#marble-lover-of-liberty

[taexual]

sleepwalking ● 1 | jjk

summary: due to unfortunate circumstances, you ended up managing your ex-boyfriend’s band. you thought you’ve both made peace with it, but suddenly he’s very eager to prove to you that first love never dies.

pairing: jungkook x fem!reader

genre: rockstar!jungkook / exes to lovers / fluff / angst / smut (in later chapters)

warnings: explicit language, suggestive themes, SLOW BURN

words: 7.5k

chapter 1 ► when i open my eyes to the future, i can hear you say my name

There was virtually not a single person left on the entire fourth floor of the company building, despite it being a Monday afternoon. Normally, two other managers worked in offices adjacent to yours, so the noise in the hallways never settled below a pleasant hum: producers, promoters, and publicists – the three cursed Ps – shuffled in and out, heels clicking urgently against the marble floor.

This funeral silence was unusual, but you knew it was only a calm before the storm.

Rated Riot were going on their first-ever European tour in two days to promote their sophomore album – named aptly, “ready, set, RIOT” – and today was the final day of meetings. Evidently, the executives at Jett Records assumed that the band deserved to have a whole floor to themselves, so everyone else got a half-day, leaving you and the Floor Administrator, Rue, all by yourselves until the band got here.

This unsettling silence was exactly why you heard them arrive as soon as the door of the building opened four floors below. Rated Riot lived up to their name by making themselves heard before they were seen.

As soon as the sharp ding! of the elevator reached you in your office—your door was always open on meeting days, because the four members of one of the most promising rock bands in the world at the moment lacked any sense of direction—you could immediately feel the atmosphere lighten, the previous silence long gone.

“Rue! The apple of my eye!” Hoseok, the drummer and the de facto mood setter of Rated Riot, exclaimed as you listened to the familiar sounds of the band as they exited the elevator and, based on the repeated clicking of shoes in the lobby, momentarily got disoriented.

“Always looking good, Rue!” Jungkook, the vocalist, as well as the new Golden Boy of Jett Records followed after.

“Good to see you again,” Taehyung, the always well-mannered bassist, said. Silence followed and you assumed he shook Rue’s hand.

“Hello,” Yoongi, who was, technically, the guitarist of the band, but, really, played any instrument he could get his hands on, was the last to speak. He’d always been very well-spoken in songwriting, but quieter and more careful in most everyday conversations.

“Welcome, guys,” Rue greeted them. You couldn’t see any of them from where your office was located, but you’ve been in a similar situation countless times before and you could imagine what was happening without needing to witness it first-hand.

Rue would stand up from her seat and point her right hand down the hallway, reminding them—yet again—that they needed to walk down the hall and take a right turn. The members of Rated Riot, in turn, would walk down the hall. At least one of the four of them would turn left instead, causing a pause as the group gathered back together, exchanging confused glances. Then, they would turn back to Rue—who would still be standing there, her right hand extended like a helpful Statue of Liberty. They’d laugh at themselves, nod at Rue, and take the correct turn.

If things were going well, they’d find your office on first try—they’d just need to find the open door and peer inside; your desk was right in front. More often than not, however, they stumbled around, knocking and chuckling to themselves as they continuously interrupted the offices of everyone else, but you.

They were special. Not just because they looked like loose ducklings, separated from the Mother Duck, whenever they entered the company building, but also because, in spite of their own lack of coordination, they still managed to get things done.

And they brightened the day of everyone they came across. Which was almost ironic—as you realised by watching the four of them enter your office—considering the effortless rockstar aura that surrounded them.

Jungkook walked in first. That was typical because he usually did: sometimes because he was the only one who remembered where your office was, but usually because the other members offered him as a sacrificial lamb when they went knocking around every office on the floor in search of yours.

He was dressed in all-black—always—adorned with silver chains and necklaces that often gave you a start when you looked up, because he had a very specific way of entering the room: he seemed to make sure to position himself in just a way that the light, coming in from the window behind you, always reflected off his jewellery and momentarily blinded you.

Sure enough, you blinked, cringing into yourself as the brightness hit your eyes, and when you opened them again, he was already grinning.

“Hi,” he said and the rest of the members followed in after him—a brighter palette of colours.

Even Yoongi, who was the only one who could have given Jungkook a run for his money if you had to count which one had more black items of clothing in their closet, was wearing a beige, loosely buttoned shirt.

Despite that, however, you could tell they were rock artists as soon as you looked at them—all tattoos, piercings, intense eye make-up behind sunglasses, and old band tees—and you stood up, excited to let them know that, finally, every last loose thread had been found and tightened. They’d get to introduce their artistry on a different continent, and you’d make sure it’d go smoothly.

“We’re leaving for Prague tomorrow morning,” you told them once the five of you settled down at the round table in the back of your office. “So, if you were planning a going away party, I strongly advise against it.”

“We weren’t,” Yoongi said, lifting his glass of lemon water—there was a jug on the table—and giving you a reassuring look. “This is the strongest drink I’m having tonight.”

“Thanks,” you said paradoxically enough, but being grateful when the members of the band you managed didn’t get drunk before an important day was part of the job. “I’d also appreciate it if—”

“Hold on a second, though,” Jungkook interrupted—you’d been anticipating it. “I’m going to a gig tonight, Reconnaissance are in town again. And there’s obviously an after-party—”

Despite Reconnaissance being, arguably, one of the most popular rock bands in the world right now, you were definite when you cut him off, “No.”

“—so, I—wait. No?” he paused. “I never miss their shows, you know that. And I don’t get drunk easily. You know that, too.”

“That’s why you drink so much,” you rebutted. The rest of the band members got their phones out, knowing well enough at this point that this would take a while. “And then I have to come get you out of trouble.”

“You absolutely do not have to do that,” Jungkook insisted. “We’ve been through this.”

“Have we?” you argued. “Because I keep telling you it’s my job to keep you from passing out in a dirty bar bathroom, but you don’t care enough to hear me.”

“Well, you’re not very convincing. What’s the worst that can happen? I’ll wake up again.”

You were used to having this conversation with him—you’ve argued about this way before he became a singer and you ended up as his manager. And yet, the lax way he said this made you clench your fists.

Despite being mostly introverted, Jungkook did enjoy getting drinks with friends: even if said friends enjoyed his celebrity status more than they enjoyed the drinks.

“And if you don’t?” you threatened. “Rated Riot’s vocalist gets his stomach pumped. A catchy headline.”

“Yeah, man,” Hoseok interjected, putting his phone screen down on the table and crossing his arms. “Doesn’t go well with the vibe we’re going for. Don’t get your stomach pumped.”

“Fine, I—”

“What he meant was, don’t drink so much that you’d need your stomach pumped,” you clarified because Jungkook moonlighted as a Loophole Finder.

“I never have!” he insisted. “Seriously, you treat me like I’m still nineteen. Have some faith.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see the other members of the group look up from their phones. The band had only formed a few years ago, so you were the only person in this room who knew what Jungkook was like when he was nineteen. You never spoke about it – that was likely why everyone was so curious.

In any case, Jungkook was wrong. You did have faith—that’s why you spent so many of your off-duty nights driving down deserted streets to pick him up after his asshole friends convinced him it was a good idea to try the biker bar on the outskirts of town, and he’d gotten in an altercation with a burly redneck that was twice his size.

There was no time for that now, not when he was supposed to be on stage in Prague in three days.

“Well,” Taehyung spoke up. “I was thinking of going to the show as well. Not so much the after-party, I have better plans. But, uh, I could come, after all.”

You appreciated the offer, but you knew that these better plans involved him spending time with his girlfriend, Luna, who was going to join him for a few weeks of the European tour, but after that, the two of them were going to be apart for several months.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” you said, not trying very much to hide the hopeful undertones in your voice. Jungkook’s friends felt intimidated by all the members of Rated Riot; they’d be on their best behaviour if Taehyung was there.

“No, I think it might be fun,” Taehyung said. You exhaled quietly and he could sense your gratitude without words. He turned to his younger bandmate. “Should we go together?”

Jungkook groaned and mumbled under his breath, “not if I have to third-wheel again.”

“When have you ever third-wheeled anyone?” you asked rhetorically, but he was already opening his mouth to reply. Quickly, you added, “be careful, is what I’m saying, okay? I am complaining about having to pick you up from all kinds of holes, but if you need me to bring NDAs, I will bring them. So, ask.”

Jungkook rolled his eyes, but chose to stay quiet. He knew better now – the one time he did not make anyone sign a non-disclosure agreement after an impromptu, drunken busking session in New York, pictures of him, half-dressed and giving a lap dance to a random, equally as drunk, groupie, were on every rock page on Instagram. Accompanied with detailed retellings of how it came to happen, of course; all of them more ridiculous than the next. Your personal favourite story was that he was recruiting members for a sex cult.

“We’ll call you,” Taehyung gave you a nod, “if we have to.”

“Perfect,” you said, glancing at Jungkook again, even though expecting him to confirm that he, too, would call you if he had to, was wishful thinking.

Every time you reminded him how he needed to start going out with a less destructive crowd, he’d treat his phone like a poisonous snake – and he’d been doing that even before you became his manager. His friends seemed to get their pleasure fix from watching you arrive and rip him a new one, so they were the ones who called you most of the time, always laughing into their phones like true accomplices.

It was funny how Jungkook was the only one who passed out or got so wasted, he ended up on a ferry to Martha’s Vineyard. His friends always walked away unscathed and, usually, only called you by the time they were back in their bedrooms – “when we left, he was ordering mint and honey daiquiris, you should probably go over there and check up on him.”

It was like they loved pushing him into danger and purposefully bringing the two of you together again, and Jungkook either didn’t realise or didn’t care anymore. It’s been a while, after all.

You and Jungkook had been broken up for almost two years when you got the unbelievable offer to manage an up-and-coming rock band. This was over two years ago now and you were only twenty-four back then. Up until that point, you had worked as an assistant manager for various indie artists, so that offer was massive.

You figured the downside that your ex-boyfriend happened to be in this particular band was worth it, considering the huge leap in your career you’d make by accepting this job.

And, for the most part (excluding the first two months that were pure chaos of repressed feelings), you and Jungkook both made this work, drawing a strict line between your relationship before Rated Riot (back when he still had your phone number saved as “❌”) and after he met you again as Rated Riot’s new manager (ironically, now your name on his phone was “❌❌❌”).

You’ve managed Rated Riot for almost exactly two years now, and if you’d asked the band – which you wouldn’t, partially out of humbleness, but also because you were scared – you’d know that they loved working with you as much as you loved working with them. So, in the end, it all really had been worth it.

“Check your emails for the descriptive itineraries,” you continued smoothly enough. The guys at the table put their phones down and returned their attention to you. “Now, who else is coming with us?”

Technically, the band wasn’t supposed to bring anyone – the label was explicitly clear about that. They wanted the first European tour to go “without a hitch” (meaning, without distractions), but you held a more liberal view here.

You didn’t think loved ones coming on the road were a distraction; if anything, they were a firm support mechanism that made touring easier for the artists.

“I know Luna’s staying until the Barcelona show, yeah?” you asked, double-checking the notes on your laptop.

Taehyung nodded, a small smile on his lips at the mention of the girl. “She flies out the next day, yeah.”

“Okay. Who else?”

“Well, Sid and Jude are coming,” Jungkook spoke up and, after seeing your eyes roll back, added, quieter, “and Minjun isn’t sure.”

The three musketeer-wannabes – Sid, Jude, and Minjun – were on speed dial on your work and personal phones, because if Rated Riot had a performance and the vocalist wasn’t there, it was likely those three who were to blame. They were the only ones who knew Jungkook longer than you did, and they seemed to take pride in the fact that they had successfully been causing you headaches for seven years now.

“Sid and Jude,” you repeated, “aren’t worried they’ll lose their jobs if they travel to Europe abruptly?”

“No, they’re cool,” Jungkook shrugged, not catching the mockery in your voice—both Sid and Jude worked for their families, which really meant that they got paid to occasionally show up at the shareholders’ meetings on behalf of their parents. “I’ll text Minjun right now. Maybe he’ll come when we’re in Poland…”

“I needed confirmation by last week,” you reminded him. “At the latest.”

He glanced at you from his phone and then went back to texting. “So, why’d you ask now?”

“To double-check,” you said. “They’re going to have to book the hotels themselves. Or sleep on the street. Honestly, I don’t really—”

“So, uh,” Yoongi interrupted before another argument could begin, “how many hotels this time?”

“Prague, Amsterdam, and Paris. And some nights in London, depending on our flight time,” you said with an apologetic smile. “Bring your favourite blankets. We’re living on buses for the next three months.”

None of them minded – if anything, you could see a little glitter in their eyes as they listened to you. Being on the road and having to sleep on the tour bus every night was an experience they’d missed. They hadn’t gone on an actual tour in almost a year – as someone who thrived on live performances, they had obviously missed this.

Really, you’ve missed it, too. Rated Riot may have been a riot to look after as their manager – pun fully intended – especially on tour, but they were your riot to deal with.

You liked your job and the challenges that came with it, because, in the end, you overcame most of them: starting with your previous relationship with Jungkook (no one in the band had a problem with it, and the label miraculously seemed not to know about it) and ending with your relatively young age (Jungkook was the only one who had a problem with you being his age, but he had a problem with almost everything).

Hopefully, one day you’d manage to overcome the challenge that was getting Jungkook to open his eyes and realise that the people he surrounded himself with were more groupies than his friends. But all in due time.

“If you have questions,” you said as the meeting approached its’ conclusion, “go right ahead.”

“Wake-up calls,” Yoongi said. “Any possibility of arranging those?”

You smiled – this had been traditional practice ever since you started to work with them.

“I’ll call,” you said and then remembered a particularly frustrating way in which this had backfired. You added, “and keep you on the phone until you’re out of bed.”

Back when you were an assistant manager to a different band, this had been your main task. And, you supposed, if Rated Riot had assistant managers, they’d be the ones making wake-up calls, too – however, the band had only started to live up to their potential now. Before you booked the European tour for them, Jett Records thought they barely needed one manager to begin with.

You’ve made it this far. If the tour went well, maybe you’d get to expand your team as the band gained popularity.

Jungkook felt giddy the whole night. The Reconnaissance show with Taehyung and Luna was a lot of fun, as expected—he’d seen the band five times before tonight, and they never failed to let him down.

When he arrived at the after-party, he was nearly vibrating with excitement—on top of everything, he was going on tour tomorrow and he knew he might lose his mind over it—and this was usually the time when he tended to get reckless.

He did drink a little too much to retain a completely sober mind, but he stayed true to his word and did not wander anywhere or caused any—serious—trouble. You would have said that’s because Sid and Jude weren’t with him, but Jungkook was convinced it was because he simply had great self-control when he put his mind to it.

The only place he went to after the party was his family’s house, so he could say goodbye to his grandma. She probably wouldn’t even hear him—and if she would, then she probably wouldn’t recognise him—but he couldn’t leave to Europe without saying goodbye to her.

