hauntingblue · 1 year ago
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The absolute DYKE DRIP nami has going on with the marine uniform with the cuffed shirt sleeves showing her shoulder tat and a backwards cap.... OOF
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tongue-like-a-razor · 11 months ago
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Brother's Best Friend - Part 10
Jake Seresin x F!Reader
A/N: I'm baaaack! Oh how I've missed these two idiots XD Thanks to everyone who sent in ideas for what should happen AFTER THE KISS!
Summary: The trials and tribulations of falling for your brother's best friend.
CW: swearing, shirtless Jake, SHIRTLESS JAKE, fluff, Jake's arms, did I mention shirtless Jake?
WC: ~2800
Part 1 | Masterlist
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There are a lot of things you regret in life, but bombing your psych midterm because you were too busy making out with Jake Seresin to study is not one of them. Sure, you might not have remembered the ins and outs of Jungian archetypes, but you sure as hell can recite from memory every single word that had fallen out of Jake’s mouth following the inaugural kiss. You might have been a bit hazy on the details surrounding the birth of behaviorism, but you could certainly attest to the effectiveness of positive reinforcement in the form of Jake’s lips rewarding every correctly answered flash card. Thus, despite leaving the exam room with the sinking feeling that your GPA just took a nosedive, you couldn’t be happier.
Your excitement is short-lived, however, because you walk into the house to the unsettling sounds of grunting. You end up dropping your book bag loudly on the floor in an effort to alert any unsuspecting individuals of your arrival before you happen upon a scene you have no interest in witnessing.
But the groaning doesn’t subside, and you find yourself inching cautiously toward the living room, gripped by a nauseating curiosity. Slowly, you creep through the kitchen and peek around the wall into the living room. But what you see, albeit somewhat strange, is not exactly out of the ordinary. What you see is two grown men doing push-ups on your living room floor.
“Uhh,” you utter, stepping into the room to get a better look at the two of them positioned between the armchair and the coffee table.
Neither one looks up at you. They continue grunting into the carpeted floor against every thrust and then breathing heavily into the silence on their way back down. In unison. Shirtless.
“Okay, I’ll just…” you pause, waiting to see if your presence might be acknowledged before you continue speaking. Several seconds go by without any sort of greeting, as if they haven’t even noticed you enter, so you resume, “I’ll just go wait in the kitchen.”
No response.
“I’ll make myself a sandwich,” you add, your eyes inadvertently landing on the rippling muscles of Jake’s back as his shoulder blades contract.
Before you’re completely entranced by the hypnotic movement of Jake Seresin’s body, you shake your head and head back to the kitchen. But, just as you make your way out, you hear Jake’s strained voice, “We’re counting.”
You glance over your shoulder, but he isn’t looking at you; his mouth is taut and his nostrils are flaring and he winces slightly as he straightens his arms again. You decide not to interrupt them further and retreat into the kitchen to fix yourself some lunch.
You wander back in several minutes later, a jam sandwich in hand, and raise your eyebrows as your brother and your, well, Jake, finally finish with a host of groans and obscenities, and laboriously get to their feet.
You glance between the two of them as they pant and take a bite of your sandwich. Until this very moment, you had no idea how you would navigate your situation with Jake in Bradley’s presence. It wasn’t something that you and Jake had a chance to discuss over the course of the previous evening and you had been hoping to postpone the encounter for at least another day.
However, now that you’re all in the same room, you realize that nothing much has changed; Bradley and Jake are still up to their usual antics, and you are still critically observing them from the sidelines.
“Three sets,” Jake breathes heavily as he rolls his shoulders and meets your gaze. “Of a hundred.”
You stare at him mutely, wondering what kind of reaction he’s expecting you to have whilst your brother stands three feet away. You pull your lips into a tight smile and nod approvingly. “If only you put this much effort into keeping track of your socks,” you respond wryly, noticing the pair that’s tucked into the corner of the armchair; the third that you’ve located in the living room this week.
Jake bows his head and Bradley lets out a snort. “I have hot feet,” Jake mutters to the floor.
You eye the veins along his forearms – more pronounced than usual after his workout – and decide conclusively that his feet are not the exception.
Bradley, who’s just finished guzzling half a bottle of water, hums at you to get your attention. Immediately, you tear your gaze from Jake’s veiny hands and blink up at your brother in alarm, certain that he’s already caught on to you since you can’t seem to stop gawking at his best friend. Bradley grins, his eyes bright with excitement. “So,” he says, “how was your study date?” His smile widens slyly.
