work? Was Namjoon right about something in his life? You don’t want to believe it.

The words in Jason’s message blur together, despite how hard you’re concentrating on them. You’d told him you were out with friends. He must have known you’d be relatively unavailable so maybe it’s okay that you’re in no shape to formulate a coherent response. Still you stare at the keyboard, jumping when an arm reaches over you to place a glass of water on the table for you.

You blink a few times at Yoongi, who simply whispers a gruff “drink” before grabbing the shot left in the center of the table and downing it as he joins the majority of his friends in the other room. Jungkook looks over at you, eyes dropping to your open conversation when you absentmindedly set your phone down. You take the cold glass in both hands and narrow your eyes in Yoongi’s direction as you swallow down a good portion of the liquid.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

It’s been an hour and if you’re honest you’ve just barely teetered back into the moderately drunk category. Yoongi had offered to take you home when he was getting ready to leave since he was already chauffeuring Namjoon. At the time you declined because you were certain that your natural predisposition to motion sickness would be amplified by the liquor in your system. You didn’t want to make Yoongi’s new car smell like puke. Namjoon has this habit of texting when he’s worried. Even after he left you’d been going back and forth about the night. Honestly it’s kind of helping keep you from passing out and you’re reminded how grateful you are for his friendship.

Sitting on the couch next to Jimin may have also influenced your decision since the man literally smells how vacations feel — and god do you need to relax. He’s also acted as a barrier between you and Jungkook, who has his legs stretched out across the cushions to Jimin’s right. Jungkook has been engrossed in his phone since you left the table, opting out of switching off with Taehyung when he dies in-game. You’re kind of thankful for it. Maybe he’s finally settled down for the night. Does he get more polite with drowsiness?

Jimin smiles softly at you, his arms draped over the back of the couch. The pair of you have been quietly conversing and giggling over the platformer Seokjin and Taehyung have been playing. Jimin’s face still looks a little flush with alcohol, but he only just finished his last beverage for the night. How the hell can someone so tiny pack away so much liquor? You hold in a shiver as his fingertips playfully dance along your shoulder, trying not to let on how the action affects you. His harmless flirting only bolsters confidence hiding in the depths of your mind and you stretch your arms up with a yawn and lean against him, knowingly giving him a better view of the cleavage poking out from beneath the v-cut of your shirt.

Jimin allows a devilish smile to curl at his lips as his fingers walk down your arm. He puts both hands back on the couch, like you’d made the move unprompted by his touching. “Hmm. You’re pretty bold, aren’t you?” His whisper is low and breathy, so quiet you almost miss it. What a tease.

“Hey. Jimin. Come here.”

The unusually quiet Jungkook knocks his foot against his friends knee, which pushes Jimin’s thigh up against yours. You softly sigh at the contact and the subsequent loss when Jungkook sits up and Jimin apologetically scoots away. You plant an elbow on the armrest beside you and prop your cheek up on your palm. Seokjin is carrying Taehyung through this level it seems.

“Do you think I should tap that?” The words are loud enough to distract you so you can’t help but turn your head in their direction.

“I think she might be out of your league,” Jimin giggles. “Besides she’s older than you. I thought that bothered you?”

“Oh. No way. I love it. When they have more experience I don’t have to work as hard,” he replies with a lofty sigh.

“Are you sure about that in this case? You’re very presumptuous.”

Your blood heats up the back of your neck. Why are men so disgusting? You grit your teeth, unable to hold in the sound of disgust that makes its way through them.

Jungkook’s head snaps up and he locks eyes with you. There’s something smug about his expression, like he’s stupidly proud of pulling that reaction from you. “Aw, are you feeling left out, princess? Here, see for yourself. Don’t you think she’s pretty?”

When he flips his screen around your own profile is staring back at you. Straightening your spine and reaching across Jimin’s lap for him, you hiss, “Jungkook, I’m gonna kill you.”

“Why?” He tilts his head to one side, feigning confusion and looks at the profile again. “I think she’s pretty hot.”

“If you match with me, I will not swipe right on you. You know that, right? So this whole thing is pointless,” you reason, more for yourself than the two men beside you. “You’re not gonna get to me. It’s not gonna fucking work, Jungkook.”

Jimin’s shoulders tremble with soft, mellifluous laughter that spills from his lips as he takes in the exchange. It’s apparent that Jungkook has already gotten under your skin. Denying it is only making you angrier.

“Fine. Fine. It’s gone now, see,” Jungkook says, briefly flashing you the home screen of his phone before putting it away. The image of that big tiddy anime girl behind all those icons is going to haunt your dreams; you can feel it.

You get up to get yourself more water. “I hate you so much.”

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

It’s late. Seokjin left a few minutes ago and Jimin rubs his eyes, unsure what to do. The selfish part of his brain tells him he should claim the other guest room. The horny part of his brain tells him he should suggest you share with him. The exhausted part of his brain tells him to just pass out in Taehyung’s bed and let him figure it out.

“You’re welcome to stay, too. We have room for you,” Taehyung says with a kind smile. “There’s another guest room.”

You still don’t feel well enough to drive or sit in a cab. You sit with your hands folded in your lap, pondering your shitty life choices. You’ve become pretty good friends, but a sleepover seems a bit strange without your bestie Namjoon to buffer out all of the awkward moments.

You smile as sweetly as you can manage, your voice small and borderline whiny in its need for sleep. “I’ll sleep on the couch. I don’t want to be a bother. Thank you, Taehyung.”

The man rolls his eyes. “I won’t allow you to sleep on a couch when we have beds.”

“Your couch is comfier than my actual bed,” you joke, patting the plush cushions on either side of you.

Jungkook walks in, shirtless and scrubbing a toothbrush furiously in his mouth. He tries to speak but it’s unintelligible, so he turns back around to finish up.

“It’s really okay. I should stay up and finish my water anyway and I don’t want to keep you guys up. I drank a little too much.”

“No shit,” Jungkook sighs as he rounds the corner and leans against the wall. “Don’t worry. I’ll stay up with you, Princess.”