He thought he’d take his Katana to the house, but then remembered immediately the last time he got on his motorcycle drunk – his grandma had, literally, smacked him on the back with a rolling pin, yelling about how careless he was. She didn’t say that she hit him out of concern for his safety—that was obvious—and, instead, she focused on how hard he’d worked on restoring the bike after he’d bought it; his first purchase with the money that he made off Rated Riot’s music.

“Don’t you want it to last?” she had said then. She’d been the only person who believed he could bring the bike to life, despite it not having a single properly functioning part, least of all the engine. “You worked so hard on it. Do you want to wreck it in one night?”

Tonight, however, everyone in the house was asleep when he arrived. It was quiet, so he tried to be silent as he went up the stairs to her room—and then knocked over a picture frame after his feet fumbled on the carpet in the hallway. But no one went out to check who was making the noise—which was dangerous, he realised for a brief, semi-sober second; but the house had security, so he figured they were safe from outsiders—and he gently lowered the handle on his grandma’s door, peering inside.

The room was painted in blue hues from the night light next to the bed where his grandma was sleeping. He approached—really trying to be quiet this time—and carefully pulled her comforter up, so she wouldn’t get cold, even though the room felt warm.

It was always warm here and Jungkook had to bite his lip when he realised how much he missed sitting here as a child while dozens of his cousins ran around the house and wreaked loud, childish havoc. How much he missed his grandma reading him books—never children’s stories, he always insisted she read him the thickest, most boring books he could find on her shelves, just so he could stay in her room longer, listening to her soothing voice and feeling her comforting warmth.

Sniffling quietly, he leaned closer to her and brushed a strand of white hair from her face, listening to her soft breathing as she slept, unaware of his presence.

“I’ll be back soon,” he promised in a whisper as he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. She didn’t wake. “We will talk again then.”

He knew he’d keep this promise even if she didn’t hear it, even if she didn’t remember. But leaving her room felt painful and he was far less excited now. The alcohol had begun to wear off and heaviness settled in his chest instead. This happened sometimes when he was left alone with his thoughts, especially after he visited his grandma.

He'd come back, he knew he would. But as he glanced at his grandma’s sleeping frame one more time—remembering how she hadn’t called him by his name in months; not one glint of recognition in her eyes when she’d see him—he wondered if he’d have anyone to come back to.

Surprising exactly no one, Jungkook was the only one who did not answer your wake-up call the next morning. Having foreseen this, you’d already called Hoseok, Yoongi and Taehyung – in that order, because the first two took the longest to wake up, and by that time, Taehyung was already awake on his own – and only then attempted to reach the one remaining member.

Fifteen minutes later, you were already dressed and ready to drive over to his house and personally wake him up with an icy bath in bed. And just then, your phone rang – his name as the caller’s ID.

“Look who—”

“Okay, okay,” Jungkook’s groggy voice cut you off before you could greet him with the appropriate sarcastic remark. “I’m awake. Halfway in the shower.”

“I don’t hear running water.”

He responded with a groan first, then shuffling. You waited patiently, balancing the phone on your shoulder as you unlocked the door of your apartment. Finally, you could hear the water start running on the other end of the call.

“Happy?” Jungkook asked, always the brightest of all rays of sunshine in the morning.

“Ecstatic,” you replied, equally as enthusiastically. “Sending a car to pick you up in half an hour. Don’t be late.”

“I can drive myself—”

“No driving when you’re hungover,” you said, not for the first time. “In fact, don’t even go near your Katana.”

He considered several ways to respond to you; first and foremost, defending his beloved, navy-coloured Suzuki Katana with a matte coating, custom-made leather seat covers, golden rims, purring engine, and—anyway. He ended up choosing to respond with a question, “how do you know I’m hungover?”

“I’ve known you for almost ten years,” you replied. “If you go out drinking the night before, you’ll wake up hungover.”

“Well, how do you know I drank that much last ni—?”

“Listen,” you cut him off, hoisting your suitcases over the threshold of your front door. You fixed your phone against your cheek and continued, “how about you take that shower, and we’ll resume this nice little Q&A at the airport?”

“No,” he replied and, in a purposefully exaggerated breathy voice said, “I simply can’t stop talking to you.”

“Hanging up now.”

Jungkook laughed as he listened to the beep, indicating the end of the call. Putting his phone on the side of the sink, he took his shirt off and was about to continue undressing when his phone vibrated and nearly fell off the sink.

Scrambling to catch it, he smacked it against the cupboard and exhaled in relief when he saw that the screen hadn’t cracked. He was expecting a text from you – a threat, in case he’d go back to bed – but it was actually Sid, asking for the time of his flight.

His friends were taking a separate flight out to Prague – they weren’t happy about it and neither was he, but at least they’d get to hang out in Europe eventually – and, obviously, they wanted to know what time they’d meet up and where.

He double-checked the itinerary you’d emailed him, got confused about the time zone difference and texted Sid back.

“Gonna be there the day before the show,” his text said, “jetlag. Sleep. Maybe beer? Catch u there.”

Sid was, of course, delighted to hear the mention of beer and Jungkook snickered to himself before he resumed undressing for his shower—knowing from experience that you wouldn’t be above shipping him to Prague in the cargo section on the plane if he was late to the airport.

As it turned out, for the first time in his life, Jungkook was so terribly jet-lagged, that he did not feel like doing anything – not even drinking with friends – but sleeping.

He slept through the whole layover in Paris – and, consequently, through Taehyung and Luna’s stories about the 5 minutes they got to spend in front of the Eiffel Tower before rushing back to the airport (never mind that it was about 2 AM) – as well as the flight to Prague.

He only woke up on the bus ride to the hotel when he felt something nudging his lips and opened his eyes to find an open bottle of Coca-Cola in your hands as you held it by his face.

“Did you just—” he started to say, but his voice sounded brittle, more a croak than a voice, really. He cleared his throat and tried again, “did you just wake me up by making me sniff soda?”

“It worked,” you replied, nudging the bottle at him again. “Drink. You need sugar. You didn’t eat anything on the plane here.”

“I had that bagel on the flight to Paris,” he mumbled, but sat up properly and took the bottle from you.

“That was a croissant,” you clarified. It was almost cute to see him barely awake. “And I warned you about flying with a hangover. You did this to yourself.”

“I’m fine,” he replied after taking a big gulp of coke. “Not sure which day it is, but other than that, I’m perfect. Do you have anything for headaches?”

Snickering, you nodded. “Yeah, give me a second.”

You went to fetch your carry-on bag and returned with ibuprofen, which allowed him to go back to sleep until you arrived at the hotel. The other members were also in and out of slumber, but that was their own fault. You and the other girls on this tour, which, really, only meant Luna— Taehyung’s girlfriend—and Maggie—the tour photographer—had planned ahead and taken sleeping pills as soon as the plane took off. Meanwhile, every man on this trip thought too much of himself.

By the time you arrived to the hotel and checked in, it was already lunchtime. If this had been your first time travelling with Rated Riot, you would have been beyond surprised to see what effect food had on them: they looked like they'd just returned from the most refreshing vacation in the Caribbean. Lively conversation and cheerful laughter echoed around the table – no one would have guessed that they’d just spent over 13 hours on airplanes. Their recovery was nearly always miraculous.

And, naturally, since they were feeling better, they wanted to do something as soon as the first rehearsal was over. You had far too many things to do before the show tomorrow, so you couldn’t babysit them – again, an assistant manager would have been life-saving – but you knew you’d still have to keep an eye on them.

Taehyung and Luna went sightseeing, but they were the sort who kept you updated on their adventures through pictures, which you were endlessly grateful for. There was never a reason to worry here; if you were a teacher who had to pretend not to have a favourite student, Taehyung would be the student you were pretending about.

Yoongi and Hoseok, initially, went to a record store together, but then split up – one of them returned to the hotel for a nap, and the other one went café-hopping. Those two were also fine – they usually took some members of the crew with them anyway, so you knew that in the worst-case scenario, you’d still have several people you could call to reach them.

Now Jungkook was going to meet up with Sid and Jude, both of whom had, most unfortunately, successfully landed in Prague. The Diabolical Duo would take him out drinking, you had no doubt about it – and this was where you’d have to step in with another warning. You weren’t the angry mother, dragging her children by their ears, but you felt it necessary to remind Jungkook of what was at stake if he allowed his friends to be their usual, obnoxious selves tonight.

However, you didn’t want to ask, so you had to figure out where to find them yourself. You didn’t even have to use the seven years that you’ve known them to deduce two logical, universal-for-all-assholes things: one, Jungkook’s friends wouldn’t be nearly tired enough not to want to drink. Two, they’d be too jet-lagged to look for their usual hole-in-the-wall spot that sold drinks. Therefore, they’d have to settle for the bar of the hotel.

And when you exited the elevator on the ground floor later that night, your assumption was confirmed – you could hear their laughter from where you were standing in the lobby.

You’d texted Jungkook as you arrived, hoping he’d leave his friends and come see you at the back of the bar for a minute, but unfortunately, Sid and Jude noticed you and waved you over with loud cheers.

Embarrassed as the people in booths around you began to turn to look, you swallowed and walked towards the front where Jungkook and his friends were sitting by the bar.

“Wow, it’s been so long!” Jude exclaimed as you approached. In your opinion, it wasn’t nearly long enough, but you only lifted the corners of your lips and did not comment.

“Jungkook, a moment?” you said instead.

“Let’s get you a drink!” Sid suggested as though you hadn’t spoken and extended a hand, clicking his fingers to get the bartender’s attention. “Hey! Can we get some Margaritas here?”

You cringed watching this, but, again, restrained yourself. They could behave like pricks all they wanted; it wasn’t their reputation that you had to protect. Someone else would, hopefully, teach them a lesson.

“Sure,” Jungkook said to you, sliding off the stool. He seemed sober enough to walk without any sort of waddling or stand without swaying, but you could tell by the relaxation behind his eyes, that he was already tipsy.

His friends patted him on the back and whistled as he followed you to a quieter spot in the back of the bar. He shook his head at them—but had a grin on his face, and for that alone you wanted to punch him.

“Can I count on you to take it easy?” you asked, once the two of you were out of earshot. “Not because you’ll make my job much harder if you don’t, but because you have a rehearsal tomorrow at eight, and that’s hard with the jet lag alone, but add a hangover into the mix, and—”

“I’ll be fine,” he said, but you’ve heard this song many times before. It was one of his top hits. “I’m actually tired, so I might have a few and then go straight to bed.”

“Okay,” you said, choosing to believe him, because that was easier than making him sign a contract, swearing not to wake up in a dumpster. “Can you text me when you’re back in your room? So I know you’re not lost somewhere in Prague with Dumb and Dumber.”

His lip twitched in an almost-smile at the nickname, but he resisted – a loyal friend, even if they didn’t deserve it – and gave you a nod.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll text you. And I won’t get lost.”

“Okay—” you started to say and then squinted your eyes at him, realizing. “I meant don’t go wandering the city streets while drunk.”

He snorted and placed a hand on your left shoulder. Gazing into your eyes, he enunciated very dramatically, “I will not get into trouble. Promise.”

You pursed your lips. “You’d better not.”

“I realise what that would mean, believe it or not,” he said, straightening. “Tomorrow is an important day. I’d never do anything to ruin it.”

“I know,” you said. “I trust you to make smart choices. I don’t trust them.”

You pointed at the twosome by the bar – both of them watching you like you were the entertainment of the night – and Jungkook turned to look. Sid and Jude both immediately waved at him. Jungkook waved back and, when he looked at you again, he was smiling softly.

Clearly, he genuinely enjoyed hanging out with those two. You’d never believe that there was anything about them that was bearable—let alone enjoyable—so Jungkook’s weird attachment to them had to come from some sort of weird destructive force inside of him.

“I’ll keep them in check,” he said and then, possibly prompted by the skeptical frown on your face, he felt the need to explain, “they help me relax. If it weren’t for them, I’d probably be shaking from anxiety all the time. Kind of like you are.”

He winked as he said that last part, grinning at his own wit, but you rolled your eyes in response.

“Goodnight,” you said then. “Don’t forget to text me.”

“Are you going to stay up late waiting for my text?” his tone was humorous and it stopped you from leaving.

“Hopefully not,” you said, ignoring the flirty comment that was obviously meant to rattle your composure. “But it’d do you well to remember that I can make life very difficult for you if you disobey me.”

He lifted his eyebrows at this, but did not lose the grin. “Oh? Will I get punished if I—”

“Goodnight, Jungkook,” you said again—louder—and turned away.

You glanced over your shoulder when you reached the archway leading to the lobby and caught him watching you leave—he was still beaming, but he composed himself and nodded when he caught your eye. You nodded back.

Maybe he really would be fine tonight.

And, truly, Jungkook had meant what he’d said – he couldn’t wait for tomorrow and there was nothing he’d do to ruin that. Not even if the smirking faces of his friends prompted him to laugh as soon as he returned to his seat by the bar.

“What do you want, assholes?” he asked, punching Jude on the shoulder as he walked past his friends. As soon as he sat down, leaving Sid in the middle, he took a big gulp of the beer he’d left waiting; only his third one tonight.

“We don’t want anything,” Jude said, still smirking. “What did she want? Another moral how you’re not being a good boy?”

Jungkook rolled his eyes. “No—”

“I was always curious,” Sid interrupted. “Was she like that when you dated, too? You know, always in charge?”

Even before you and Jungkook had settled into a steady enough rhythm of working with each other, neither of you spoke to others about your relationship. Not while you were dating, and not after you broke up. So, all your friends—real friends and whoever the hell Sid and Jude were—essentially knew nothing of your relationship.

And there was nothing he’d tell them now.

It’s been four years since you broke up—plenty of time to move on. Not to mention, you were both (trying to be) professionals. There was no point to bring back the past; there never had been.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Jungkook teased, managing to keep the banter going without revealing how the question irked something inside him.

“I would. That’s why I asked,” Sid replied, laughing haughtily. A few heads turned his way. Sid sounded very much like an entitled heir—or an elephant high on helium—when he laughed, especially when there was nothing funny going on. “I mean, you never talked about her to us. Was it getting rid of her that made you who you are today?”

Jude snorted, slapping Sid on the back in a half-supportive, half-warning manner. Jungkook knew that the level of your patience for his friends ranged from Sid (no patience) to Jude (case-by-case), to Minjun (bearable)—and he could see why.

“I didn’t get rid of her,” he said, an edge to his voice. “We broke up and moved on. Did you hear from Minjun?”

Sid laughed again—even louder than before; the glasses behind the bar seemed to clatter.

“Look at him, trying to change the topic!” he wheezed, looking at Jude over his shoulder.

“Leave him be, man,” Jude said and nodded at Jungkook. “So many girls around us and this dumbass is still hung up on your ex, huh?”

Jungkook finished his beer and held the liquid behind his cheeks for a second before swallowing. He caught the bartender’s eye and lifted his empty glass, indicating a refill.

“I don’t think I’m the one who’s hung up,” Sid said with a very knowing look in his eye.