You stare at him awkwardly, not daring to look at Jake, even when the latter chokes on his water. Clearly, he has not said a word to Bradley about the events of the previous evening.
Bradley watches you expectantly, ignoring Jake’s coughing fit. “Uh,” you start, your voice sounding unusually fuzzy. “It was, um,” you clear your throat, still not looking at Jake as he finally straightens his back and takes another enormous gulp of water.
Bradley lifts his eyebrows. “That good, huh?” he asks with a chuckle.
You feel your palms start to sweat and it takes a great deal of willpower to keep them steady at your sides rather than rubbing them together and wiping them on your thighs. “Pretty good,” you say weakly, avoiding direct eye contact with your brother.
“Get much studying done?” Bradley asks, picking his shirt up off the couch and pulling it over his head.
You briefly lock eyes with Jake. “Some,” you croak, in response to which Bradley shakes his head knowingly.
“How’d you do on your midterm?” Jake asks, finally setting his water bottle down.
You hold his gaze timidly, not sure how long you can get away with looking right at him. “I probably could have done better,” you confess.
Jake winces slightly. “Shit, really?” he asks, sounding genuinely concerned.
“We warned you,” Bradley calls in a singsong voice as he heads out of the living room. “That dude wasn’t looking to study, and you fell for it.”
Jake tilts his head to the side and rubs the back of his neck guiltily. “Maybe he tried,” he says, still grimacing.
Bradley stops short of the entrance to the kitchen and looks back at him. “Yeah, right,” he says. “Is that what you would do?” he asks him.
Jake’s face visibly pales and he stammers out, “M-me? What kind of question is that?” He clears his throat and adds, “Even.”
“You definitely would not have tried,” Bradley says. Then, he looks at you pointedly. “Next time, just study at home. Trust me.”
You nod, trying not to think too hard about how ineffective studying at home has proved, in fact, to be.
“Want a protein shake, bro?” Bradley asks before disappearing into the kitchen.
“Yeah, man,” Jake calls back. “Thanks.”
The two of you stand very still for a moment, not looking at one another. Then, Jake bends down to grab his muscle shirt off the floor.
“Sucks about your test,” he says, his head hanging so low that his chin nearly rests on his clavicle.
“Yeah,” you agree quietly, suddenly uneasy now that it’s just the two of you in the room.
Jake draws the shirt over his head and then wearily drags a hand over his face. “I’m sorry,” he says, looking at you guiltily.
You shrug nonchalantly and give him a small smile. “It wasn’t your fault.”
He pulls his shirt down over his torso casually, but it’s probably the single most sexy thing you’ve ever witnessed. He sighs and says, “I feel responsible,” but all you could really pay any attention to is the sliver of stomach that he’s so carelessly left exposed. If anything, it’s entirely irresponsible.
You purse your lips and eye him humorously. “Well, that’s very self-centered of you.”
Jake laughs at your comment and you breathe a sigh of relief as the tension between you slowly dissipates.
“Dude, you coming?” Bradley calls, popping his head back in to check on Jake. “First fifteen minutes are crucial!”
“Be right there,” Jake responds and, grabbing his two stray socks off the armchair, starts for the kitchen.
You wander in after him to put your plate in the sink and Jake all but leaps out of your way when you get too close.
Bradley leans into the counter and speaks again, “So, apparently Jake had a wild night.”
The plate starts to slip out of your hand before you make it all the way to the sink, and you sort of toss it the rest of the way. It clatters against the basin but thankfully remains intact. “Oh yeah?” you ask in a high-pitched voice while Bradley watches you curiously.
“I didn’t say wild,” Jake clarifies, shifting his weight uncomfortably as he tries to find a less awkward way to rest his entire frame against the slightly protruding door of the refrigerator.
Bradley makes a face at him. “I paraphrased.”
You try not to smile as you ask, “What happened?” You glance at Jake mischievously as he digs himself further into the corner. The fact that he’s disclosed any details to Bradley is shocking, to say the least.
“Oh, just that he finally made a move on a chick he’s been obsessing over for weeks,” Bradley says with a proud grin.
While you try to process the words ‘for weeks’, Jake counters moodily, “I was not obsessing, dude. Come on.”
You lift your eyes slowly to meet his gaze and he glances at you reluctantly.
“Please, you never shut up about her!” Bradley cries.
Jake exhales sharply and glares over at Bradley, but he doesn’t deny his assertion.
“Who is she?” you ask hesitantly, ignoring the pointed stare you get from Jake as you direct your question at Bradley.
Bradley shrugs. “I don’t know her.”
You raise your eyebrows. “Are you sure?”