Taehyung flashes his friend a pointed look and opens his mouth to speak, but closes it when Jungkook continues.

“You guys go on. I’ll make sure she drinks up her water and gets to bed.”

You glare at him as Taehyung moves in to whisper something to him, but you lose focus as Jimin pulls you into a tight hug that you can’t help but return.

“Thanks for coming tonight,” he mumbles into the fabric of your hoodie. “I’m glad you’re a part of our family.”

You squeeze his shoulder before he shuffles down the hall and disappears into the bathroom. “Goodnight, Y/N!”

Taehyung offers a boxy smile and a small wave, demeanor changed after his side conversation with Jungkook. “Don’t take off without having breakfast. Seokjin will come back and make something tasty. Also I put your keys in my studio so good luck finding them if you try.”

You half laugh, half scoff. “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind. ‘Night.”

“Goodnight,” he says, passing Jungkook a tight lipped smile on his way down the hall.

Jungkook waits until he hears the door close before he speaks and for the first time since you met him, his tone borderlines concerned. “Be honest with me. How sick are you right now?”

Your throat swallows down a thick mass of air. “I’m fine.”

“Tch. Okay, Princess,” he scoffs in disbelief, taking slow steps towards you with his hands buried in the pockets of his black sweatpants. “Do you need a bucket?”

“No.” You drink down your water, trying to focus on anything but the way your body is producing enough sweat to make you want to discard your hoodie as soon as he leaves you alone.

A door opens down the hall and Jimin shuffles out before disappearing into another room. The quiet click of the door closing causes Jungkook to sigh. 

Spinning. The room is spinning again. You hold the cold glass in your hands like it’s your lifeline, shut your eyes and throw your head back to rest it against the couch. You don’t notice when he leaves, but you definitely notice the cold cloth pressed to your forehead when he returns.

“Do you want comfier clothes?” he quietly asks, voice bereft of any humor as he sinks into the cushion beside you.

You open your eyes and glare at him like this is some prank he’s playing on you but you’re not sure how. “No.”

He rolls his eyes. “Suit yourself. I get hella hot when I’m drunk off my ass. Figured I’d ask.”

“I’m not...” you begin, trying to bring your head to rise. It feels heavy and plops back down on the seat.

“You’re drunk,” he states plainly. “And miserable. So drink up the rest of the water and I’ll show you to the guest room. It’ll be embarrassing if any of my friends wake up to you looking so pathetic. Come on.”

He helps you bring the cup to your lips and tilts your head forward enough to safely consume the rest of the water in your glass.

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“If you think this is what nice guys are like, I feel bad for you.” He puts the glass down in the kitchen sink, briefly rinsing it.

“Jungkook,” you whine, an exasperated sigh passing your lips with his name.

“What? Your judgement of character is way outta whack. It’s just sad,” he explains, crossing the room while rubbing fresh lotion up his arms. Washing dishes makes his skin feel itchy.

“Alright. Come on. Up.” He waves his arms lets them weakly smack his thighs when you don’t move.

A whiff of sweet peaches and soft jasmine pervades your nostrils. Why does he have to smell so fucking good? He removes the cool cloth from your forehead, earning a whine from you.

“You’ll get a new one when you get in bed. I can carry you, if that’s easier.”

“Tell me why you’re doing this. I don’t get it. What do you want?”

“I want to go to sleep so I can be lazy tomorrow and do nothing but play video games.” When you don’t budge he sighs and sits down beside you again. “And... because... you’re Namjoon’s friend and he asked us to look out for you... And now you’re all of my friends’ friend… And I guess that makes you my responsibility.”

“Don’t worry. I wasn’t expecting you to just decide you’re gonna be nice out of the blue,” you weakly smirk and let your head roll to the side so you can look at him. “Should have known it was Namjoon.

He hums an amused sound. “Yeah. Now are you going to let me get you in bed?”

You’re able to force your head up at that. “I can get myself in bed just fine thanks.”

He laughs. “Your loss.”

You stand on unsteady legs. “Where am I going?”

Jungkook grins, entertained by your lack of coordination. “That’s a good question. Where are you going, Princess?”

You stumble a bit, reaching out to steady yourself with a wall that is definitely too far to grab. Long, tattooed fingers grip your shoulders in an instant. The heat of his massive chest presses against your shoulder blades. Even through your layers of clothing you can feel how hot his skin burns and it makes you shiver, despite the way you’re soaked with sweat.

“Don’t make me ask you for help,” you plead. “Please don’t.”

“Do you want me to pretend like you didn’t beg for it, too?” he whispers, curling a muscular bicep around your back and guiding you down the hall. As he passes the thermostat, he makes a point to lower the temperature a few degrees. Jimin, Hobi, and Tae will survive. But then again, he’s not worried about them at all, is he?

“Haven’t you embarrassed me enough?” You voice cracks and you’re barely managing to hold back the tears threatening to spill out.

He doesn’t say a word as you cling to the strength of his body, looping your arms around his neck and waist as though he isn’t the last person in the world you want to tangle yourself in. He pushes the door to his room open with his shoulder, making sure you get across the threshold okay before helping you awkwardly waddle over to the unmade bed. You don’t seem to notice, and if you do, you definitely don’t comment.

Your hoodie is falling from your shoulders as you climb onto the mattress. Jungkook grabs the fabric and slings it over his shoulder. You’ve landed at a weird angle across the pillows and show no signs of correcting your position so he moves the pillows beneath your head to comfortably accommodate you. You slowly blink at him, but you’re not seeing him. Silent tears rolling down your cheeks as he grabs the thinnest sheet on his bed and pulls it over your form up to your shoulders. He chooses to ignore the way you quickly swipe them away and instead goes to get the cold towel he promised.

Standing in the sink with ice cold water running over the cloth in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he whispers into the air around him, knowing no one will ever hear it.

When he returns he waits a moment, looking for the steady rise and fall of your chest. He smooths the hair from your face before pressing the cold cloth against your sweaty forehead, turning your head to the side just in case your body decides it isn’t quite ready to rest. He lightly pats your head a couple times and leaves the room, delicately closing the door behind him.