Jungkook looked at him and raised his eyebrows—surprised and momentarily distracted from his drink. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you come to her as soon as she calls, like a puppy,” Sid replied. “So, you tell me.”

“I have to come when she calls,” Jungkook defended. “She’s my manager.”

“Yeah, dumbass,” Jude said, slapping Sid on the back of the head this time. “She’s his manager.”

Jungkook suddenly found himself smiling when he realised that you’d probably consider this the reason why Sid acted the way he did sometimes – permanent brain damage from Jude’s incessant slaps.

“Well, then someone,” Sid said, angrily accentuating the word—the anger was clearly directed at Jude, but the pronoun at Jungkook, “has a fucking crush on their manager.”

“I don’t have a crush—”

Sid spoke over him, “I bet you could never get her to go out with you again.”

Jungkook saw the bartender approach to pour him a drink and he heard Jude scoffing, but he could only blink, taken aback by what sounded like an accusation.  “Why—why would I even—why—”

“Oh, see, see?!” Sid screeched, turning to Jude with a triumphant expression. Jude gave him a pitiful look—and looked about ready to give him a black eye, too. “He knows I’m right, it’s why he’s stuttering!”

“Dude,” Jude said slowly. “You are yelling.”

Jungkook cleared his throat, nodding at the bartender as a thank-you and then bringing his refilled glass to his lips. “And I’m not stuttering.”

“You so are, my man,” Sid taunted, patting Jungkook on the shoulder with so much force, the beer nearly spilled from the glass and from his mouth. “Your ass is so whipped, you’re going to be singing at her wedding to some random producer.”

Suddenly hyper-aware that there were several producers on tour with them right now, Jungkook put his drink down and straightened in his seat.

“I’m not fucking singing at weddings,” he said.

“Not yet,” Sid pointed out, grinning. He knew he'd gotten under his skin.

“Okay, come on now,” Jude interjected, leaning back in his seat to be able to see Jungkook. “You promised you’d sing at my wedding.”

“As if anyone would ever marry you,” came Sid’s snide.

“You shut the fuck up,” Jude snarled, but there was no malice behind his bark. “I have more chances of marrying someone than he has of marrying his manager.”

“He—oh, fuck!” Sid was about to argue, but then burst into laughter—so loud and thunderous again, that the bartender was forced to glance over at the security guards by the entrance to the bar. “That’s good! You’re so right!”

“Both of you are fucking idiots,” Jungkook spoke. The edges of his vision were red. “I could get her to go out with me again if I wanted to.”

“Oh, sure, sure,” Sid nodded, wiping invisible tears from his eyes. “Big talk.”

“Jungkook, no offense, my dude,” Jude said, leaning forwards this time. “Let him have this one. Sid may be dumber than box of rocks, but he’s got a point here. Forget about her.”

Another insinuation that had Jungkook throwing his head back in frustration.

“There’s nothing to forget!” he groaned. “What the fuck are you even talking about? I just fucking told you I moved on.”

“So why are you getting all riled up, then?” Sid smirked, more and more satisfied with each curse that he provoked out of him.

Jungkook felt even angrier, because he was getting riled up, but he had a good reason for it. He enjoyed banter as much as the next person, but he did not enjoy mockery at his own expense—especially not the kind that involved you.

He snapped back, “because you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

His friends snickered at this – convinced that his irritation only proved the point they were both making – and Jungkook clenched his jaw, annoyed.

“If anything,” he added sharply as he picked his beer up—as if that could somehow distance him from this conversation, “it’s her who’s still hung up on me.”

That was a cheap, childish defence, and everyone by the bar knew it.

“Yeah, right!” Sid cried out, but resisted from laughing again. “We’ve heard her yell at you more times than we can count. You fucking wish she was still hung up on you.”

“Okay, to be fair, Sid can probably only count to five,” Jude added—Sid finally punched him on the shoulder—as he toyed with the paper umbrella on his fourth cocktail; the Margaritas they’d ordered were long gone. “But he’s right, you know? You’d never get her to go out with you again.”

There was pity in Jude’s voice—as if he felt sorry that Jungkook lived in denial, chasing after you and convincing himself that it was only a matter of time before you’d come back to him.

This made Jungkook’s temper vile, his face red, hot, and angry. He slammed his beer back on the table, forcing some of it to spill. “Yes, I fucking would!”

Sid was hiccupping as he laughed.

“Okay, okay, listen—let’s make a proper bet,” he managed. He picked up a napkin from the bar top, then looked around for something to write on it with—not finding anything, he stood up from his seat and leaned over the bar, grabbing a pen before the bartender could notice. “$1000 says you can’t get her to go on a date with you again.”

He glanced at Jude for approval—Jude shrugged.

“I’d suggest $500,” he said. “We don’t want to rob him blind.”

Jungkook’s face remained stoic, prideful.

“Fine with me. But you have no idea what you’re getting yourselves into,” he bit.

“Oh, that’s right, he’s been awfully cocky about the whole thing, hasn’t he?” Sid spoke, addressing his rhetorical question at the bar. He wrote something on the napkin and then lifted it to show the number “4000” to Jungkook. “How about this: Jude and I each pay you $2000 if you win. But if you lose, you give us your Katana.”

Jungkook lifted his eyebrows, the sudden mention of his bike catching him off-guard. Sid came from old money, he could afford fifteen brand-new motorcycles with the change he found in his suitcase, probably.

“How is that fair?” he asked. “Do you even know how much a Suzuki costs these days? It’s not $4000, I can tell you that much.”

“Why should you care?” Sid asked, his eyes glinting with mischief. “You were so confident about winning the bet just a second ago. Scared you’ll lose after all?”

In his defence, Jungkook did hesitate for half a moment. But there was a shit-eating grin on Sid’s mouth that he wanted to wipe off more than anything else, and he downed the rest of his beer in one big gulp—a showcase of his determination.

“Not at all,” he said then. He wasn’t sure if he was lying as he said this, but he had no time to figure that out. He extended his hand at Sid. “Get your money ready.”

Here, he was putting up a front – this wasn’t about the money at all. It was more a thing of pride; they were teasing him, purposefully making fun of him—and he wanted to prove them wrong, regardless if they were actually wrong.

Smirking, Sid shook his hand—cementing the bet between all three of them, as Jude was busy finishing off his cocktail—and was about to say something when Jungkook jumped off his stool.

“Have to go now,” he said, always a show-off with his overly creative comebacks when he was tipsy. “My horoscope predicts a date and a big fortune in my near future. Got to prepare.”

chapter title credits: sleep token, “rain”

special shout-out & thank you to @eleni-cherie who delivered the much-appreciated kicks in the ass, so that i would keep writing. the odds were really against me, so if it weren't for you & our in-depth fanfic discussions, i definitely wouldn't even be writing this note right now, let alone finally starting this story 💜

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[cece693]

Not Interested (Jasper Whitlock x M! Reader)

Summary: You never understood the hype over the Cullen family. Sure, they were beautiful, but didn’t anyone at school have enough common sense to notice something was off? Too bad a certain empath is smitten with you and merely finds your open disdain entertaining.

tags: perceptive reader, Jasper is smitten, isn't character canon nor resembles his original description, human reader, reader is a hothead and unfiltered, creative liberties with Jasper

You never understood the hype over the Cullen family. Sure, they were beautiful, but didn’t anyone at school have enough common sense to notice something was off? They looked like marble statues—flawlessly sculpted but lifeless, almost artificial. And then there were their mannerisms, too controlled to be teenagers. It was all a bit too uncanny for your liking.

Jasper Hale was no exception. Out of all of them, he seemed like the biggest walking red flag. He wasn’t an asshole, exactly, but his whole demeanor screamed danger. Every time you glanced his way, he was as stiff as a board, eyes unblinking and hands clenched into fists beneath the table, like he was holding himself back from doing something. There was a reason people said he was the second most unapproachable Cullen, with Rosalie taking the number one spot. Yet, despite his apparent hatred for people, he seemed determined to catch your attention.

He'd linger by your locker, his eyes burning a hole in your back. When you snapped at him to get lost, he didn’t flinch. He smiled. HE FUCKING SMILED LIKE YOU WERE A KITTEN THROWING A TANTRUM. In class, he'd try to strike up a conversation, blatantly ignoring your clipped and cold responses with a patience only a saint could have. Not only did you notice this, but the whole school did, too. Jasper’s odd behavior had quickly become a hot topic.

Jessica, damn her soul, was at the head of the rumor mill, spinning far-fetched stories about you and Jasper being secret lovers. If punching someone—much less a girl—wouldn’t get you expelled or possibly arrested, Jessica would have been target number one. You tried to keep your anger in check, especially when the whole school (students and staff alike) kept staring at you and Jasper like you were part of some soap opera. But one rumor, in particular, pushed you over the edge.

“I’m not a sugar baby!” you hissed at Jessica when she tried to strike up a conversation about the nonexistent gifts Jasper was supposedly giving you. “What bullshit gave you that idea?”

“He gave you a pencil—”

“Oh, fuck off and shove that pencil—” You couldn’t finish that thought as the bell rang, signaling the end of lunch and the beginning of fourth period. Jessica just waved goodbye and scurried off, knowing your temper wouldn’t be stopped by a bell. Huffing, you made your way to history class, where, lo and behold, Jasper was already seated, a grin on his face.

As the class dragged on, you couldn’t keep ignoring Jasper or the hushed whispers of the other students. His grin never faltered, and neither did the feeling of his gaze burning into you.

Screw it.

Without waiting for the teacher to finish his lecture on some historical battle you couldn’t care less about, you stood up abruptly.

“Out,” you muttered, grabbing Jasper by the arm with a grip that brooked no argument. Jasper, taken aback, allowed you to drag him to his feet. A low murmur rippled through the class, but you didn’t care. You were done playing around.

You hauled him out of the classroom, ignoring the teacher’s confused calls after you, and pulled him down the hallway to the nearest janitor's closet. You shoved the door open, pushed him inside, and slammed it shut behind you. The tiny space was dimly lit and filled with the scent of cleaning supplies, but you didn’t let the cramped quarters intimidate you. Instead, you crowded Jasper back against a shelf, glaring up at him.

“Alright, Hale,” you snapped, eyes blazing. “I’m sick of the staring, the lurking, and the creepy smiles. What's your deal? Are you trying to get under my skin, or are you just that bored?”

For a moment, Jasper didn’t respond. Then, slowly, that infuriatingly calm smile spread across his lips. “You know,” he drawled, his voice like honey dripping off a knife, “for someone who claims not to care, you seem awfully worked up about it.”

“Cut the crap,” you growled, slamming your palm against the shelf beside his head. “You’ve been following me around like some kind of deranged puppy, and I want to know why. And don’t you dare feed me some bullshit line about coincidence.”

Jasper’s smile faded, and for a moment, his eyes flickered with something darker, something almost… amused. “Maybe some of the rumors are true,” he admitted, his voice low but steady. “Maybe I do want to get to know you better.”

The words hung in the air, surprising you. You’d expected deflection, but this was something else. You narrowed your eyes. “Get to know me?” you echoed. “And what exactly does that mean?”

“It means,” Jasper continued, his gaze meeting yours head-on, “that you’re different from the others. You don’t fawn over us like we’re gods, and you’re not afraid to speak your mind. It’s… refreshing.”

You snorted. “So, what? You think acting like a creep is the way to get my attention? Newsflash, Hale: it’s not working.”

His lips twitched, almost like he was holding back a laugh. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “It got you to drag me in here, didn’t it?”

That did it. You reached out, grabbed the front of his shirt, and pulled him closer, your faces mere inches apart. “Listen to me,” you said, your voice a low, dangerous whisper. “If you want to know me, try acting like a normal person instead of some stalker freak. Got it?”

Jasper didn't reply immediately, just stared at you before his gaze briefly flicked to your lips. “Got it,” he murmured, a reverent expression crossing his face that confused the hell out of you. You let go of him, expecting him to step back, but he didn’t. He stayed right where he was, not seeming at all bothered by the confined space or your proximity. “Just so we’re clear,” he added softly, “I’m not giving up. I’m still going to try to get to know you, whether you like it or not.”

Feeling a mix of frustration and something you didn’t want to name, you turned around and opened the door. “Fine, but try anything like this again, and I won’t be so nice.”

Jasper chuckled, that damn smile creeping back onto his face. “Deal, but somehow, I think you like a little chaos.”

You rolled your eyes. “Let’s get back to class, Hale.” you grumbled, stepping out into the hallway. But as you walked away, you couldn’t shake the feeling of his gaze on your back—a challenge silently hanging in the air between you.

[syrupsyche]

in honour of our boys appearing yet again for Les Mis Letters, here is a look at their names + my favourite lines from the Chinese translation of Les Mis (by Li Dan and Fang Yu)

Enjolras = 安灼拉 (Ān zhuó lā)

安 meaning peace

灼 meaning burning/bright

“他有天使那么美。” = He was as pretty as an angel

“他在欢乐中也不苟言笑” = He did not smile even when he was happy.

“他是自由女神云石塑像的情人” = He was lady liberty's marble lover.

Combeferre = 公白飞 (Gōng bái fēi)

公 can be found in the word 公平, meaning just

白 meaning white (which makes me think of: "Combeferre was as gentle as Enjolras was severe, through natural whiteness.")

飞 meaning flight

安灼拉近于义，公白飞近于仁。= Enjolras was closer to righteousness, Combeferre was closer to kindness.

如果这两个青年当年登上了历史舞台，也许一个会成为公正无私的人，而另一个则成为慎思明辨的人 = If these two young men had ascended the stage of history, one would have been a fair and just man, and the other a careful and discerning man.

公白飞也许能双膝着 地，两手合十，以待未来天真无邪地到来，希望人们去恶从善的巨大 进化不至于受到任何阻扰。= Combeferre would have gone on his knees, hands clasped, and bring about the innocent arrival of the future, and hoped that nothing would impede the evolution of the people.

Jean Prouvaire/Jehan = 让·勃鲁维尔 (Ràng·bó lǔ wéi'ěr) / 热安 (Rè ān)

shares an 安 with Enjolras, meaning peace

让·勃鲁维尔是个多情种子 = Jean Prouvaire was the affectionate type

他说起话来语调轻缓，俯首低眉，腼腆地微笑着，举动拘束，神气笨拙，无缘无故地脸羞得通红，胆怯。然而，猛不可当 = He spoke in a soft and tender tone, bowed his head and lowered his gaze, smiled shyly, moved reservedly, had a clumsy air, his face would flush red for no reason, and was timid. But his ferocity was undaunted.

Feuilly = 弗以伊 (Fú yǐ yī)

他只有一个念头：拯救世界。他还另外有种愿望：教育自己，他说这也是拯救自己 = He only had one thought: to rescue the world. He also had another wish, to educate himself, which he said was also to rescue himself.