Jake scoffs in the background while Bradley grimaces. “No, but he won’t tell me, so I’ve stopped asking.”
You withhold a smile and say quietly, “Wonder what she’s like.”
Jake rolls his eyes. “For the love of god –”
But his complaint is interrupted by Bradley when he says, “Apparently, she’s insanely hot –”
“Rooster,” Jake cuts him off sternly, pushing himself off the refrigerator to square his shoulders intimidatingly.
“What?” Bradley chuckles as you bite into your cheek to suppress a grin. “Those were your exact words!”
“Enough,” Jake says, glaring at him threateningly.
“Relax, it’s just my sister,” Bradley says, attempting to diffuse the situation gracefully. “She won’t tell a soul.”
You bat your eyelashes at Jake innocently. “Promise,” you assure him.
Jake narrows his eyes at you subtly. “Tell us more about your date,” he says, cleverly taking the heat off himself.
You lower your gaze and respond with, “It wasn’t a date.”
“But will there be one in the future?” Bradley asks.
You glance back at Jake instinctively before addressing your brother, “Not that I know of.”
Jake chugs the remainder of his shake and walks over to the sink to rinse the glass. He rests his hip on the counter right next to you and asks, “Would you go?”
You look up at him hesitantly, apprehensive about his proximity, even though he still stands a good two feet away. “Where?”
“On a date,” Jake clarifies. “If he asks.”
You gulp nervously, looking back at your equally curious-looking brother. The truth is, you’re afraid of showing all your cards so early in the game. Jake Seresin isn’t a dater, he doesn’t go out with the same girl multiple times. And if he’s only with you because you’re ‘insanely hot’ – his words – he might be spooked by an overzealous response. “I don’t know.” You shrug. “Haven’t thought about it.”
“Bullshit,” Bradley interjects obnoxiously.
“I agree,” Jake adds.
You clamp your jaw tightly, mildly annoyed at Jake for making you the target of conversation yet again. “Are you planning on asking insanely hot girl out?” you enquire aggressively, fixing Jake with an accusing glower.
“How do you know I haven’t already?” Jake asks in a patronizing tone.
You glare at him through squinted eyes. “Wild guess.”
“Of course, he’s gonna ask her out,” Bradley chimes in. “As soon as he stops wigging out about it.”
Jake gives him a peeved look before glancing back at you. “I’m considering it,” he says vaguely.
“Please,” Bradley scoffs and Jake shoots him another ominous glare. “There’s nothing he would want more.”
“That’s not true,” Jake mutters monotonously while you scrutinize the evasive movements of his eyes.
“You literally told me that –”
“Bradley!” Jake shouts. “Shut up!”
Bradley grimaces. “Since when do we keep secrets around here?”
“Since I fucking said so,” Jake retorts.
You glance between the two of them awkwardly and then look down at your feet, stretching out the already uncomfortable silence. You try not to dwell on what your brother has said but Jake wanting nothing more than to take you on a date has you feeling all kinds of giddy. Hesitantly, you say, “I’d probably say yes.” You bite your lip and add, “To study group guy – if he asks.”
Bradley nods, unsurprised. And you don’t dare check on Jake’s reaction. But before you could second guess your confession, Jake says, “He’ll ask.” You steal a glance at him and he catches your gaze. “He’d be an idiot not to.”
You give him a small, half-smile – the half that’s not visible from your brother’s vantage point. But Bradley seems to have lost interest in the topic now that he’s been censored because he starts to shuffle out of the kitchen.
“Hey Bradley!” you call after him. “How was your date?”
Bradley stops and spins to face you. “Finally!” he exclaims.
You smirk at him. “Did she like your shirt?”
Bradley grins. “She loved my shirt.”
“She loved it so much, she kept it,” Jake adds.
Your jaw drops in shock when Bradley yells, “Hey! So, it’s alright to air my dirty laundry?”
“Technically, now she’s got your dirty laundry,” you point out and Jake high fives you.
Bradley shakes his head, but he’s still smiling. “Real mature,” he says. “At least I had the balls to ask her out.” With that, he finally exits the kitchen.
You start after him when your feel Jake’s hand brush gently across the small of your back. You turn to face him and he rests it confidently on your hip. You wonder what he’s going to say but, just when you’re about to articulate your curiosity, he leans down and kisses you square on the mouth. His fingers slide into the hair at the nape of your neck as he takes a hold of your face and, as his thumb sweeps languidly back and forth across your cheekbone, you absently speculate on just how big his hand must be to support your head in such a way. You’re so engrossed in this calculation, in fact, that you nearly miss the moment his tongue enters the equation.