As he makes the journey back to the couch, he feeds his arms through the sleeves of your hoodie. He settles down on the couch, feeling the warmth of the space you’d been occupying all night beneath his head. Pulling down the blanket from atop the back of the couch, he brings his knees to his chest. He bunches the soft, excess material of your hoodie in his palms and turns his head into the fabric, allowing himself a subtle inhale.

Why do you have to smell so fucking good?

[pennamesmith]

Skeletor Lends a Hand

The support group acts out. Wrong Hordak gets a taste of his own medicine. More ‘Skeletor’ stories. Also, thank you to @ineffablelabpartners for the idea of “Princess Theatre feat. Wrong Hordak as Horde Prime.” See art for the opening scene by @cosmiquealiene here!

*

“I am Hordak!” Catra shouted. “And I defy your stupid face!”

She opened her hand. Wrong Hordak, wearing a mop on his head and with two extra eyes drawn haphazardly on his face, slumped to the ground.

“Oh! I am falling!” he wailed from the floor. “I have fallen! I am dead! Woe be to Horde Prime!” He splayed his limbs and stuck out his tongue for extra emphasis, making a few more death rattles as he did so.

It was drama therapy day in Wrong Hordak’s Ex-Horde support group.

Hordak, watching from the back of the small audience, hid his face in his hands and slouched as far down as he could in his chair. “This is the worst torture I have ever endured,” he whispered.

“Oh, but this is the best part!” Entrapta squeaked. She squeezed his arm and leaned into his shoulder.

The stage, such as it was, consisted of a marked-off portion of the floor, faced by the other group members, who mostly consisted of Entrapta and Hordak and about two dozen enraptured clones. Scorpia and Perfuma were by the door, working the lights.

Catra-as-Hordak continued to yell at her defeated enemy. “Ha! Serves you right, you creepy evil jerk! I bet you didn’t ‘see all’ that coming!”

“Catra! That’s not the line!” Adora hissed. She was kneeling on the ground a few feet away, pretending to be tied up. Her hair was bunched into two ponytails, and she had borrowed Entrapta’s welding mask.

“Ugh. Fine. Have it your way. I turned against my brother! What have I done?”

“Ca— I mean, Hordak!” Adora cried, standing up. Her acting was as wooden as ever, but she played the role seriously, holding Catra’s face tenderly in her hands. “It’s okay. You’re free now. You can be whoever you want to be.”

They kissed, passionately.

Hordak choked. “That did not happen!” he insisted, mortified.

“It would’ve been cute if it did, though,” Entrapta mused beside him.

The room erupted into applause. “Bravo!” one of the clones cried, wiping away a tear. “Bra-vah!”

The lights came up. Wrong Hordak jumped to his feet and bowed to the group. “Thank you, brothers! Thank you!” He straightened. “Now, consider this thought experiment: what would you have said to yourselves if you were the one to cast the villainous Horde Prime to his doom?”

The clones looked stricken. “I would have called myself a traitor!” one gasped.

“Worse than a traitor!” a second clone agreed. “A monster!”

“An abomination!”

“And yet,” Wrong Hordak said, still smiling, “Would you call the great Hordak any of these cruel things today?”

“Of course not!” a clone blurted. “He is a hero!”

“He turned against the false ruler! For love,” another added.

“He knows some things!”

A hushed murmur fell over the clones as realization dawned.

“So you see,” Wrong Hordak explained patiently, “Even though Horde Prime is dead, his lies can still live within us. We must learn to recognize Prime’s evil voice, and replace it with our own! Only then will he truly be defeated.”

As the clones discussed this new idea with excitement, practicing saying positive things to one another, Catra worked her way around to the back of the group and leaned on Hordak and Entrapta’s chairs.

“Enjoying the show?” she asked, smirking. “I think I make a pretty good you, Hordak.”

Hordak sank even further in his seat. “I fail to see the practical side of all this,” he grumbled.

“It’s very practical!” Entrapta protested. “Data shows that acting out roles can help us embrace new perspectives of ourselves and others.”

“Yeah,” Catra teased. “I find this exercise to be cathartic and entertaining, don’t you?”

“Attention, everyone!” Wrong Hordak announced, from the front of the room. “Next, Princesses Perfuma and Scorpia will perform their reenactment of ‘She-Ra and Her True Love Save the Heart of Etheria’!”

“You know what,” Catra said, “I just realized I have to go to the bathroom right now immediately.” She spun on her heel and speed-walked out of the room with a look of panic in her eyes.

“Perhaps I spoke too soon. This could be most amusing after all,” Hordak chuckled. He put his arm around Entrapta, and they settled in to watch the show.

*

Later, when the meeting had ended, Wrong Hordak busied himself with tidying up the room. Most of the attendees were still there, talking amongst themselves as they gradually filtered out the door. Entrapta and Hordak were chatting amiably with Catra and Adora by the snack table. Scorpia and Perfuma giggled to each other by the window and danced a few halting steps to music only they could hear. Wrong Hordak smiled.

“I am so proud of my brothers,” Wrong Hordak sighed happily. “They have learned so much!”

“Wonderfully horrible creatures!” his assistant piped up.

Wrong Hordak’s assistant was a robot, one of Horde Prime’s former drones that Entrapta had reprogrammed and given a voice. She called it ‘Skeletor.’

“We will form an alliance, but only until our task is complete!” Skeletor said.

“Indeed. Now then, my exalted brother, I have an important mission for you!” Wrong Hordak held out a broom and dustpan to Skeletor. The robot groused but took them and went to work anyway. As he did so, Wrong Hordak felt a hand tap him on the shoulder.

“Excuse me?”

Wrong Hordak turned around to find one of the other clones staring at him. “Oh! Greetings, brother.”

“Today was wonderful!” the clone complimented. “Your acting skills are marvelous. But I noticed you did not get a chance to berate Prime yourself.”

“No, of course not!” Wrong Hordak responded, smiling. “My purpose in this group is to help the others with their emotional journeys. Also, this exercise is about more than expressing anger. It is about self-actualization!”