弗以伊是个性情豪放的人。他有远大的抱负。这孤儿让人民为父母 = Feuilly had a bold temperament. He had great ambitions. This orphan took the people in, and became their parent.*

Courfeyrac = 古费拉克 (Gǔ fèi lākè)

克 meaning overcome or subdue

古费拉克确实具有人们称为鬼聪明的那种青春热力。这种热力，和小猫的可爱一样 = Courfeyrac had what one might describe as the cleverness and passion of youth. This passion can also be found in the cuteness of a kitten

不过古费拉克是个诚实的孩子 = However, Courfeyrac was an honest boy.

在多罗米埃身上蕴藏着一个法官，在古费拉克身上蕴藏着一个武士。 = In Tholomyès' body contained a judge; in Courfeyrac's body contained a knight.

安灼拉是首领，公白飞是向导，古费拉克是中心。= Enjolras was the leader, Combeferre was the guide, Courfeyrac was the heart.

Bahorel = 巴阿雷 (Bā ā léi)

雷 meaning thunder

巴阿雷是个善于诙谐而难与相处的人，诚实，爱花钱，挥霍到近于奢侈，多话到近于悬河，横蛮到近于不择手段，是当魔鬼最好的材料 = Bahorel was a humourous man, though difficult to get along with, honest, spendthrift, spending to the point of extravagance, talking to the point of eloquence, bold to the point of brashness and had the perfect makings of a devil.**

他的父母是农民，对父母他是知道反复表示敬意的。= His parents were peasants, and he knew to often treat them with much respect.

关于他们，他常这样说：“这是些农民，不是资产阶级，正因为这样，他们才有点智慧。” = Regarding them, he often said: "These are peasants, not bourgeois; thus they are the wiser."

Lesgle/Bossuet = 赖格尔 (Lài gé ěr) / 博须埃 (Bó xū āi)

博须埃是个遭遇不好的快乐孩子。他的专长是一事无成，相反地对一切都付之一笑。= Bossuet was an unfortunate, but happy child. His specialty was to achieve nothing, and would laugh at everything.

他能很快用到他最后一个苏，却从不会笑到他的最后一声笑。= He could quickly spend his last sou, but he would never smile a last smile.

Joly = 若李 (Ruò lǐ)

他认为人和针一样，可以磁化，于是，他把卧室里的床摆成南北向，使他血液的循环不致受到地球大磁场的干扰 = He believed man and needle were the same - able to be magnetized - and so he had his bed turned facing the north and south to prevent his blood circulation from receiving any interferences from the Earth's magnetic field.

可是在所有这些人中，他是最热闹的一个 = But amongst these men, he was the liveliest of them all.

年轻，乖僻，体弱，兴致高，这一切不相连属的性格汇集在他一人身上，结果使他成了个放荡不羁而又惹人喜爱的人 = Young, eccentric, frail, and cheerful: all these individual characteristics constituted his being, resulting in a peculiar man whom people were fond of.

Grantaire = 格朗泰尔 (Gé lǎng tài ěr)

朗 meaning bright or clear

格朗泰尔是个不让自己轻信什么的人。= Grantaire was a person who did not allow himself to believe in anything.

这个乱七八糟的怀疑者在这一伙信心坚定的人中，向谁靠拢呢？向最坚定的一个 = To whom did this mess of a skeptic lean towards in this group of confident and steadfast men? To the most resolute.

没有谁比瞎子更喜爱阳光。没有谁比矮子更崇拜军鼓手。= No one could love the sunlight more than the blind man. No one could worship the drummer more than the dwarf.

这是种深深的矛盾，因为感情也是一种信念。= This is deeply contradictory, for love*** is also a form of belief.

他经常受到安灼拉的冲撞，严厉的摈斥，被撵以后，仍旧回来，他说，安灼拉“是座多美的云石塑像”！= He was often attacked and harshly rebuked by Enjolras. Still, he would return even after being driven out, and say that Enjolras "could be a beautiful, marble statue!"

—

If anyone is interested in other lines and what they have been translated to, feel free to let me know and I can dig it up for you! And thanks for reading all this way :)

*Other Chinese speakers pls help me verify if this is an accurate translation? Idk why this particular sentence is tripping me up.

**Verification on his translation most welcome too; this REALLY sent me on a doozy.

***感情 can also be translated as feelings, affection, fondness etc. Used as "He has feelings for him."

[promptthebear]

Edmund Pevensie, Soulmate AU

Part two of this

CW: Some violence but nothing super graphic. Some swearing. Serious enemies to lovers vibes. Telmar!Reader, so some physical description to match that sorry.

Cair Paravel was a testament of shining marble, fine tapestries and golden fixtures. It was the envy of many a nearby kingdom, most of whom had tried and failed to imitate its beauty. The same, however, could not be said of the dungeons.

The moment the dank, frigid air rose from behind the barred door, Edmund realized just how appealing his empty bed suddenly was. Everyone swore this part of the castle was haunted and though Edmund personally didn’t believe in such foolishness, he very much understood how those sorts of rumours came to be. He tried to stand tall and play at being courageous and stoic as he walked alongside the young guard down the winding steps, but his heart just wasn’t in it. Before long, Edmund found himself jumping at every distant sound and balking at every shadow cast in the flickering torch light, even when in fact said shadows were none other than his own.

Despite the fact that his young guard had been so anxious among the fine tapestries and clean rushes of the upstairs halls, the young man seemed completely comfortable among the dripping walls and dirt floors that created the bowels of the castle. He strode beside Edmund with an easy confidence, his grip on the torch he carried not wavering once, even when a rat ran nearly beneath his boot and announced its arrival with a piercing squeak.

When he managed to recover some of his wits and find enough voice with which to speak, Edmund asked the guard about it, more than a little curious on how such a skittish man could remain so calm in a place that left greater men shaking. By way of response, the youth merely shrugged and said “Everything that could hurt a fellow down here is already locked up, and the rats never bothered me none. S’far worse out in the forests”

While Edmund could see the guard’s side of things, he personally would have much rather been out in the forest tonight. He’d been riding those trails since he was a boy, and in that time he’d communed with all manner of creatures, magic and mundane alike. However, in his many years, he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anything quite like you.

Opposite to the castle in every way, the dungeons were incredibly small by the usual standard. They consisted in their entirety of three cells, while the rest of the space was mostly used as a recreational area for the various guards to play cards and the like. Usually, any prisoners awaiting trial were spread evenly between the three cells to avoid overcrowding and the potential for fights and disease to spread. That was not the case tonight, however.

Someone had taken the liberty of placing every inmate into the leftmost cell, and despite still having some room to move about or even lie down, the people locked inside had all crammed themselves into the back corner like bees in a hive. Edmund nearly thought the first cell was empty, until he caught a glimpse of several wide, fearful pairs of eyes that gleamed back at him in the ruddy torchlight. When he approached the cell to have a closer look, he was met with an eerie silence rather than the usual sighs, shuffling and coughs that occurred when you had a small crowd of people together. While Narnia was not known for housing a particularly nasty sort of criminal, the bulk of which were pickpockets and street hustlers, they were also not the type to scare easy.

Whatever was making these people frightened was bad enough that the guards had felt the need to keep the middle cell completely empty. This provided around ten more feet of space between the leftmost cell and the right most cell. Edmund stared between the middle cell and the occupied one on the left, trying to puzzle out what was so awful it had everyone this nervous. Even the guards seemed tenser than usual. They played hands of wist in almost completely silence, and had barely given Edmund a glance since he’d arrived. Normally, every soldier within spitting distance would be tripping over themselves bowing and trying to greet him.

Half expecting to find a dragon or an ogre, Edmund took a deep breath and approached the last cell. His boots made a hollow, tapping sound on the floor as he walked, each one an echo alongside the heartbeat pounding in his ears.

When he reached the padlocked door he stopped, and peered between the bars into the gloom. He could barely make out what was inside, if there was anything to begin with. An oppressive sort of darkness clung to this corner of the dungeon like cobwebs, making it nearly impossible to see anything farther than arm’s length away.

The torch that hung on the wall between centre and left cell had long since gone out. It sat, cold and forgotten in its sconce as though nobody had been willing to risk coming any closer to light it. Though it had been many years since Edmund had feared the dark, the sight of the blackened torch wasn’t a comforting one either.

When his eyes finally adjusted to the surrounded darkness, he caught his first glimpse of you. Edmund was immediately struck by the fact that, for whatever reason, someone had gone through the trouble of binding you up like a Christmas turkey. A pair of steel manacles had been clamped around your wrists, with a matching set around your ankles and a chain that looped between both so that you couldn’t sit upright properly, or move much at all really. There was also a rope twisted around your body in such a way that it bound your arms firmly to your sides, and forced your own legs to rest parallel with the legs of the wooden stool beneath you.

This set up alone would have been enough to hold back a drunken Minotaur, let alone a mere slip of a girl. Whichever one of the guards had shut you up in here clearly thought immobilizing you completely wasn’t good enough. A gag of rough spun cloth had been shoved between your lips and tied so tightly about your face, that it was tugging the edges of your mouth back towards your ears.

A bubble began to expand in Edmund’s gut, something that turned icy cold and burning hot in waves and made him feel as though he was about to be sick on the dirt floor. Memories came to the forefront of his mind, as though he had slipped into a waking nightmare. He could feel a gag against his own mouth, ropes biting at his wrists and the faint sounds of a war camp in his ears. Sweat beaded on his brow, and he had to rest his head for a moment against the cool metal bars to steady himself.

In the dark, Edmund could just make out the faint outlines of your face. He couldn’t read your expression, but he could tell that you were watching him. For a moment, he thought he detected a bit of sympathy in your eyes, a softness he didn’t expect. Then, you blinked and tossed your head in a haughty sort of manner, as though you didn’t give a shit if Edmund dropped dead right then and there.

Whatever he had seen in your eyes was quickly replaced by a steely sort of rage that seemed much more appropriate, given the circumstances. Disgusted with the situation and with himself, Edmund took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and turned to face the guards.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, his voice echoing about the otherwise silent room in a kingly fashion “You have her tied up as though she were some sort of wild animal!”

The guards stared at him dumbly, as though tying up young women was not only an ordinary occurrence for them but an entirely acceptable thing to do. Edmund took another deep breath, and bit the inside of his cheek to force back the frustrated scream that wanted to push its way out. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, it was a day that ended in y after all, and on those days, the guards always acted as though they hadn’t been born with any sense. Thankfully, the Captain stepped forward before Edmund began tearing his hair out in fistfuls.

“She may as well be, your majesty” he said, tugging at his beard while he spoke “She’s done nothing but raise hell and cause trouble since we picked her up by the docks. Screamed like a banshee the whole way down, and then flew at us like a little wildcat the second we opened the caged wagon. She’s a biter too, look what she did to one of my lads.”

From the corner of his eye, Edmund saw a young man leave the card tables and quickly approach, though the Captain had not officially summoned anyone. The soldier could have been the twin of the other guard who’d escorted Edmund from upstairs, save for the thick white bandage in place where his left ear should have been. Already, a large, dark red blotch was forming against the white cotton, and it was all Edmund could do not to flinch in sympathy.

“G’on boy, show his Majesty what’s happened.”

The boy shuffled nervously back and forth for a moment, before reaching up to unwind the bandages. It was slow work, parts of the fabric had stuck together with dried blood and with each new layer shed, the young man seemed to grow weaker and more pallid. When there was nothing left but a coil of stained cotton on the floor, Edmund took a deep breath and forced himself to have a proper look at the wound. After only a few seconds, he had to look away again, his stomach churning.

“Bloody hell.” he muttered under his breath.

The Captain gave a stiff nod in response, before placing a hand on the young man’s shoulder to hold him steady. Any colour in the boy’s face had completely drained by this point, his skin was as white as the bandages had once been and there was a sheen of sweat upon his brow. If it wasn’t for the Captain supporting him, Edmund truly doubted he would’ve been able to stand at all.

“You asked me why I had the girl locked up, your Majesty. Well, there’s your answer. Mark or no mark, I will not stand idly by and let some Telmarine harlot rip decent Narnian citizens to pieces.”

The mention of the word “mark” made Edmund’s ears prick up, but he tried to feign an appropriately sombre countenance and turned his attention to the matter at hand. Before he gave you any more thought, he had a tetchy captain and a young soldier ending the night with one less ear than he started with to worry about.

“Captain, believe me when I say your concerns are taken with the utmost severity and I will do everything within my power as Kings Justice to make sure any Telmarines remain mindful of whose land they’re docking their ships on. As for this young man, he will be given all the proper recognition and honour…once he’s been seen to by my personal physicians.”

For a moment, it seemed as though some colour returned to the lad’s cheeks, though that also could have been the torchlight playing tricks. At the very least, he managed to give Edmund a wan smile and a soft “Thank you, your Majesty” before he slumped against the Captain’s side and fell silent.

“Captain, have two of your men rouse Lucy and Tumnus. By happy circumstance, they are both here in the castle tonight. If they have any misgivings about the matter, tell them they are being summoned at my personal behest.”

The Captain gave a stiff nod in Edmund’s direction, before turning his head and letting loose a sharp whistle from between his teeth. The sound was still echoing against the stone walls when two more guards appeared. Without a word, they each slung one of the wounded soldier’s arms over their shoulders and guided him towards the exit. The Captain followed suit, stopping briefly to give some hushed instructions to another guard nearest to the door before he disappeared up the stairs.

With their direct superior gone, Edmund felt the eyes of the remaining guards immediately fall on him. As much as he wanted to let his chest drop back and slump his shoulders to regain a little comfort, he knew he must keep standing with his back rigid and his head held high. In his heart, he may have been nothing more than Edmund, a man in much deeper and much more frightened than he cared to admit. In the eyes of everyone else, however, he was still the King and would be expected to handle the current situation as such.

Sighing, he turned to the guard standing watch by the leftmost cell and cleared his throat to get the young man’s attention. The guard jumped slightly at the noise, as though Edmund had just woken him from a half sleep. It seemed an odd place to try and nap, by Edmund’s standards, but he supposed one could sleep anywhere once you were used to it.

“Your majesty?”

The guard’s voice betrayed his age, and it was all Edmund could do to keep his eyebrows from shooting up towards his hairline. If he managed to get through this without ending up in the infirmary or worse, then he’d have to have a word with the Captain about the youthfulness of his recruits.

“The keys around your belt, young sir. Give them to me, if you please.”

Despite his few years, the guard knew well enough how to take orders. Without protest, he unclipped the ring of keys from his belt loop and handed them to Edmund. They were heavier than Edmund expected, and somehow the weight of the metal in his palm was strangely reassuring.

Squaring his shoulders, he turned once more to face the rightmost cell. There hadn’t been a sound from you this entire time, and Edmund wasn’t certain if this meant you were subdued or simply lying in wait to ambush the next person stupid enough to try and approach. He only hoped that, no matter what happened, he’d be able to greet the dawn with all his extremities still attached.

You hated this country. You hated its people, it’s stinking cobblestone streets covered in horseshit, its passionless music and the bland, disgusting mush it tried to pass off as food. Most of all, you hated its idiot King and the stupid way he was looking at you.