Of course, all of this happens so quickly that, before you can really even kiss him in return, he’s already taking a step back and glancing at the doorway to make sure that Bradley isn’t there.
You graze your teeth over your bottom lip, trying to contain your widening smile as you meet his gaze. It’s nice to know that Jake still wants to kiss you today just as badly as he did yesterday. So much so that he’s willing to risk Bradley walking in on you. You let yourself ogle him overtly for a moment, admiring his tanned arms and the little bit of chest that you could see above the low neckline of his muscle shirt. Then, you say, “I want to hear more about this insanely hot girl you won’t shut up about.”
Jake cringes, busying himself with the dishes sitting in the dishrack. “I’m not sure you’d get along. She’s very confrontational.” He puts away a couple of bowls into a cupboard.
You let out a shocked gasp as if you're offended. “Seriously?”
“Oh yeah,” Jake turns back to face you, grinning as he throws a dishtowel over his shoulder. “Super intense. A little scary.”
“I don’t know, she sounds like a catch,” you say, taking a small step toward him. “I mean, according to Bradley, you’ve been obsessing over her for weeks!”
Jake shakes his head with a chuckle and, pulling you in to give you a quick peck on the side of your head, he mutters into your hair, “I’m gonna kill your brother.”
Read Part 11
Hangman Tag List:
A/N: The rest of the list will be in the comments. As always, let me know if you don't want to be tagged anymore.
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saltysaltdog · 7 days ago
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I don't think Jalala drew this.
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I think Yarlen drew this.
The style isn't consistent with how Jalala draws people, or backgrounds. The colour of the pen is also not correct. We know from Rinor that Jalala allows other people to draw in her book. And might even let Rinor colour in her pictures, or got influenced to colour in her own drawings.
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Typical Jalala drawings.
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Drawing by Rinor, full of colour.
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Influencing each other <3.
So then the anime images aren't congruent with how either of them draw. Nor is the comic book style with cut ins, since Jalala treats her journal more like a scrapbook, or guidebook, and Rinor adds in her pictures and commentary to compliment this.
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The anime images also have different shading styles. While Jalala does use colour to add some shading, it's not used exclusively. There's also smudges on the anime style, as whoever was drawing couldn't wait for the ink to dry fully.
So here's what i think happened. Yarlen took the journal, maybe borrowing it from Rinor before she knew not to do it, or just pilfering it from Jalala stuff. She had already written the words and waited for them to dry before getting started on her drawings. So Yarlen decided to have some fun and put in this love story.
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But then why does Jalala draw the sticky note? Why is there an angry panda who is sweating if she didn't draw it and thus has no reason be embarrassed? It's Jalala drawn here, right?
Except here's where I think Yarlen fucked up. That panda he drew doesn't look like Jalala. She's a lot scruffier than her brother. And her dark circles pull down as if she's been crying. If anything that panda looks like...
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Yarlen himself.
So yeah, Jalala isn't into us, and from the main comic, is wary of us if anything. The notes can be read with suspicion and not admiration. Yarlen is just gay for us.
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storm-angel989 · 4 months ago
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🎀IM SORRY FOR BLOWING UP YOUR INBOX! But Val/Vox(idrc which one) x Anorexic Daughter Reader?🎀
PLEASE READ BEFOREHAND
Hi Friend,
You’re not blowing up my inbox- I keep every request in a google doc and when inspo hits I work on it! If I ever decide I won’t do a request I won’t just delete it- I’ll post and say it directly <3 
Preface for this work:
 I’m considered a plus sized equestrian/plus sized human. Eating disorders come in all shapes, sizes and issues. I believe it’s Blythe Barid who said “If you develop an eating disorder when you are already thin to begin with you go to the hospital. If you develop an eating disorder when you are not thin to begin with, you are a success story.”
Stories like these are based on my own experiences and issues- and on this topic, I’ve had quite a few. Please remember that all bodies are worthy of love and respect, care and concern. It's a tough concept to wrap our heads around, and admittedly I still struggle with it. 
A little background info: 
ED’s are a huge part of my writing that I haven’t published. Ana and Mia are characters I have created (or maybe my own food issues created them). Either way, they’re  separate entities for separate stories- demons that I imagine have their own place in hell as well as in my writings (all of which have been in existence far longer than Hazbin). That being said, naming your ED is something I did and I have done. Even for the purpose of writing this story, the entire thing felt wrong without Ana running the behind the scenes. 