“Well then, all the more reason for you to try it! You must find your own voice as well.” The clone pulled Skeletor away from sweeping the floor. “Here, practice on this drone! Drone, say something Horde Prime would say.”

“Er… You boob!” Skeletor tried.

The clone was unimpressed. “Something else.”

“The first one didn’t count,” Skeletor griped. “It was just practice. I was teasing the poor fool!”

“Then what would Horde Prime say? If he saw us making our own choices and thinking our own thoughts.”

Skeletor pondered this. After a moment, he shook his fists and shouted, “Get in line! I see you need a lesson in obedience!”

“Better,” the clone nodded, and then looked to Wrong Hordak. “And what would you say to that?”

Wrong Hordak hesitated. “I... I would say, I am no longer obedient to a tyrant!”

“Fool! You will serve my purposes!” Skeletor pressed.

“I will not!” Wrong Hordak pushed back, more confidently this time. “I serve only my friends.”

“Your friends only keep you around because it amuses them to have a pet!” Skeletor wheedled. “Be honest. Wouldn’t everyone be much better off if you had never come here?”

“That is not true!” Wrong Hordak said. “And, and even if it were, I am better for coming here! I want to be here! I am happy here! The light of this world is more fulfilling than Prime’s sickly light could ever hope to be!”

“Bravo!” the other clone applauded. “That’s the spirit!”

“Take a bow!” Skeletor cheered.

“Oh my,” Wrong Hordak breathed. “You were right, that was an exhilarating experience!”

“Exhilaration is my specialty,” the other clone boasted, proudly.

Wrong Hordak looked at the clone a bit more closely. “Are you new to our group?” he asked, curiously.

“Ah… Sort of? I’ve been coming for the past couple weeks, actually,” the clone admitted, and blinked. Sideways.

“Well, you will always be welcome and among friends here!” Wrong Hordak beamed. He gave a wink, and the air appeared to sparkle around him.

“O— Of course,” the clone stammered, seemingly taken off guard. “Excuse me, I must go now.” They turned and rushed away, hiding their face and making a noise that sounded a bit like an overheating radiator.

“What a nice person!” Wrong Hordak remarked, watching them go.

“Someone I could almost respect!” Skeletor agreed. “Meheheheheh.”

*

The next day, while Entrapta was working in her Bright Moon lab, a knock came on the door. She paused in her welding and went to open it, expecting Catra or Scorpia dropping by for a visit. Instead, she found a nervously fidgeting clone looking back at her.

“Oh. Hello. Can I help you?” Entrapta asked.

The clone quickly stepped inside, and then in a flash of dark light they weren’t a clone any more, but a lithe, svelte lizard person.

“I am having a crisis,” Double Trouble lamented, grabbing Entrapta by the shoulders. “And you’re the only one who can save me!”

“Oh! I see. You’re that shapeshifter!” Entrapta said. She blithely brushed Double Trouble’s hands away and sat back on her hair, looking contemplative. “Catra and Hordak told me about you.”

Double Trouble cringed. “They did? Well, that’s awkward.”

“...So, what can I do you for?” Entrapta pulled a pen and notepad out of her pocket and smiled expectantly.

“I— Really?” Double Trouble sat down on a piece of unused machinery. “Okay. In that case, it’s just… now that all the clones have discovered individuality, I think I’m beginning to see where you were coming from,” they admitted.

“I come from Dryl,” Entrapta supplied helpfully.

“That’s not what I...” Double Trouble sighed. “Look, can you just tell me what sort of things Wrong Hordak likes?”

Entrapta shrugged. “Cooking. Being dramatic. Rebelling. Why are you asking me?”

“I think I might actually be able to work with that,” Double Trouble muttered. “And I have to ask you because— because you’re the only person on the planet who knows how to romance one of these space bats.” They leaned forward. “Now dish.”

“What an unexpected pleasure!” Skeletor said. “I’ve waited a long time for this!”

[avversiera-writes]

good enough, part 2 of 2 - senju tobirama/reader

Summary: Marriage isn't dull with Tobirama, but it isn't blissful either. But through thick and thin, in sickness and in health, you and Tobirama had promised to each other that you will stick it through until the end, together. Until death do you part.

A/N: there’s a panic attack scene towards the end, so pls be cautious if these are the types of things that can trigger you. thank you for reading if you do decide to continue <3

PART ONE

// 

You know that your husband did not come home because the house is too quiet. You lie there on your bed, unmotivated to get up. You hear the birds chirp outside, and you take a deep breath, just focusing on the sounds of nature. You wait for a sign to call you out of bed, but when it becomes apparent that no such thing will happen, you decide to pull your own weight. 

 Today will be a busy day for you, since you are meeting with a few members of the Uchiha clan about the Military Police Force that Tobirama had been very insistent on planning into fruition. His sentiment towards them is not missed by you, but you do believe that he wants the Uchiha clan to be an integral part of this village. 

 And that means involving them to be a huge part in protecting the village. 

You are not a fool and you know that he intends to prevent another Madara defection by using their own weakness to become a strength for the overall good. If they pour their love and their duties for the village, they will be inclined to believe that they are doing the right thing–the right thing for the overall good of the village and its laws. By having them at the center of the village will also keep them in check, as there are many people watching and depending on them. 

 You have to admit that Tobirama’s strategy is at best, ingenious. As to what is right and what is wrong, those lines blur when it comes to your husband. He is always ready to make the worst decisions and while that works most of the time, you cannot help but worry for him. 

 Even at this point of his life, he still wants to sacrifice his own happiness to make his brother’s village prosper. He does not even think about it. He readily gives up his own life for the village and his family. The two most important things in his life. 

Sometimes, you cannot help but feel saddened that you may be the only one who sees this part of him, the self-sacrificial and never-ending hypervigilance that drives him half-mad to the bone. 

 Such is the job of the Hokage, to light the way for their village by soldiering on in the treacherous shadows. 

//

When you get to the Hokage’s office by late afternoon, you hear your husband and his brother shouting at each other. 