You’d made it clear, or so you thought, that the next Narnian fool who came near you did so at the risk of his own well-being. And yet, here sat the King, no more than a foot or so away from you, hunched over on a simple wood stool and studying you like you were some sort of oddity in a menagerie. You glared back, wanting nothing more than to wrench free of your bindings and claw at his eyes so the last thing he’d ever see was the rage on your face. But those thrice damned guards had tied you up so tight you scarce had room to breathe. Not only was this a country of fools, but cowards as well, it seemed.

“I’m going to take this gag off your mouth now, and then we’re going to have a little chat, you and I.”

His words were a command, but the way he said it implied a question, as though you would give him an answer even if you could. It was all you could do not to roll your eyes. Even those with absolute power were spineless here, issuing their commands as though they required permission for them to be followed. If such a man tried to rule in Telmar, they’d be knocked on their arse and trampled by someone more capable who’d take their place in the blink of an eye.

When the King reached to remove the gag, your eyes immediately locked on his hands. You watched them with a frevored sort of intensity, preparing to use all the agility dipping into pockets and running cup and ball scams had taught you in your years on the street. As soon as you felt the knot around the back of your head loosen, you struck.

Your teeth closed around the flesh of the King’s wrist, and you clamped down hard on his forearm so he could not wrench free without causing further damage. You were rewarded with a yelp, a loud clear sound that reminded you of a pup being kicked. The taste of blood, thick and coppery, filled your mouth but you held fast despite your stomach twisting in disgust. It was only when the King brought his fist down sharply on the crown of your head and made white stars dance across your vision that you finally released him.

He staggered backwards, clutching your gag to his wounded arm and staring at you with wide eyes that betrayed a different sort of wound inside him. You wanted to laugh, but the bile in your mouth turned any sort of noise into a half choked gurgle. Clearing your throat, you turned your head to the side and spat onto the stone floor. The King’s blood turned the grey flagstone a pretty shade of pink.

“You vicious little bitch”

Surprise, fresh and delightful, tingled down your spine. Now that was unexpected. When you betrayed the King’s trust, at the least you figured he’d draw back and sulk like the Narnian dog he was. Instead, he was paying you back with the same coin, striking at you with his words as you had struck him just now. Perhaps there was more lion in him than you thought.

“Why would you do that?”

The commanding tone he’d lacked earlier had finally appeared. Despite the fact that he was dishevelled, bleeding and standing as far away from you as he could in these cramped quarters, this young man was actually starting to resemble someone you could recognize as a King. The fact that you’d managed to goad him into such a state so quickly pleased you immensely, and you couldn’t help but grin widely back at him.

“Because I hate you” you replied, almost cheerfully.

“Yeah, I gathered as much” he shot back, royal courtesy completely forgotten “But I’m only trying to help.”

“Well, I didn’t ask for it, and you’re a stranger who’s touching me without my say while I’m in a vulnerable position. Anyone else would have done the same.”

What the King said next made your shit eating grin falter slightly in place. Narnians had always confused you, but it seemed this one was playing a different game entirely.

“You’re…you’re right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that without your consent. Are you feeling alright? How’s your head? I’m sorry I struck you.”

You stared at him as though he had sprouted wings and a tail. You were the one who had bitten him, hard enough that he was bleeding through the strip of fabric he was clutching to his arm. He must be hurting terribly, and yet he was asking after your welfare, and apologizing no less.

“I’m…fine.” you said, flatly, keeping your eyes trained away from his face “I’ve…you didn’t hit me that hard.”

“The fact that I hit you at all is unforgivable. May I have a closer look? If you’re injured, you really should be seen to by someone.”

You nodded, forcing your expression into a stern mask so as not to betray your confusion. This sort of treatment was completely alien to you, in your world kindness was for those who didn't have to worry about having crusts of bread snatched from their open mouths. It was a luxury only afforded to royalty and their ilk, like spices and fresh fruit.

When the King came to approach you again, he did so with slow, measured steps. At first, you thought it was because he was trying to avoid jostling his arm around. But, as you watched his lithe frame move through the ring of golden light from the torch he’d brought in earlier, realization hit.

He was frightened. Of you.

Immediately, your heart shot into your throat and your stomach dropped into the bowels of the Earth. You swallowed, hard, and turned your face away, pretending as though you were fascinated by the flickering shadows on the far wall. They danced like living things, their movements smooth and natural, and a part of you wished you could somehow join them.

You wanted nothing more than to slip your bonds and melt away into the shadows, but it was the stone in your gut you wished to escape, not the chains about your wrists. On the Talmoren streets, feelings were another luxury that you had little use for. Guilt was as new to you as kindness, and right away you misliked the acrid taste it brought into your mouth. In your twenty five years on the Talmoren streets, you’d stolen, lied, and cheated all in the name of survival. Those sins weighed no more on your heart than a raindrop would on the ocean. You’d done far worse to better men, and yet this Narnian wretch who you’d known for maybe an hour or more had your mind twisting itself in knots. Why?

The sound of the stool scraping against the stone floor drew you from your thoughts. You watched as the King righted his stool from the floor, and set it down across from you, though closer than it had been. He sat upon it with a deep sigh, and began to wrap his wounded arm with the linen gag.

The closeness allowed you a better look at the injury, which had already started to mottle purple and red with bruises around the edge. It made for a stark contrast against the King’s creamy, pale skin. An angry red flower on a field of snow.

You’d seen many similar hurts in your lifetime, some which you’d caused while others had been inflicted on you. Almost always, they resulted in a scar, the phantom outline of teeth remaining long after the open sores had closed up.

“You’ll need an apothecary for that, and a potion of honey and turmeric.” you blurted suddenly.

The King looked up at you, not even bothering to hide his startled expression. Something about the way his brown eyes widened and his lips formed a sort of rosebud shape was oddly endearing.

“Turmeric? I’m afraid I’m not familiar.”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes. This was a country of idiots, after all.

“It’s a root, from a plant. Usually it’s sold in a powder, but fresh is best. Turmeric draws any illness from a wound, while the honey helps it stick and will keep your skin from scarring. I have a sachet of it in my bag, provided your guards haven’t taken it for themselves.”

The King nodded in response. If your jab at his guards upset him, he didn’t show it.

“Thank you. That’s very kind. I’ll make sure we retrieve that for you, and I may want to have you speak with Lucy about this herb and it’s uses. I’m sure she’ll find the information very helpful in treating that young man you attacked.”

“Who is Lucy?”

“One of my sisters, the younger one actually. I have two, you’d know them as the Queens. There’s also Susan, she’s older than both of us.”

You turned this information over in your mind, silently comparing it with the little Narnian history you knew. Prior to now, the only King here you’d known about was the one they called Peter. His face was familiar to you, simply because it was stamped on one side of the copper coins you’d stolen from drunken sailors in the dockside taverns. Nobody in Telmar had ever spoken about any other Narnian royalty, though a healthy hatred of Peter was as common as dirt.

“So…who does that make you?”

The young King seemed to find this funny, letting out a wry chuckle before he finished tying the knot in the bandage around his arm. He did so quite skilfully, you noticed, and you wondered how much practice he’d had patching up himself or his men on the battlefield. Most of the Telmarine emperors could not boast of such skills. Matters of the body and healing it were considered beneath them, and tasks of those nature were left exclusively to apothecaries and sorcerers. Perhaps less soldiers would die fighting if their leaders took the time to help them.

“I’m Edmund,” the King said, his voice oddly gentle “What’s your name?”

You told him, and he repeated it a couple times, as though he was trying to taste the sound of it on his tongue.

“It’s very pretty,” he said, finally “Now that we’ve been properly introduced, will you allow me to have a closer look at your face?”

You nodded, knowing that if you opened your mouth you’d most likely say something vicious again. Of course he could have a look, it wasn’t as though you had a lot of choice in the matter being tied down as you were.

Edmund’s fingers were soft, softer than the hands of any man you’d ever known, though you could feel some callouses on spots where his sword hilt would chafe the skin. He probed your face cautiously, going across your cheeks and over the bridge of your nose with the practiced touch of someone who had done this many times before. For the most part, his expression remained neutral as he focused on the task at hand, but you did notice his eyes narrow slightly when he came across your split bottom lip.

If he had asked about it, you would’ve quickly implicated the guard you’d bit. Though he’d had a boyish and seemingly innocent face, he’d struck you hard enough to knock your teeth together when you’d spewed a string of curses at him during your arrest. The ones directed at his mother seemed to sting in particular, but he’d quickly lost his bravado after you’d torn his ear off when he tried to slap a pair of irons on you. It had taken three other grown men to subdue you, which was hardly a fair fight even if you’d fought like a hellion. Your chest still ached terribly from where they’d pinned you down by sitting on you, and you knew you’d sport a fresh crop of bruises in the morning

Eventually, Edmund moved his hands from your face and pushed them into the curls at your temples. He went slowly, not wanting to miss even the slightest bump or cut. After a short moment or two, he’d worked his way up to the crown of your head where he’d struck you earlier on. As his fingers brushed over a sore spot, you winced in spite of yourself, which made Edmund draw back as though he’d been burnt.

“I’m sorry. You’re certainly going to have a fair sized bump there tomorrow. It shouldn’t be too serious, but I’d like to have Lucy take a look anyway, just to be safe. I shouldn’t have struck you so hard.”

You shrugged, the chains about your arms clanking as you did.

“I bit you. I suppose we could call that even.”

Edmund smiled and something long dormant in your chest fluttered. You cast your gaze downwards, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t notice the burning in your cheeks. That was when your eyes alighted on something peeking out from the edge of Edmund’s collar.

“What is it?”

He may not have caught onto your blush, but he certainly didn’t miss where your eyes had gone. You really shouldn’t have been as surprised by this as you were. Narnians were known for their skills with swords, and the ability to be observant would have been part of that training.

“You have a…there’s something on your chest.”

Edmund blinked at you in surprise, and glanced down at himself.

“Oh. My mark. Here, let me show you.”

You watched with interest as his fingers opened the line of buttons down the front of his shirt. Each one revealed another inch of clean, white skin dusted with freckles and a healthy amount of fine, brown hair. You squirmed slightly in your seat, your cheeks feeling like an inferno.

At first, you’d thought what you’d spotted was a tattoo. Only now, that you could see it in full, unobstructed view and highlighted by the nearby torch did you realize you were wrong.

What decorated Edmund’s chest was by no means a tattoo. Rather than the black or brown ink you were used to seeing, the image was outlined in a shimmering gold. Though you had never took a needle to your own skin, you had a feeling even the most skilled of artists would not have been able to recreate such a rich colour. The way it sat on Edmund’s flesh was as natural as his freckles, as though he’d been born with it.

“And the purpose of this?”

Your voice echoed around the dungeon, which had somehow grown silent save for the sound of Edmund’s breathing and the faint crackle of the torches. From the look on Edmund’s face, you had a feeling you’d asked something incredibly unusual, which only served to confuse you further. Was this a Narnian custom? The longer you looked at the mark, the more it bothered you. There was something about it that tugged at your memory, like an itch you couldn’t quite reach.

“It’s my soul mark,” Edmund said slowly, as he began to button up his shirt again “Everyone has one. Even the centaurs and ogres and merfolk. You get one when you turn eighteen. Eventually, you’re meant to meet someone who has a mark identical to yours and that person is your soulmate.”

You shivered slightly, suddenly feeling as though a bucket of ice water had been dumped over your head. This wasn’t a story you knew, but it felt as though you had heard if before anyway, like the echoes of a dream after you’d just woken up.

Your birthday had never been a celebration back home, not truly, but you’d been luckier than most to know the actual day upon which it fell. Usually the most you’d ever done when it came around was vow to live long enough to see your next one, though around seven years ago, something very unexpected had happened.

“I…Edmund…I think I have-”

The sound of his name on your perfect, full lips made Edmund feel lightheaded. There was a slight accent to your Narnian, which caused your voice to lilt in a way that was almost melodic. He was so entranced that he nearly missed what you were saying.

“You have a mark?” Like mine?”

You nodded, solemnly and bit your lip before speaking.

“It just…appeared one day. Around my eighteenth birthday, like you said. No one else in Telmar had one and I could never figure out what made me so different. When nothing else came of it, I forgot about the whole thing.”

So the guards had been telling the truth. Edmund brought a hand up to his forehead and massaged the crease that had appeared between his brows. He’d long since become accustomed to the idea that he’d be alone for the rest of his days. To have that changed so suddenly, especially by someone as complicated and unpredictable as you, he didn’t know what to make of it.

“May I see it?”

Some part of his mind still thought that maybe, this could be a trick. He’d open your shirt and find that the guards had talked you into letting them draw a donkey or something even more obscene on your skin for a bit of coin. But if that was the case, why had you attacked them? It seemed like an awful lot of trouble for a bit of sport.

“If you’d like.”

Now, it was Edmund’s turn to blush. You’d given your consent, and yet he couldn’t help but feel a little bit perverse as he reached to undo the top button of your collar. When you didn’t flinch away or try to bite him again, he continued, his hands shaking all the while. Your skin was warm beneath his touch, and softer than anything Edmund ever felt. Each opened button revealed another inch of smooth, bronze tinged flesh, along with a cream coloured shift and the tops of a pair of fair sized breasts.

The sight of those almost had Edmund running back upstairs to the safety of his room, when his eyes alighted on the tell tale golden lines just below your collarbone. Taking a deep breath to steel himself, he reached out and gently tugged down the edge of your shift to get a closer look. He silently prayed that none of the guards took this moment to walk in, especially not the captain. He’d have a hell of a time finding a good reason to explain why he was practically peering down your shirt. It suddenly dawned on him why you may have given that young guard such a hard time, and any sympathy he’d had for the lad was pushed away by disgust.

“Aslan’s teeth.” he breathed

Sure enough, there it was. A lion, standing on its hind legs, mouth open in a snarl and a pair of crossed swords over its head. A perfect twin to Edmund’s, in size, colour, and location.

“Batshit and buggery,” he said again, parroting a favourite phrase of Peter’s.

You blinked at Edmund, trying to understand where this was coming from. He was staring at you as though every secret of the known universe had been writ there on your skin, and perhaps for him, it was.

“So, what does this mean?” you asked, hating how stupid you sounded.

“It means,” Edmund said, rising to his feet and reaching to tug at the knots that bound the ropes around your body “You and I are going to have a lot to talk about.”

[campyre]

Marble Lover of Grantaire Liberty

Happy barricade day! :)

[cometomecosette]

"Les Misérables" musical character interpretations: Enjolras

Next on my list of characterization comparisons: our favorite revolutionary leader, Enjolras.

Once again, each of these three interpretations can work by themselves, or else they can be combined with each other. For example, I've found that some of the best Enjolras actors (e.g. Anthony Warlow, Ramin Karimloo, Kevin Earley) have combined "the Soldier" with "the Marble Lover of Liberty." And while Aaron Tveit's movie Enjolras is basically "the Marble Lover of Liberty," he's more subdued and boyish than most stage examples, with a possible undertone of "the Young Student."