 It does not immediately faze you because this is not the first time that you have heard them argue. However, the shouting intensifies if that is even possible. Being around the two Senju brothers while they are fighting is already enough to make enemies run away, but the way they are fighting at this moment makes you think they are about to run down the building itself. 

 As you listen more, you realize that they are arguing about Madara. It has been a couple of years since his defection and his defeat, but no one has taken it as hard as Hashirama. 

“Brother, with all due respect, I said no!” Tobirama shouts again for the nth time and you wonder if he is even listening to his brother’s arguments. 

 “Tobirama!” Hashirama shouts back. 

 “Why? Why must you still be hung up with that traitor ?!” 

Your heart squeezes painfully. Madara was a friend of yours, and even his defection would not change that. He was one of the first people that congratulated you with your engagement and had recognized your skills as a shinobi. He even took time to help you sharpen your taijutsu skills. 

“A project that big, it requires a lot of money and manpower,” Tobirama continues, and you can tell he is trying his hardest to sound composed. “Where will we get these funds? Mind you, our village is a little short on finances because of you ! And even if we do get the money, what do you think people will think about you erecting a giant statue of your friend?” 

 “I do not care about what the people think. I am not Hokage anymore and it will not tarnish my name. Madara was and will always be a friend of mine, and he was an honorable shinobi deserving more!”

 “He could have killed you! He could have killed your wife! He would have taken the nine-tails out of her and rampaged through the village that we painstakingly built!” 

 “Brother, it is the right thing to do, and you know it!” 

 You hear Tobirama slam his desk. 

Hashirama storms out of the office, and he does not even see you as he angrily walks out. You stick yourself to the wall, and you watch him go, wondering if their conversation will resume at a later time. You are not looking forward to it. 

You wait a few seconds outside the office doors, debating whether it is a good time to give him the report of what had happened with the meeting with the few Uchiha members about the police force. However, you hear papers flying and scrolls crashing inside the office, and a heavy thump on the ground. 

 Alarmed, you burst through the doors, and you find Tobirama on the ground, violently shaking and gasping for air. His back is turned to you and it seems like he just fell to the ground, unable to anchor himself. His skin is red, and there are tears flowing from his eyes. 

 You have never seen Tobirama like this, and you stop, frozen. You feel pure fear and out of your wits, seeing your husband on the floor, hyperventilating and clutching his chest. Tears flow from your eyes involuntarily, and your heart seizes in your throat from your panic.

However, your frozen state only lasts for a second, and you are quick to act. 

 Tobirama turns away from you to hide himself–you are sure that he knows that you are near, but his actions are erratic, and he is unable to control his movements and he keeps making these choking noises. Sweat breaks through his skin. 

 You come to his side to make sure that he does not bite his tongue by keeping him lying on his side. 

 “Tobirama, I’m here,” you murmur to him as calmly as you can. “I’m here.” 

 You try not to make your sobs apparent. 

 “It’s okay,” you keep whispering to him. “Just breathe, in and out…”

 You are not sure how long his fit lasted, but when his shaking has stopped, you notice the glazed look on your husband’s face. He attempts to swat your hands off of him, but you are firm and his attempts are weak. With all your strength, you pull him up so that he can rest on you, and you gently hold him against your body by keeping an arm on his torso. 

You caress his face, while pressing your own cheek to the side of his head. The tears still keep flowing from your eyes, and you close them to make them stop. 

 Tobirama’s body fights to be in tandem against the rhythm of your breaths, and when he finally does, his body falls slack against yours. 

//

Nighttime falls, but you stay still on the floor, with Tobirama’s body heavy on yours. You are now leaning against the Hokage’s desk, staring at the space in front of you. 

 You are thankful that the ANBU had locked the office doors and had halted all entrances to the office. You are not sure when Tobirama will wake up, and you don’t want anyone to find out what had just happened to him. 

 You keep your hold on your husband, afraid that should you let go even to just relieve the numbing sensation of your legs, that you would lose him. 

“Dammit, Tobirama,” you whisper. You find yourself saying this a lot. 

 A firm touch lays on your arm, and you start. 

 “Tobi?” You call quietly. 

 “You are holding me too tight,” he says, though his words are a little bit groggy. 

You do not loosen your hold as you sigh in relief. 

 “Did I worry you?” Tobirama asks and you hear his apology behind the words. 

 “You are always worrying me,” you reply, trying to make your voice light, but it comes out as a croak. 

Tobirama looks down. He is apprehensive to reply. 

 At least you are holding him like this. 

“Did I hurt you?” Tobirama asks, and you notice the hint of sadness in his tone. 

 “No, Tobi,” you immediately answer. “No, of course not.” 

The two of you stay like that for a little longer, and when you deemed that Tobirama is regaining his senses, you stand him up. 

 “Let’s get you home,” you tell him. “You can send a shadow clone tomorrow to work.” 

 Tobirama’s face crinkle with a frown, but you glare at him and he grudgingly acquiesces. 

 It is a first that he is pliable to your suggestions. 

 But it is good enough. 

 END.

-----

buy me a coffee !

[kob131]

True Name: Uther Pendragon Class: Saber Gender: Male Alignment: Lawful Good (believes he is Lawful Neutral) Parameter: Strength: B Endurance: A Agility: C Mana: E Luck: C NP: B+

History: Uther was born as the youngest of three brothers, himself, the Black Dragon Vortigern and the Paranoid Prince Ambrousis. After their father Constantine was died, the eldest son Ambrousis took the throne at the young age of 14. Due to an innate paranoia, the treachery of royal politics and persistent rumors of his father having been poisoned, Ambrousis sought to weed out all potential traitors and dangers to himself In his madness, he killed civilians for speaking unfavorably and nobles for dealing with other nations.

Unable to tolerate his eldest brother’s actions, Uther, alongside the middle child Vortigern, staged a rebellion against Ambrousis, uniting several lords and knights across Britan to wage war against his enthroned and madden kin. Through numerous bloody battles, he forced Ambrousis to met his demise by his own hand, with no small amount of grief and sadness. Soon after, the lords of the land agreed to name him King, something that would come to frustrate his last living brother.

Throughout his reign, he came into conflict with his neighbors/arch enemies the Saxxons. The two kingdoms went to war with each other many, many times, almost always with Uther just barely managing to edge a victory. During these many wars, he was always noted to be seen wandering near lakeside, gazing wistfully out upon the water. One night, on the last of his many walks to the lakes of the land, returned with two twin newborns in hand, girls who he would name Morgan and Morgause and claim as his children. No one is quite certain who the mother of these two was...

Later in life, as the strain of his life came to haunt him, he began to seek an heir to which take his throne upon his increasingly likely death. However, due to lacking a wife and having only daughters who could not be accepted by his kingdom, he looked to his old and trusted friend Merlin. Together, they hatched a plan for Uther to impregnate the lovely Lady Igraine with the king impersonating her lover through Merlin’s magic. Alas, though the child was blessed with the blood of a dragon, it was also yet another daughter, named Arturia. Distraught and despondent, Uther gave up his quest for a successor and left the child in Merlin’s care.

This turn of events alongside the death of his legitimate child Morgause left Uther in the worst of health. His body deteriorated day after day, for years on end until one day, seven years after those events, he died due to a combination of sickness and poison by his lifelong enemies....*

Personality: Quite unlike his successor, Uther is open and friendly man who ruled through trust and familiarity, while not being the best at administration. He warms the hearts of both his retainers and his people with his honesty and openness. Alas, this warmth also lends itself to a certain...fiery temperament in battle.

A man tried to uphold honor and dignity during his life, helping define the code of honor that many among the succeeding generation would uphold as their standard. That said, he could not always uphold it as the conception of his youngest child will tell you. 

Below his surface though, he holds a great many regrets. He laments his killing of his brother, his inability to stop the tyranny of his other sibling, his failure to properly raise the children under his care, his shame at the manipulation of Igraine born from a moment’s weakness and lust and his perceived abandonment of his youngest child. Because of this, he feels rather uncomfortable around most British servants, especially those from his era as it reminds him of his failures. Though, he still trusts and respects Merlin (even holding the distinction of being one of the few people able to catch the flower magus off guard).

He also regrets not having tried to defy the laws of inheritness during his time, as he sees this inaction having caused the many conflicts and pain of his successors.

Noble Phantasm:

Flame Sword of the Dragon King: Caliburn Classification: Anti-Personnel Rank: B+

Born from the legends that he himself wielded Caliburn before lodging it in it’s infamous stone as well as the misconception that he himself had dragon blood- Uther wields an altered version of Caliburn of similar quality to it’s true self. In battle, he can ignite the sword with dragonfire and enhance it’s power before releasing it in an inferno the swallows the opponent. The Noble Phantasm itself is not the sword but rather the technique and skill that Uther uses when swinging the ignited sword.

Relationships:

Merlin

Still views him as a trusted advisor and friend. Wishes he would not inform him of his daughters’ sex life. Holds the distinction of being one of the few people to catch Merlin off guard.

“Ah, Merlin. My old friend! You are truly a sight for these sore eyes... Would I like to hear about my child? ... I know you better than to answer yes.”

Arturia Pendragon

A father in name only, he believes. He feels nothing but shame and remorse upon seeing her, believing he does not deserve to be considered among her family. This despite Arturia’s admiration of his own rule.

“... Of course, she is here. The noble King of Knights who did what I could not... No Master, I do not wish to speak with her. I had that chance long ago...”

Arthur Pendragon

Is VERY confused why he has a look alike calling him ‘Father.’ While accepting of the man, Uther can’t help but feel bitter about how things seemed to have worked out for his other self.

“Master? Why is that lad giving me such a strange look? ... Arthur Pendragon? My son from another world? ... *sigh* Of course I find an heir I could truly pass on to NOW of all times...”

Lancelot

Is quite confused (then amused) that his daughter’s greatest knight is a Frenchman. Uther shares a kinship with him as a fellow knight ashamed of his past. Helps that Lancelot is the first Servant he meets upon arriving at Chaldea.

“Ah sir Lancelot! I was wondering if you and I could partake in a friendly spar sometime soon! Yes yes, I shall try to keep from getting too excited like last time.”

The Orkney Siblings (Gawain, Agravain, Gareth, Garehis)

Uther feels deeply conflicted with the siblings, knowing that they are the children of his one surviving child and yet his own failings as father caused them harm indirectly. He is, however, forced to put these feelings aside as the knights all deeply admire and adore him, having been raised on stories of his heroics. Especially the eldest Gawain.

(Gawain) “Oh, you are...yes, Gawain. Morgan’s eldest son. I shall take my leave. ... Wait, You want me to stay? You want to know about my battles? Haha, I-I don’t know what to say.”

(Gareth) “Oh, young Gareth. What a surprise, what brings you to me? ... A jousting battle? Young lady, do I appear to be of the Lancer Class in any manner? ... Now it’s a sparring match?!”

Vortigern

The mere sight of his elder brother deeply enrages Uther. The pain of his brother Ambrousis’ death dredged up at the sight of the sibling he believes he should have slain, there is no chance that Uther will ever cooperate with Vortigern.

“VORTIGERN! Damn you to hell, you inhuman tyrant!”

Morgan Le Fay Pendragon

To say the sight of his eldest daughter brings Uther pain would be nothing if not an understatement. Pressured by the constant wars and responsibilities as king, along with no partner to help him in raising a family, he could never truly invest himself into Morgan’s life as he wished to. Because of this, the death of her sister and even his own, Morgan walked a path of sacrifice and failure, transforming her into the brutal witch she is known as. All because, in Uther’s eyes, he could not comfort her.

“Morgan, oh Morgan. You have suffered so much, despite never wishing for the throne yourself. Seeking it out for Morgause and myself... Forgive your fool of a father, for he could not save you from this.”

Mordred

He did not recognize her as his kin at first but greatly enjoyed her company. Upon learning of her full heritage, Uther resolved himself to make up for his failures with her parents and help guide her to a better life.