While writing this, I also remembered the 2011 fan comic Enjolras and His Singing Brethren. Of course that comic isn't really a comparison of different characterizations, but mainly a way to praise David Thaxton's Enjolras and to make fun of Michael Maguire, Drew Sarich, and various bad actors in the role. But connections can still be drawn between my more earnest comparison and that silly one. A "G.I. Jolras" is "the Soldier," obviously; an "OMGjolras" is "the Young Student"; and a "Pwnjolras" is either "the Marble Lover of Liberty" or that type crossed with "the Soldier." A "Hunjolras" is just "the Soldier" overacted, while a "Hohumjolras" and an "Umm?jolras" are just weak actors with no stage presence.

The Soldier

            This robust, fiery Enjolras lacks the ethereal qualities of Hugo’s Enjolras, but he compensates with his unbreakable fighting spirit. While dignified, he’s also quite a rabble-rouser, who blazes with anger at injustice and charges into battle with the force of a cannon. His passion and vigor can be heard in his frequent emphatic shouts (“Where are the SWELLS who run this show?!” “…to call them TO ARMS!” “DAMN their lies!” etc.) and seen in his commanding presence on the barricade. Rather than Hugo’s “flower,” this Enjolras is a sturdy, towering tree. At times he might seem almost smug, and he might seem slightly overbearing and preachy toward Marius in “Red and Black.” Nonetheless, he earns our admiration with his staunch courage and our sympathy with his devotion to his friends. This Enjolras will be warm and demonstrative toward the other students, evoking the deep bonds of military comrades, and to Marius he’ll be like an older brother, sometimes impatient yet fiercely protective and caring. At first, he might have little patience for Grantaire, but will sincerely strive to convert him to idealism too, and will ultimately give him a heartfelt reconciliation, either in “Drink With Me” or in “The Final Battle.” His two truly vulnerable moments are after Gavroche’s death and, more briefly, Marius’s apparent death: while outwardly stoic, he’ll convey silent desolation at both. But then his grief will turn to fearsome rage, and he’ll charge onward to make the enemy bleed while he can. Although he dies, his strength and fire will never be forgotten.

The Young Student

            This Enjolras can best be compared to the student protestors of the 1960s, or possibly to John F. Kennedy. A passionate, charismatic idealist, whose vision for the future is grand and inspiring, but whose youth and inexperience make him unprepared for the battle, which he pays for in blood. His courage and zeal for the cause are just as fiery as the Soldier’s, but he lacks the Soldier’s sturdiness: instead, his fire is wildfire, blazing with boyish energy. The news of Lamarque’s death might make him nearly manic with excitement because the chance for revolution he’s been waiting for has come. Yet he can be kind and gentle too, and in his idealism, he relates to everyone – whether the poor in “Look Down,” or his beloved friends, or strangers – as an equal. When he lectures Marius or snaps at Grantaire, it never seems too harsh, because there’s no air of superiority in it. And as the barricade scenes unfold, though he stays strong on the surface, private expressions reveal his increasing distress, fear, and struggle to lead as the rebellion’s doom becomes clear. This might culminate in a total breakdown at Gavroche’s death, where he collapses in utter anguish and tears; or if not there, he might do it soon afterward over Marius’s “dead” body. (Or in a non-replica staging, over the body of Grantaire if he dies first.) But even if he doesn’t break down, we’ll feel his despair. Nonetheless, in his last moments, he picks himself up and faces his foes in a blaze of courage and defiance. Hugo’s “marble” Enjolras he isn’t, but as an all too young, very human martyr, he’s compelling in his own way.

The Marble Lover of Liberty

            This is Enjolras as Hugo wrote him, at least as much as the musical allows. He lacks either the Soldier’s machismo or the Young Student’s liveliness and vulnerability, but instead comes across as an almost angelic symbol of revolutionary idealism. His demeanor is stern, thoughtful, and defined by stately dignity and quiet strength. While his anger at injustice and his fervor for revolution are clear, and while there might be a subtle quality of wildness in his passion, he isn’t defined by fire. His anger is controlled and even-toned, not loud, and he’s able to command without aggression, but with a meaningful stare or simple gesture alone. When he sings of the future, gazing into the distance with a beatific expression, we see what defines this Enjolras: a shining vision of justice and freedom, which he worships with priestly devotion. He might come across as slightly cold and aloof, especially compared to his friends. But in his own quiet way, he’ll make his love for them clear. He likely won’t be overbearing toward Marius in “Red and Black,” but gently reason with him, outlining what he views as objective facts. He might treat Grantaire with cold disdain until the end, or he might show him a blend of frustration and caring from the start, but either way, their ultimate reconciliation will be meaningful and moving. As the barricade’s fall draws near, his sadness is quietly felt, but he never breaks. He dies with the same dignity, courage, and majestic idealism with which he lived. The sight of his body will inspire not just sadness, but reverence, and the resolve to keep his ideals alive.

More comparisons to come!

[steddieunderdogfics]

Paint the Devil on the Wall by MuseumGiftShopEraser

@museumgiftshoperaser

Rating: Explicit

64,609 words, 6/6 chapters

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Tags: Minor Robin Buckley/Nancy Wheeler, Past Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, artist!eddie, Eddie POV, Enemies to Lovers, Forced Proximity, and they were ROOMMATES, unstoppable force (mommy issues), meets immovable object (daddy issues), past abusive relationship, mentioned childhood physical abuse, Alcohol, Weed, Drugs, Addiction, Period-Typical Homophobia, mentioned homophobic parents, Mentioned Death of a Parent, Autistic Robin Buckley, Explicit Sexual Content, Light Dom/sub, Praise Kink, but they're like really intense about it, Masochism, Begging, Under-negotiated Kink, Safeword Use(Yellow), writer takes liberties with the amount of security at art galleries, gratuitous descriptions of the painting process, Steve and Robin are platonic soulmates in every universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, 80s New York art scene AU, Alternate Universe - No Upside Down (Stranger Things), Gay Steve Harrington, Queer Eddie Munson, tattoos as plot devices, Art, Art History, Painting, pottery

Summary:

If Eddie had known that sharing his New York City art studio with Robin would include her buddy Steve, he never would’ve offered it in the first place. There. He said it. If that makes him a bad friend, so be it. Because Steve is around all the time. Pastel and prissy. Sculpted from marble, yet dressed like a Macy’s mannequin. Always hovering. They got Robin’s potters wheel up the stairs last week, a three man effort he can still feel in his lower back, and now she’s fucking teaching him. Full on, arms wrapped around his waist, hands guiding hands. Someone grab him a bucket, ‘cause Eddie’s about to throw up. He’s not even good at it. Steve can barely get the hump of clay centered on the wheel and he refuses to get stains on his clothes. It’s fucking clay. It comes out in the wash. Steve’s shirtless approach to pottery is borderline offensive to the arts.

Thanks for the rec! This recommendation is apart of our Writer's Wednesday! All of the recs today are written by @museumgiftshoperaser. Want to nominate an author? Fill out this form!

You can submit fic recs to our asks or the submission box!

[elijah-loyal]

enjolras & grantaire playlists

i made these a very long time ago for my fic, "And I Know Perhaps My Heart Is Farce (But I'll Be Born Without A Mask)" and I genuinely think that they're still some of my favorite playlists

[sapphossidechick]

dni if you:

are the leader of a revolution, are a member of a revolution, are the marble lover of liberty, are someone else’s one true satellite, are a chief, a guide, a center, or a skeptic, have a pun for a name, are part of a group that has a pun for a name, can draw from memory a silkworm moth, are the only person in your friend group with a first name, make fans, are a gay but unlucky fellow, really like Poland, waste three thousand francs a year, like to look at your tongue in the mirror, or have joined a club you’re not even interested in for one person

[danceofdragonsrphq]

THE CORONATION OF KING JAEHAERYS II TARGARYEN

Hello writers! We are traveling again, thank you for your patience as we all worked through this busy holiday season. Let us start the year on the right foot, for the month (Jan. 01 - Jan31st) our muses will find themselves in the Kingdom of Jaehaerys Targaryen as the King holds his coronation in the traditions of Old Valyria with a series of games and feasting. Old enemies, friends, and lovers are reunited once more, what is in store for the citizens of Westeros.

Beneath the cut you will find a breakdown of housing for the visiting realms of Westeros. Here you will find a list of activities taking place during the event so our muses will have many options available during this event.

setting change: locations in new valyria note: there are some liberties taken with towers 

The Kingdoms of the Reach and the Westerlands: Due to the relationship between Kings Jaehaerys Targaryen and Tyland Lannister the dragon King has allowed them residence within the Red Keep. This invitation has been extended to the Reach on the strength of Jaehaerys’ “familial” connection with the MIstress of Ships Lucrezia Redwyne and his bastard sister Laena Oldflowers position as the Mistress of the King. The Kings and Queens of the Reach and Westerlands respectively will have quarters within Maegor’s Holdfast allowing their Kingsguards to take up residence as well giving them the extra feeling of security from their own people. The courts of these Kingdoms will stay in the Maidenvault, a long slate-roofed behind the royal sept, the Maidenvault includes a library, gardens, and its own Sept.  Note: The people of the Crown and Stormlands will be staying within the Red Keep as well. The Red Keep is overflowing with guests, including those from Lys, Tyrosh, and Volantis.

The Kingdom of the Riverlands: Because of the King’s desire to forge some kind of connection with the Riverlands, namely within their River Market, they have been given residence within The Riverwalk, a tower close to the river walk and godswood. It’s within walking distance of the main Holdfast though a touch further away than the Maidenvault. The belief is the Riverlanders will enjoy being close to water. 

The Kingdoms of the North and the Vale: These Kingdoms have been given residence in Librarius Tower, a building of black marble typically houses the maesters and few remaining alchemists has been given to these allied kingdoms with hopes of giving them peace of mind with being in quarters among people they seemingly trust. This tower has many chambers for meetings, most of the librarius is open to exploring save for any locked quarters which will be plainly noted. The tower is between the White Sword Tower of the Kingsguard and the Blackwater Bay. This was done with hopes of extending an olive branch between the realms and providing assurances that just because they have had or have disagreements Jaehaerys aims for a new day. 

The Kingdom of Dorne: Due to the tensions between realms, namely their courts of the marches, the Kingdom of Dorne has been given residence in Hayford. The castle being a half day’s ride from Red Keep allows the Dornish court to move freely through the city should they choose that route or travel down Hayford’s Hill. Monterys Belaerys has happily agreed to allow the Dornish to stay within his hall, making all he has available just as available to them. 

Locations and events around King’s Landing, The Red Keep, and Hayford: 

The Red Keep: 

The Great Hall: The second largest chamber in Westeros after Harrenhal, the Great Hall has been able to house thousands, an example being the Maiden’s Day Ball where more than a thousand maidens, their family members, and servants overcrowded the hall. The Great Hall will be used to hold small council meetings when/if the many councils or multiple councils decide to sit together. 

The Queen's Ballroom: Can seat a hundred, is much smaller than the Great Hall and the Small Hall. Its walls are paneled in richly carved wood, and every wall sconce has beaten silver mirrors which reflect torchlight. Musicians can perform in the gallery above the floor, which is covered with sweet-smelling rushes. Arched windows on the south wall can be covered with thick velvet draperies. The ballroom has long trestle tables and a dais. 

The Godswood of the Red Keep: An Acre of elm, alder, and black cottonwood trees overlooking the Blackwater ruse. There is a heart tree stump that was clearly hacked to bits, the ground around the tree's great stone roots looks to be saturated with blood. 

Winding Gardens: The great garden of the Red Keep is an maze like winding path of stone benches, fountains, and fruit trees. 

Secret Passages: Barring the network of passages most people wouldn’t be able to get to there is still the great chamber that holds the skull of Balerion the Black Dread, the chamber of Septa, a chamber of Septons, and more. People have been known to hold private meetings here. 

King’s Landing: 

The Great Sept of Baelor: Where the most devout convene and will be the quarters of the High Septon whenever he visits New Valyria. The location is on Visenya’s HIll. 

The Dragonpit: A huge domed building once held the great dragons of house Targaryen though it now holds the small creatures being birthed. 

Flea Bottom: The slums 

Eel Alley: On Visenya’s Hill and the home of many Inns and Taverns. 

The Street of Steel: Where most smiths have their forges. It begins on the west of Fishmonger's Square inside the River Gate and climbs up Visenya's Hill. The higher up one goes, the more expensive the shops.

The Street of Silk: A street to the northwest of the Dragonpit lined with brothels of varying expense

The Street of the Sisters: Connects the Great Sept of Baelor to the Dragonpit. One can find the Guildhall of the Alchemists upon it. It runs straight as an arrow between the hills of Rhaenys and Visenya, from which it gets its name. Many horse races take place along this street. 

Hayford: The Villa of Emperor Tiberius is the inspo for Hayford

Ludus: Houses the gladiators in a warren of twists and turns beneath the training grounds. At top one will see the men training and fighting against one another before taking on their actual contests. 

The Grotto: The caves are embellished with colored opus, mosaic flooring, a triclinium (a dining space with seats) centered on an island in the cave’s mouth. 

The Great Hall: Often a place for elaborate feasts, parties, and gatherings there is always something happening in Hayford and for the Dornish guests, Lord Belaerys has made it clear that all they need to do is ring a bell and watch the hall come alive. 

The Gladiator Pits: A small area where one can watch gladiator contests, feats of strength, and/or recreations of historical events obviously told with the appropriate slants for the viewing audience. 

[steddie-fanfic-recs]

Paint the Devil on the Wall

by MuseumGiftShopEraser

Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Robin Buckley & Eddie Munson, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington Characters: Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington, Robin Buckley, Nancy Wheeler, Murray Bauman, Billy Hargrove Additional Tags: Minor Robin Buckley/Nancy Wheeler, Past Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, artist!eddie, Eddie POV, Enemies to Lovers, Forced Proximity, and they were ROOMMATES, unstoppable force (mommy issues), meets immovable object (daddy issues), past abusive relationship, mentioned childhood physical abuse, Alcohol, Weed, Drugs, Addiction, Period-Typical Homophobia, mentioned homophobic parents, Mentioned Death of a Parent, Autistic Robin Buckley, Explicit Sexual Content, Light Dom/sub, Praise Kink, but they're like really intense about it, Masochism, Begging, Under-negotiated Kink, Safeword Use, (Yellow), writer takes liberties with the amount of security at art galleries, gratuitous descriptions of the painting process, Steve and Robin are platonic soulmates in every universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, 80s New York art scene AU, Alternate Universe - No Upside Down (Stranger Things), Gay Steve Harrington, Queer Eddie Munson, tattoos as plot devices Words: 64,609 Chapters: 6/6

Summary

If Eddie had known that sharing his New York City art studio with Robin would include her buddy Steve, he never would’ve offered it in the first place. There. He said it. If that makes him a bad friend, so be it. Because Steve is around all the time. Pastel and prissy. Sculpted from marble, yet dressed like a Macy’s mannequin. Always hovering. They got Robin’s potters wheel up the stairs last week, a three man effort he can still feel in his lower back, and now she’s fucking teaching him. Full on, arms wrapped around his waist, hands guiding hands. Someone grab him a bucket, ‘cause Eddie’s about to throw up. He’s not even good at it. Steve can barely get the hump of clay centered on the wheel and he refuses to get stains on his clothes. It’s fucking clay. It comes out in the wash. Steve’s shirtless approach to pottery is borderline offensive to the arts. #038 in the steddie big bang

[fleckcmscott]

Room Service

Summary: A radio program spurs Arthur's bolder side. What he comes up with is just what Y/N needs.