“Ah, Mordred. Come, come. We have much to talk about. Yes yes, I know you feel as though my talks are long winded and boring. But I ask of you: will you allow this old man to indulge talking to his grandchild? Ha ha, no need to blush, I should be thanking you after all.”

*Sorry to any Arthurian myth fans but holy fuck, not only is Fate’s iteration of the Round Table Myth really hard to faithfully adapt the original myth- The myth ITSELF gets really patchy when not directly concerning Arthur. 

Like, the actual villain of early Uther’s life was VORTIGERN, who was NOT his brother. That doesn’t line up with Fate so I had to make the good guy Ambrousis a bad guy. And THEN it turns out that Uther fucked and married Igraine BEFORE Arthur which again doesn’t match up to Fate. So had to change the mother of Morgan and Morgause to someone else just for this to make sense.

[legobiwan]

Whumptober #5

“on the run”

Notes: Yes, I’m a day behind, I’m hoping to post a second story tonight but let’s see where life goes. This story...I started out with an idea, and then that idea went in a very different direction as I started writing. RotS AU.

General Whumptober tag

Whumptober 2020 #1

Whumptober 2020 #2

Whumptober 2020 #3

Whumptober 2020 #4

~~~~~~

If you were here, Qui-gon…

Right. If you were here you’d probably shackle me up - wrists tightly enclosed in Force-dampening binders, restraining collar around my neck. Your harsh words would be an invisible whip against my true skin, your touch too soft for a monster such as I, pleading almost, far too kind than what I deserve for my crimes.

You would do all this, Qui-gon, your eyes dark with disappointment, letting no other man or soldier or droid handle me except yourself. Your failure of a Padawan trussed up like a common criminal (common? Perhaps not.), signed, sealed, and delivered personally back to Coruscant for my trial and probable execution.

And you would be right to do so, Qui-gon. So, so right. Force, part of me wishes you could swoop down right now, take me in your arms, the last friendly touch I would ever know before you placed my body on the electroguillotine’s platform to the cheers of the Senate, to the stony facades of the Jedi Council. One last bit of kindness, your hand on my cheek, before the killing blade would deliver me from my sins, before this would all just be over.

After all, it’s not every day a member of the Jedi High Council assassinates the Chancellor of the Republic on live holofeed.

Their faces Qui-gon, the way the Force shifted like two ancient, tectonic masses, colliding as Palaptine - or should I say Sidious - fell from his lofty perch, body plunging, down, down, down until it hit the subterranean floor of the Senate chamber with a sickening, exhilarating thud.

The similarities to my subterfuge as Rako Hardeen were not unmarked, believe me, Qui-gon. Palpatine, however, unlike myself, continues to be dead, two neat holes placed through the side of his treacherous head.

I feel, perhaps, that I have forsaken myself.

But you weren’t there, Master, you didn’t watch through thin slits of wavering consciousness, of azure and crimson rainbows, of the sneaking tar of decay that oozed forth from the man who would lead - would conquer - the Republic and the Jedi. You weren’t there as your Padawan - your friend and brother, the boy you so cared for (more than myself, I can now admit). As Anakin brought the two blades together at Dooku’s neck, executioner of a death sentence signed in familiar large, looping letters - “Sheev Palpatine, Chancellor of the Republic.”

It was him, Qui-gon. The Sith Lord was right there, the entire time, one hand on Anakin’s shoulder, leading him to perdition.

And I did nothing to stop it.

Nothing, until now.

Perhaps if I had been the one to perish on Naboo…perhaps none of this would have ever happened. But that is another world lost to another time, and the ‘here and now,’ as you would say, consists of a cold storage closet in the rear of a Rodian smuggler’s ship.

Three days I’ve been cramped in this space, my passage paid with the frozen Twi’lek guard lying at my feet, legs bent at unnatural, backward angles, the trickle of blood dripping from their nose now an ugly, improvised tattoo.

It’s cold, Qui-gon. A blessing, in some ways, as my departed friend here is unlikely to suffer the worst effects of putrefaction, but I feel even if I were to be on the sunny beaches of Scarif, I would still shiver at my own conscience.

I am tired, Qui-gon.

~~~

You visited me in my dreams last night, Qui-gon.

Neither the avenging angel of death nor the soft shepherd of comfort, you stood, distant, enigmatic as a Loth-Sphinx, as distant and maddening as you had been in life.

I suppose this should have come as no surprise.

Why? You asked me.

Why what, Qui-gon? Why did I kill Palpatine, why did I run, why did I make a fool’s promise to you all those years ago?

As to the last question, I believe - well, perhaps not believe, but fervently hope - you know the answer already.

To answer the others - what choice did I have? To witness what I had, to know Anakin was in thrall to this…this thing, that I would never convince him of Palpatine’s true intentions, that I had lost any trust, any esteem he may have still had for me with my own betrayals -

It was all happening too fast, Qui-gon. The situation on Mandalore, the battle on Coruscant, Dooku’s death. I briefly confided in Bail Organa, the Senator from Alderaan, hinted at my actions in regards to the Mandalore situation, on the way to Coruscant. He told me in no uncertain terms that the Senate would be forced to bring down charges of insurrection, even possibly treason, once they learned of my manipulations of the GAR.

What was one more charge, on top of the others, I thought.

It…it’s better this way, Qui-gon. The Jedi, while still under suspicion, have an obvious and convenient scapegoat, a Council member gone rogue, the underground actor fanning the flames of rumors of a coup. Anakin, while unstable, is at least now out of his orbit. Whether he stays in the Order or leaves, I cannot say, but I hope for his sake - and his unborn child’s - he leaves.

Don’t you see, Qui-gon? The only one who must suffer here is me and I will do so gladly.

Ah, but why not turn myself in, you ask. The deed is done, why run from my actions?

The Twi’lek’s crimson lividity has given way to a more pale ochre, abdomen swollen and nauseated. While the cold has stalled this inevitable process, I must confess to being a bit wary of my companion’s stability.

One more night, and we shall reach Mandalore.