Words: 4,389

Warnings: Swearing, Smut

A/N: This story has been percolating in my brain, since my husband and I rewatched Vertigo a few weeks back. 🌃 Hope you all enjoy this fun little excursion! A special thank you to @iartsometimes​ for beta-ing! 😃

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

It was a sunny day in Gotham City, and Arthur's heart beat with a warmth to match. Three sugar cubes sweetened a mug of staff room coffee, a stale but free offer. He tapped cigarette ash into the metal sink, counted down the seconds. Pressed painted lips into a line, crimson curved by unfurling pride.

When - when exactly - had he become the kind of man who'd book a hotel for a rendezvous?

Sure, Y/N and he had overnighted before. Hotels and motels and one inn with strands of hair stuck to the soap. And they'd made love at most of them. But getting it on (as one of her favorite songs called it) hadn't been the purpose of their stays. One weekend, he'd tagged along to Philadelphia during the East Coast Paralegal conference, where he'd shrugged at the Liberty Bell and taken in a comedy show. Despite her comment that Boston felt like a sibling trying to keep up with Gotham, the city had had its charms.

Maybe he should thank Dr. Sally. They'd finally caught her show together, sans tight fit in the tub. "It's Perfectly Normal" had been the episode's title, exemplifying the good doctor's usual encouragements. In what she'd described as an effort to put listeners at ease and start a dialogue between the sexes, she'd discussed men and women's most common sexual fantasies. He'd licked his thumb and turned to a fresh page in his notebook.

Men dreamed of touching their lovers' intimately (been there), going down on them (done that),and receiving in turn (check, check, check). Beyond faceless fantasy women, sleeping with a stranger held no interest for him. He'd be liable to crack up and droop in five seconds flat.

Domination was what women desired, a type of power play. The notion had made him shift in his seat. Those dynamics hadn't ever existed between he and Y/N, not that he was aware. They went with what felt natural, what felt good, what felt right. Why complicate it when life was already complicated enough? At Dr. Sally's mention of threesomes, Y/N had taken on the look of a woman who'd eaten bad fish. But the phrase New Location had ironed out the wrinkles on her nose.

From where she'd knelt to dust the TV stand, she'd shot him a look brimming with suggestion. "Write that one down."

He had. Over and over in the margins. That was a language his romantic inclinations understood, a vocabulary that matched.

On his way home from an appointment, he'd walked seven extra blocks, muttering and smoking and wondering where they should go. Dinner at Bamonte's was guaranteed to start with gnocchi and end inside her. A romp in her office was out of the question. The mere thought of it made his frame stiff as a ramrod. If they screwed up and her boss somehow caught wind of it...

Then the answer stopped Arthur in his tracks.

A four-story sign dominated the early twentieth century building, read "Hotel Empire" in vertical neon letters. The place was six stories short with a stucco façade. It was narrow, four rooms across, squished between the apartment building to its right and the club to its left as an afterthought.

With the practiced swagger of the hoping to impress, Arthur crossed the lobby's faded marble floor. He lay an arm on the mahogany front desk and addressed the lone receptionist. "Hi. I'd like to book a room for next week."

The middle-aged man in a bellman cap gnawed a soggy toothpick. He had the craggy face of a fellow working stiff. "The whole week?"

"No. Just Thursday. Thursday night."

Toothpick flipped through a reservation book, tapped a series of blank lines. "We've got a couple on the third floor. Non-smoking. Two doubles or twins?"

"One king?"

A hotel reservation sheet slid across the desk. "Fill this out. I'll need an ID."

Once Arthur had stuffed his Gotham City ID back in his wallet, he jotted his name, address, and initialed the nonrefundable deposit agreement. But the form demanded a phone number.

"You can't call about it," he said. Realizing how this could be misconstrued, he fumbled with the pen. "It's a surprise. For my wife."

Toothpick's pause said he'd heard this story often enough to disbelieve it. "Uh huh. Well, show up or not. It's no skin off my nose." He stuck the papers in a leatherette folder, where gold letters spelling Hotel Empire had flaked off. "Check-in starts at three, you've gotta check out by eleven. We have in-room dining, but if you ask me, $6.95 for a BLT ain't worth it." He bent and spit his toothpick in the trash as if hawking tobacco in a spittoon. Arthur managed to blink instead of recoil. Toothpick continued and straightened his cap. "Dunbar's is two blocks down, that's a better bet if you ask me. If you've got any questions, just call. See you next week."

Arthur had exited with his pulse racing like a snare drum - and it hadn't slowed since.

"Hey, my man."

Ryan's energetic greeting tugged Arthur back to the present. Ryan was a teacher in what was called the resource room, which meant he taught children with learning challenges. Children like Arthur. Ryan's wife Sheila had hired Arthur for a birthday party last summer, and they'd found Carnival so charming, he'd been recommended for Gotham Elementary's winter fundraiser. A return to his old stomping ground.

"Lunch period's almost over." Ryan offered a divided lunch tray with five chicken nuggets, reconstituted mashed potatoes, canned peas, a cinnamon roll, and a small carton of milk. "The kids are already lining up for more of your puffy stickers, and it's my turn in the sponge toss."

Stubbing out his cigarette, Arthur took the tray. His grip on it tightened. "Do you think I could get out of here at three? I know we'd said four, but I have a date. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I'll give you back the six dollars for the hour. You- You can put it in the donation bo-"

"It's all right. These kids'll be ready for a nap at two. Hell, I'll want one." Ryan sat on the metal table parallel to the sink. "What's your girl do, anyway?"

"She's a paralegal. She has a three-day trial this week, and I wanted to, you know. Make it easier."

Ryan snagged a nugget from the tray. "You don't have to explain. Sheila's been nagging me to go see that new movie, the one where the chick dies just when the guy tells her he loves her? What a waste." A long resigned, sigh. "I should probably take her this weekend. It'll make my life easier."

Arthur grinned. Maybe he and Ryan were on the bumpy track to becoming friends. And a good friend would offer advice. "Y/N and I go to Capitol Cinemas. They have couple seats, and the popcorn has three types of toppings."

~~~~~

Y/N strode along the Ditmas Ave subway platform, excusing herself, weaving her way in and out of the throng. She ascended concrete stairs, sucked in a long breath. Crisp air filled her lungs, eased the tension from her tendons. Welcome invigoration after hours of being trapped inside Gotham Central Court House, a grand old Romanesque building in dire need of an updated ventilation system. Its chlorine corridors stank of a YMCA pool.

When she slid through her apartment's door, her canvas court bag dropped to the floor. She toed off her commuter boots, peeled away her suede gloves. "I'm home!" she called.

Only to be answered by silence.

She stepped forward into the living room. A rerun should've played on TV, or the radio set to Arthur's beloved golden oldies while he puttered about. She checked her watched. Hm.

He'd said he'd be back by five; it was nearing quarter to now. The doors to the bathroom and bedroom stood open, tiles and blankets bathed in inky blackness. Itching to glimpse the burning end of a cigarette, she went to the glass door to the fire escape. It was nicotine free.

The O line could've gotten stuck on the tracks, or Arthur's gig might've gone so well that he was in the middle of handing out business cards. She hoped it was the latter. Unbuttoning her wool coat, she turned towards the kitchen, ready to throw together a dinner with whatever was in their cupboards. A spaghetti and garlic tomato sauce kind of night.

A low light in the corner of her eye, slivers of soft yellow behind the room divider in the rear corner. Ah ha. That was it. He was lost in thought and notebook in equal measure. She padded to the writing nook, ready to cup his shoulders, peck the crown of his head, drown in the potent musk of his hair.

The empty chair arched her brow. But there was a crème brûlée envelope on his desk, her name in uneven cursive. Smack in the middle, sure to grab her attention. A magnet that drew all the iron in her blood.

Eager fingers tore the flap. Aftershave wafted to her nose, smoked sandalwood and man. A black business card peeked out, framed by gold Gatsby corners, an ad for a hotel in Hinkley she'd never heard of. The accompanying note was folded in half. "Meet me here. Room 307." She pressed the lined paper to her sternum, iron rushing to spots below her waistline.

Whether it was thoughtful gestures or his simple presence, Arthur had a knack for brightening the most stressful day. Just a couple weeks ago, he'd called her office to say he'd picked up her favorite bottle of wine. It was as though finding someone wasn't the only thing he considered an accomplishment (a point of view that too often led to low efforts), but also the choice to maintain, to nurture the ideas that defined their couplehood. A beautiful perspective that made him so easy to love.

It made Y/N sheepish, how initiating those gestures didn't come as naturally to her, nor as often. No, she never missed special occasions and holidays. And she was good at the tough stuff, a stabilizing wall, stalwart and true. Still. She wanted to get better at the return.

Another whiff of cologne hit her nostrils, spurred her to hurry to the bedroom. She flicked on the light, rifled through the top right drawer of the vanity, where she found a bottle of perfume. Puckering her lips, she swept plum pink along the bottom, applied a dot of pigment to the corners. One hand unbuttoned the first two buttons of her scarlet blouse. The other touched up her eyeliner and shoved the stick in her skirt pocket.

She'd make what he'd planned for tonight a chance to start evening the score.

~~~~~

Not too shabby, not too fancy. A good room and Arthur had done well to book it.

Two bay windows overlooked the street, cracked pavement mottled by slush. Drawn velvet drapes allowed neon light to coat the space in a rich verdant. Pointed blocks intersected egg-and-dart molding at each corner, stark white on satin walls. The dials on the television threwback to the age when he'd have to get off his ass to change the channel. A compact writing desk buttressed the far wall, Mr. Coffee machine and paper filters ready for use. Perfectly plumped pillows had a thank you card along with two after dinner mints, like out of a movie. He ate them both.

He sat on the edge of the bed and bounced twice. The right amount of give, the springs' squeaks quiet enough to be a pleasant soundtrack instead of a disturbance that'd prompt a call from Toothpick. Arthur peeled back the polyester blanket and comforter, ran a palm over the sheets. Freshly laundered, smooth and luxurious. Six hundred count that'd feel like silk on his skin. He set the woodgrain clock radio to GCR, just in time for Down Memory Lane, which featured songs from the 1920s to 50s, guaranteed to make every listener swing.

Strolling to the bathroom, he muffled a laugh. This entire adventure felt illicit, as though Y/N was his dirty little secret, a secret he knew inside and out. A sort of reversal of when she'd propositioned him, invited him over with candidly explicit intentions. A race of sensation goosepimpled his flesh, a tickle that shivered his bones. A kind of nervous anticipation akin to what he'd felt backstage during his debut at Pogo's - the difference being that success was guaranteed tonight.

Arthur breathed into his palm to test his breath. A streak of blue paint lingered under his left eye. He wet the corner of a white washcloth and scrubbed it away.

Just then there was a knock at the door.

Light on his heels, he straightened the collar of his V-Neck sweater. Tucked brown waves behind his ear and turned the knob.

There Y/N stood. Lovely, ravishing. Her feathery tresses smelled of fresh cut flowers and orange blossoms, a flustered pink flushed her cheeks. Her glass heart pendant shone. She puffed at a rapid one-two count. She braced herself on the doorframe, right hand on her hip. Her overnight bag dangled from the other. "Good evening, Mr. Fleck."

"Hi," he said, mirroring her stance. "Did your breath run away from you? If we hurry, we can catch it."

She stuck out her lower lip and blew a stray lock from her forehead. "The elevator had a line - tour bus - so I took the stairs." Her step over the threshold forced a foot's retreat. After he took her coat, her arms wound about his ribs. "How was your gig?"

"Good." The small talk felt perfunctory, a box to check on the way to what he wanted. He resolved to go with it, anyway. Truly set the scene. "I made coffee."

A soft sound, a peck right above his collar, and she was off, sashaying to the desk. She poured them both a cup, perched on the corner, crossed her legs. The position lengthened her calves. It was then he noticed she'd traded her winter boots for navy pumps. Given the slipperiness of the sidewalk, it was a miracle she'd arrived in one piece. (That would have been a night to remember: a rendezvous in the ER with a cracked fibula and vending machine M&Ms.) She offered a paper cup, the kind with playing cards printed on them.

He sat in the faux leather executive chair before her. Stirred sugar into coffee, examined the poker hand he'd been dealt. A royal flush. He leaned back, the chair tilting a relaxing thirty degrees. "How'd the trial go?"

"It's over, finally. Defense counsel spent their closing argument trying to impugn our client: a man who lost a leg. But being a recovering alcoholic has nothing to do with improper forklift maintenance. He wasn't drinking on the job. Juries hate cheap tricks, especially when they're full of working people. I'd be surprised if we didn't have a verdict tomorrow."

Arthur smiled along with her. They'd had plenty of ask and answer sessions, and he'd watched enough episodes of Gotham Law and Night Court to have a general understanding of her profession. "So you think the good guys will win?"

"Yes, and it's about time, too. But enough of that now." She angled her legs nearer, shoe dangling above his lap. Gaze flitting about the room, she took a sip. "When did you decide to do this?"

"When we listened to Dr. Sally awhile ago. Do you remember? I wanted to do something special but wasn't sure what."

"I can't believe that. You're wonderful at it."

He gulped his drink, took her foot in his grasp. He slipped off her high heel, rubbed his thumb into her arch in firm, vertical lines. A groan left her throat, her toes spreading wide. "Well," he said. "She helped me figure it out."

"Don't give her too much credit. It was somewhere in that head of yours." Gently, she pressed her foot to his chest, where his pulse thundered under her sole. Her voice dropped to a purr. "Or your romantic heart. I'd say you were inspired. You certainly inspired me."

Fingertips traced to the hem of her stockings. She'd changed into the pair with lace tops. His abdomen tightened. "Yeah?"

The shoe dropped from her other foot. "Yeah."

Suspense burgeoned between them, thickened into a heady haze. Her pupils locked on his, dilated by the low light and a hefty helping of desire. Her toes drew a line down his chest. He watched the descent, every follicle suddenly aware of that sketch.

"Mm." She sighed when she reached the growing bulge in his pants. "You're hard already."

Laughter caught in his nose. "I've been waiting for this all week."

Arthur stood to seize her waist, lift her from the desk. A surprised cry, a shriek of delight. Hot coffee splashed his sweater - the perfect excuse to get it off posthaste. He deposited her on the foot of the bed.

Y/N stretched as she sat. The motion lifted her breasts against her blouse, nipples sticking out like exclamation points, the size of blueberries. That meant her bra was in her bag, that she was naked beneath that thin satin. He yanked his sweater over his head, tossed it to the floor. She unbuttoned his pants, parted the zipper in one smooth motion. The shadow of movement brushed his length, gaped his lips. She tugged his briefs an inch below lean hips and took him out.

His cock rested flat on her palm. She curled her fingers around it. Rather than pumping, she swiped her thumb across the engorged tip, a delicate paintbrush on the canvas of his flesh. The tenderness of the caress seemed at odds with the carnality of the act. He liked it. He grew stiffer, until he was sure all blood had rushed to his lower head.

Smiling, she smooched his V-line, his patch of springy hair. His stomach stuttered at the exquisite fever of her mouth. "This isn't what I expected tonight," she said, and crawled up the mattress on her elbows.

"Well, what did you expect?"

"Oh, I don't know." Her legs splayed, woven polyester bunching at her waist. "A nice, respectable evening at home with you, It Could Be Yours, the paper. Maybe a joke or two."

"Are you disappointed?"

She gave his torso a raking stare. "Never."

He pushed her flat on the bed. Kissed her knuckles, the inside of her wrist, the crook of her elbow. He bent and sucked a nipple through her shirt. Wet the fabric with his tongue and sucked the moisture back out. Insistent tugs at his curls until he sucked again. The plain of her pubic bone tilted upwards and towards him. He slid a palm up her skirt. Unfastening, opening, throwing the cloth in a haphazard arc.

His erection brushed her stocking. His gaze traversed her curves, the faint stretchmarks on her thighs. She'd donned the panties she'd gotten as a bachelorette gift, the ones that tied at the hip. A triangle of black cloth that exposed more than it shielded. He pulled at one of the ribbons, eased the nylon aside. Caressed her open till she was liquid in his hands. Pointer and middle fingers formed a V around her clitoral hood, fluttered in a come hither motion.

A gasp, irregular breaths that were a hallmark of her pleasure. His mouth did not soften as he kissed her. She tore the buttons of her blouse, pressed her tongue to his, nipped at his lip. When the satin pooled at her elbows, her breasts spilled out in a tantalizing jostle. The right was slightly larger, the areola on the left a centimeter lower. Both beautiful and alluring and ready to fill his palms.

One hand dragged from his neck, followed the length of his spine, pushed his pants to his knees to squeeze his rear. Chuckling, he reached to yank them the rest of the way down, but they caught on his ankles. One kick, then one more. Y/N's foot hooked in the waistband and shoved them off.

Once she was nude, once only her panties remained, she loosened the other ribbon. Raising his lips from hers, he met her eyes. 

"I want you to fuck me," she whispered.

A sharp exhale. "You want me to fuck you?" A repetition that meant renewal. To ensure, to savor, to carve into his soul.

Her reply was to grasp his shaft, press the length of it to her vulva. She rutted upward and against it, did so again. Wet and slick and all he ever wanted. He groaned at that damp heat, a compass that always led home.

He sat on his haunches. Ran a palm over her flank. Took hold of her leg and brought it higher, so that the swell of her calf touched his bicep. Poised to enter her, he bent forward.

She pushed at him. "Ow, stop."

"What?"

She lowered her calf, wrapped it around him instead. "Your legs are younger than mine."

"But I wanna be between them forever." He eased just inside her entrance.

"Deeper." A greedy fist at his shoulder. "Go deeper."

So he did. Inch by aching inch. Grunting, he grabbed her breast, squeezed what was likely a bit too hard. No complaint came. Rather, her pelvis rose up into his. Walls gripped him tight, tighter. Hot and sleek. Warmth so feminine, so bracing, the essence of this act.

Propped on his forearms, he studied her. Her head twisted into the pillow, arms sprawled at her sides, fingertips digging into the sheets. A writhe that was nearly a dance. The neon light cascading through the windows spilled over her, cast his shadow onto her form. Sweat stuck her heart pendant to her chest.

At his next thrust, she moaned. A laugh rippled through the air. "Mr Fleck..." A rare second use of that nickname within one hour, a sure sign she was high on him. He wasn't too far behind. Another twist of her hips, as if trying to wring him out. "If you're not careful, I'll want a surprise every week."

His ruts slowed, stopped. He wiped hair from her cheeks, thumbs stroked her temples. "Where next?"

"The shower, your desk. There's always our bed." She turned to kiss his wrist, traced its tendon with the tip of her tongue. "I'm not picky. As long as you're inside me."

A golden wave of affection passed between them (and not a little ardor), a happy hum against her lips. She reached to toy with her clit, her knuckles pressed into his abdomen. She whimpered, tensed, hips rising in a frantic pattern that didn't quite match his. All at once her arms flung about him, clutching, clinging. But she hadn't finished. She'd caressed herself to the peak of the precipice but not over. She wanted them to get her off together.

Arthur drove into her again, pace quickening to an allegro. Nails biting his thigh, she seized around him. Pulsing, pulsing, pulsing. He watched her drift away, expression scrunching and smoothing into bliss. Harsh pants hit his chin, her sharp cries a song in his ear.

He nuzzled her cheek, kissed the curve of her jaw. "I love watching you come." It made him feel powerful, a king who could conquer anything.

Giggles and fluttering lashes, her hands cupping his ass. A flash of light and love in her eyes. She moistened her lips, lifted her mouth and hips to claim him.

Stomach to stomach, chest to chest, heart to racing heart. Thoughts fragmented, his body continuing its hungry hunt for relief. That hunt ended on a clipped moan, a prism of sensation. White-hot pleasure that doubled as surrender, surrender that felt like victory.

He rolled off her, onto his back. Armed sweat from his forehead and worked on slowing his breath. Feet turned out as relaxation oozed through his veins, slackened his limbs.

A kick to his calf, the flick of the bedside lamp, a flood of unwelcome light. He squinted in her direction. She was doubled-over the side of the bed. A smear of his release glistened on her thigh. Her shoulder blades moved as if two conversing waves, rising and falling with each bit of gossip.

"What're you looking for?" he asked.

"You'll see."

Using the nightstand as leverage, she pushed herself to the shore. The covers rustled as she lay on her stomach, mewling and stretching. She took his left hand. A point dragged across his palm, dry but smooth. His fingers twitched under her breath. It reminded him of when he'd tried to cheat his way through remedial English during freshman year, to be foiled by smudged ink.

When she released him, he studied what she'd done. It was an odd squiggle. A loop like a balloon, its string connected to what may have been a Y. He followed its oversized tail to the end, where an upside-down hook resided. He'd seen similarly strange markings at her office, when he'd dropped off lunch or picked up her set of keys.

"What is it?" he said.

"'I love you' in shorthand." She used her eyeliner pencil to explain how three symbols representing vowel sounds and common words connected into one. An analogy for how they'd connected and made one life.

Averting his eyes, he pressed the mark to his chest. "Will you write one in my journal?"

"Of course I will. You pick the page." She patted his belly, lay her cheek on his abdomen. "Does this place have room service? I'm starving. And I've never had room service. Think it'll come on silver platters?"

Arthur recalled Toothpick at the front desk's warning. Paying too much for the basics should've made him cringe, would've any other night. But she deserved a rare splurge. They both did. Even if it cost every cent he'd earned today. And he wanted to keep her undressed, wrapped only in a comforter, for as long as possible.

He tucked her in, then grabbed the phone on the nightstand. "I hear they have BLTs."

~~~~~

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[helenaredamancy]

Do you mind if I ask your top 10 favorite characters (can be male or female) from all of the media that you loved (can be anime/manga, books, movies or tv series)? And why do you love them? Sorry if you've answered this question before.....Thanks....

thank you for this question! hmmm i think i'll have to do a top 5 because a top 10 would be wayyy too long and i'll do my best NOT put down 'i relate to them' as a reason for why i love them! the characters aren't in any particular order or rank :)

enjolras from les miserables [book].. this character has been rattling around in my brain for years. he's the revolution incarnate, but his driving force is love. he's described as impossibly beautiful but that's the least memorable part of his character. he can seem cold and terrifying but he's still so obviously young (literally getting compared to a flower by his executioners), relies on and respects his friends, and is so deeply affected by what he has to do. 'the marble lover of liberty' is such a perfect encapsulation of him- fighting, living, and dying for a future he knows he won't ever get to see because of this love is nuts to me. he'll stain himself by committing acts that he knows sentences him to death and punishment even if he'd survived, all for a better future. him telling his fellow revolutionaries and friends that 'he who dies here dies in the radiance of the future, and we are entering a tomb all flooded with the dawn' kind of did something to my brain (keeping in mind he's said the future belongs to love).

marvin and jason from falsettos [musical] :)) there's no way to mention one without the other, and so i've just put them together. i love them because of their dynamic to each other- for context, they're father/son marvin is jason's father, and initially, he's neurotic, self-obsessed, immature, and egotistical. he's incredibly sympathetic the entire way through somehow. he loves his family, he hates that he wants his family to love him, he loves his son, he feels sorry his son resembles him. he tells jason he never wanted to love him. he loves him. his character arc is essentially him growing to become the father jason deserves. for most of the show, jason is disgusted by his father, and he feels that his resemblance to his father is to blame for every negative aspect about him. he's terrified of becoming his father. he says he hates the world but loves his father, he loves the things he never had. marvin thinks jason hates and adores him. but as his father matures and holds himself responsible, by the end of the show, jason is proud that he looks like marvin. i've tried (badly) to explain kinda briefly w/o spoiling the show's plot but essentially! super complex, flawed, but lovable characters who answer the show's initial question of what this family would do for each other even if they wouldn't admit it

paloma from the elegance of the hedgehog [book]! the very distinct and sharp but still childish voice is so delightful and poignant to read.. she's an incredibly intelligent and sarcastic girl, she thinks a lot about the world and she thinks she knows everything there is to know. but no matter how cynical she seems, she is ultimately still a child who craves and responds to kindness, love, and beauty

eurydice (and NYTW hadestown's orpheus too but this post isn't about him) (specifically, eurydice from ruhl's play) ! basically every iteration of orpheus and eurydice all put together has made me adore them. i'm obsessed with the idea that no matter which version of the myth you read, the reason for orpheus turning around is out of love one way or another, with his love compelling him to turn. but ruhl's eurydice is special to me bc i find eurydice's characterization so interesting. classically, orpheus's big act of love is that entire journey to try and bring her back- but eurydice's act of love is more elusive. she's the beloved in their story, but ruhl's eurydice flips the roles and it's genuinely moving to see how much love is held in their one myth.

i'm sorry this writeup is super messy! there are so many characters i adore so much but these are some of my favorite and the ones that popped into my mind when i saw this question.

[lilyevanstan1325]

✨ Astral Lovers ✨

Chapter 2

People walking quietly, there are those who yell on the phone against some poor unfortunate and those who are simply out shopping.

I open my eyes and I don’t understand what is happening.

I find myself in the middle of a sidewalk, where I am literally overwhelmed by the crowd.

I look up to the sky and in the distance I can see the Statue of Liberty.

Even at this distance it is bewitching.

Majestic.

This is New York.

I turn my gaze to the tall skyscrapers, I've never seen anything so impressive in my life.

Honestly, I've never seen anything other than Brookville.

I have never gone beyond its borders, for one reason or another I have never been able to visit any other place.

Fault of a father too oppressive.

For him I don't need to go anywhere else, all I need is Brookville and I have to make it enough.

It's my home and it has to be enough.

I have never even had friends with whom to escape to foreign places and then get lost in the meandering unknown cities.

It is as if Brookville were a black hole that drawing everything in with its innate and devastating force of gravity, not allowing anyone who unfortunately ends up in it to get out.

Brookville is the gate to hell.

God I hate that place!

A moment later my sense of smell is tickled by a sweet, inviting, captivating scent.

I look to my left and notice a wonderful shop that sells cupcakes.

Whit a couple of steps I reach the shop.

All the cupcakes are arranged in rows in their beautiful and colorful display cases, as if they were precious jewels ready to embellish the palate of a lucky customer.

The shop is full of all kinds of people.

There is a couple, they are two beautiful guys holding hands and laughing together.

Their eyes are so full of love that I have to look away.

Looking at them is painful.

Painful for me that I have never felt such a great love and maybe I never will.

Next to them there is a beautiful woman with a wonderful baby bump, her husband gently stroking her belly continues to whisper that she is beautiful and if she wants she can eat all the cupcakes she wants because she is perfect like this.

Further on, sitting at a table is a sweet granny with her two granddaughters.

She is telling them how their grandfather courted her and how he convinced her only thanks to his sweet smile.

I take a few step when suddenly I come across one of those delicious hot dog carts, just like the ones I've only seen in movies.

A little girl tries to get her mom's attention at all costs.

She craves a hot dog so badly.

A smile graze my lips.

Suddenly a thought strikes me like a bolt from a clear sky.

I'm dreaming.

It cannot be otherwise.

Even if it's so real it's all just a dream.

Well honestly I'm not complaining...better all this than the usual damn nightmare that invades my nights for almost 10 years!

I don't care if I'm dreaming.

I'm here and I want to enjoy the moment.

I spin around trying to absorb everything I can.

Colors, flavors, smells, emotions.

I still spin around.

Again.

And again.

Until I run out of breath and stop, with my head down and short of breath.

When I raise my head my gaze is chained to the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen.

They are turquoise like a Caribbean sea.

Turquoise like a spring sky.

Only after a few seconds I realize the wonder that surrounds those eyes.

A perfect face, a greek god.

The jawline is absolutely perfect as if it had been carved in marble by Leonardo Da Vinci himself.

Fleshy, red and sinful lips that just at that moment curve into a pleased grin.

I return my gaze to his eyes, pure lapis lazuli, and I realize that he too is staring at me.

And now he's walking towards me.

Breath become more difficult.

As soon as he reaches me he gives me a breathtaking smile, white teeth as pearls, and with a firm but sweet voice he says "Hi, I'm Steve"

My legs are shaking and a shiver runs down my spine.

I can't help but notice an emerald green tinge in the center of his irises.

And I'm fascinated again.

I remain speechless for a few seconds and as soon as my neurons are operational again I try to gather all my strength and, with a faint voice and my cheeks on fire, I finally answer him...

"Hi, my name is Lily"

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@deansapplepie

[gayest-non-canon-showdown]

enjolras and/or grantaire from victor hugo’s “les misérables”

proof (all direct quotes):

enjolras is canonically not interested in women - “[enjolras] was austere, seeming not to be aware of the existence on earth of a creature called woman… [he was] the marble lover of liberty.”

grantaire is devoted to enjolras - “but, skeptic that he was, [grantaire] had one fanatical devotion, not for an idea, a creed, an art or a science, but for a man - for enjolras. grantaire admired, loved, and venerated enjolras.”

they are compared to various queer mythological figures - “there are men who seem born to be two-sided. they are… patroclus, nisus, hephaestion… grantaire was one of those, the reverse side of enjolras.”

grantaire chooses to die hand-in-hand with enjolras - “[grantaire] crossed the room with a firm stride and placed himself in front of the guns beside enjolras. ‘finish both of us at one blow,’ said he. and turning gently to enjolras, he said to him: ‘do you permit it?’ enjolras pressed his hand with a smile; this smile was not ended when the report resounded.”

Thank you for your submissions!