I remain here, discomfited bunkmate to the dead, while Cody and his men span the galaxy, hunting for the wayward Jedi - the turncoat, the traitor, the aruetii…

But you see, Qui-gon, as the galaxy turns its eye on me, it distances its gaze from the Order, from the Council’s machinations.

If I had not acted, someone else would have - with far more dire consequences, I fear.

We spoke of it, you know. Taking over the government, stripping Palpatine of his power (and how laughable a notion that is, to strip a Sith Lord of their edged fury. Impossible to achieve without bloodshed.) It’s not that we wanted to usurp the government - even within the Council itself, there was strong dissent to even considering this notion.

Mace would have gladly fallen on his lightsaber to see justice served. As would Kit. And Plo. And possibly Master Yoda.

But their souls were clean.

Mine, on the other hand…

It’s late Qui-gon, and I fear tomorrow will be an unpleasant day.

~~~

You once said, Qui-gon, that upon finding a confluence of paths, there is no correct direction, that, in the end, there was only a decision, and the consequences thereof.

I find myself in such a place.

It seems the news of my actions reached Mandalore before I did, the civil war now at an uneasy pause, Maul neutered (and what does that say about me, that I could not achieve this victory when Ahsoka could? Perhaps I am too close, too near that fault line to act as she could.)

But they do not know, Qui-gon, what I do. Ahsoka may look on in muted fury, Rex dipping his head as he comms Cody, his only words a soft we have him, Bo-Katan radiant with indignation - why could you have not done this before?

Before we both lost her, before Satine’s legacy was burnt to the ground, before it came to this.

They wrap me in cords and shackles and the best Jedi restraints Mandalore has to offer, dumping me in the same containment cell as him, who takes one look at my sorry state, who knows what sins are written on my soul.

Maul throws back his head, and cackles, the sound of a hundred broken mirrors.

They only have one, he says.

He doesn’t need to explain further.

The Mandalorian sarcophagus. We both saw it, that first time on Mandalore, Satine’s cheeks turning pink, then red, as she explained the true purpose of the monstrous devices.

We would never use them now, she said. There’s no need.

We can only hope, you answered.

And now, it is a question of who is the greater monster - the being born of blood and violence, or the one who accepted it into his heart.

He would have been his new apprentice, Maul drawls, with a sick smile.

I know, I answer. I do know, don’t I? Knew this entire time and yet could do nothing to stop it - until now.

Will you accept your fate, Kenobi? Be hauled back to Coruscant in chains, your allies grinning as your head falls from the blade?

I should. Damnit, I should, Qui-gon! I am a Jedi, I do not fear death, for there is only the Force.

And yet…

~~~

We are leaving, Qui-gon, Maul and I. To what end, I cannot say. Do not fear for me, Master of mine. I am long corrupted, past redemption in this life and can only hope to use my darkness for an ultimate good.

There is much to be done.

May I feel your soft hand on my cheek one more time, Qui-gon, if only in my dreams.

Please forgive me.

I am sorry.

Yours in this life and the next,

Obi-wan Kenobi.

[pwnyta]

This latest arc of BNHA is so frustrating.

Horikoshi had a good set up with Stain and it feels squandered because he didnt actually commit to it.

He made Stains claims against heroes kind of baseless even though during his arc he was SOLID and consistant in his beliefs. He didnt attack Iida when Iida first came onto the scene because he thought Iida was there to save someone which made him a good hero.... but that Iida made it clear he was here for revenge... which made him a bad hero and a target. He not only refused to kill Deku but fully went out of his way to save Deku from his own allies because Deku proved himself to be a good hero.

Stain idolized All Might because despite All Might being flashy and famous as he was he for some reason saw that All Might was a selfless hero. Which is why I always wondered why Tensei was attacked and I thought there would be some crazy reveal but its never been brought up. Nothing has. Theres been no showing of Heroes being these self centered assholes in the story except really... Endeavor?

And it was obvious that with Endeavor becoming #1 with his secret past of incredibly violent domestic abuse and selfish desire would become a stain(huuu) on hero society... I understand Horikoshis desire to try to make Endeavor a better character so when it happened it would be a harsh reminder... but he not only drew it out way to much but hes fully trying to undo some of the harshness of Endeavors past... WHICH IS DUMB.

Especially now... because even if he kept Endeavors harsh past intact why would anybody care?  Shiga, Machia, and Dabi have caused so much death and destruction its genuinely funny why would anyone in society turn on the people who are currently sacrificing life and limb to save them against these attacks? Even hilariously the fucking washing machine hero whos basically just a mascot is on the front lines trying to help people while the city crumbles around him.

And then you have Hawks... #2 whos worst crime was killing Best Jeanist... which he apparently didnt do but somehow the fake body he used still managed to fool the villains but w/e and second worst crime was killing Twice who was complicit in all the terrible shit happening right now and genuine threat due to his very long range ability that allows him to copy anyone and any Quirk.

I liked Twice... I liked him better than Hawks by a long shot and also found him more sympathetic than any of the other villains but what else could Hawks do?

This arc feels like an incredibly sloppy accumulation of story bits that were not planned or paced very well...

Like the Todoroki shit should have happened sooner because having here just makes everything... A LOT. Its a lot.

Having a battle with Shiga that has been so destructive and tragic should have been its own thing and also the series finale.

but also bringing AFO back? WAT... Im fine with him coming back but on top of all this already.

The Meta Liberation Army shit feels... weird what the fuck was the point of them... just to rush Shigas crew to where they are now? Seems like.

And theres gotta be a reason to turn Kurogiri into Aizawas friend for SOME fucking reason... or maybe not. Ive been wrong before.

Did the UA traitor set up just go away? Cuz that felt important but then stagnated and then seemed to be dismissed (which if im being paranoid just makes the suspicion of Nezu/Kouda more prominent... but it might just not go anywhere. It wouldnt be the first time something that seemed like a BIG FUCKING DEAL just sorta didnt matter.)

And then theres Eri... little miss Deus ex machina herself which we havent even dealt with but we know at some point it will be an issue because Eraser is no longer in play maybe and that is gonna be a problem.... MAYBE.