With this one I tried to pain the pain, the anger and frustration behind that never feeling good enough feeling. I would be open to doing part two if folks would be interested. Please also know I’ve written on this topic in several other forms if you explore my masterlist (or I can directly send you the links if you PM me). 
<3 Mandy 
I stepped on the bathroom scale and looked at the number that flashed below. The words of my coach echoed in my mind- I needed to lose the summer weight, or else I would be benched for the rest of the season. She had helpfully provided me with a journal to keep track of my weight, what I ate in a day, activities I did and how many calories I burned in accordance with my VoxTech watch. 
A month ago, I had met her goal, thus ending the weekly weigh-ins. According to her, I had lost enough weight to maintain my place on the team. It was on me now to make sure that I maintained that weight, or lost more. In her exact words, you could never be too skinny. 
“Bebita? Breakfast,” my fathers voice called from the hallway. “Come on, before it gets cold.”
The number told me I hadn’t gained weight, but I hadn’t lost weight either. I picked my backpack up and slung it over my shoulder. 
“Sorry, Dad! I’m late! I’ll eat at school, I promise,” I answered back as I rushed out the door. 
Surely skipping breakfast wouldn’t hurt. 
Skipping breakfast turned into skipping lunch. Skipping lunch turned into avoiding dinner. Sugar free jello and skinny pop became my go to snacks as the numbers in my book slowly but surely began to get smaller. Somewhere, a little voice inside my head began to cheer my successes on the scale. Over time, I learned that she had a name. 
Ana. My secret diet partner. My invisible cheerleader. The willpower I needed to keep going on the hardest days. And most importantly, someone who paid attention to me, 
With each passing day, Ana grew louder. She encouraged me to keep my diet a secret from my family. After all, they wouldn’t understand. Pleasing her, it became almost like an addiction- a game I played with myself to see just how little I could become. Food became nothing more than numbers, an obsession that consumed every minute, every second of my thoughts and desires. 
In my household, it wasn’t hard to keep it to myself. Hell, one could argue that I wasn’t technically even keeping it a secret. My father had a very important job, after all. And my Auntie Velvette and Uncle Vox also wouldn’t have had the opportunity to make the connection. A quick, I ate earlier, sorry! And I got off scott free. Ana cheered with each no thank you I uttered. My head between my knees after practice had become a ritualistic practice. Waiting for the black spots to fade, taking deep breaths to try to regain the energy to stand up and walk out to the awaiting limo. It wasn’t like there was anyone waiting at home for me anyway. 
On the daily, I kept a careful eye on my voxtech watch. The first time my blood sugar dropped, I got a call from Vox. Paniced waves rushed through me. A suggestion from Ana to bribe to a friendly tech demon. A brief trade later, I had constant vitals being sent from my watch, my real ones hidden behind a password. With this newfound freedom, outside of homework and practice, my time normally devoted to hobbies or hanging out with friends became time to sleep. After all, I was working on the perfect body. I needed my rest. 
For almost six months, Ana and I were best friends. 
Saturday morning. Game day. One of the busiest days for my father. After all, lust and depravity raked through the weekends like wildfire. Or at least, that was what he claimed. I stood in front of the mirror trying desperately to tighten the drawstring 
“Hey bebita?” I heard my fathers voice call from the hallway. “Baby, are you up?”
“Yeah, Dad. I have a game today,” I snapped as I tied another knot in the string. 
Why the fuck wouldn’t these stupid shorts stay up? I fumed to myself. Every part of my body ached, and even yanking on my shorts sent black spots and exhaustion rushing through my body. I leaned my head against the mirror and tried to take a deep breath. I could do this. I had to do this. 
The next thing I heard was my fathers voice, felt his hand shaking my shoulder. It took every ounce of energy to open my eyes. 
“Bebita? Reader, can you hear me?” Valentino asked frantically. “Princessa, wake up, now!”
“I’m fine,” I muttered as loudly as I could. Somehow, I managed to push myself upright. 
“You most certainly are not fine,” he replied sharply. “I’m taking you downstairs to the doctor, right now.”
Doctor. That meant I would miss the game. No, I had an obligation to my teammates. Somewhere in my head, Ana screamed.
Get up, fatass!
You really want to fuck this up for everyone?
You better not let him take you to the doctor, you do that and you’ll never find perfection. 
“I’m fine,” I growled, louder this time. I pulled myself to my feet and black spots dotted my vision. I felt my fathers arms around me and in seconds, I was off the floor and in his arms.
“Put me down, I can walk,” I tried to yell. Inside my head, Ana screamed louder, demands and insults about my current predicament. I pressed my hands to my head and curled my fingers in my hair, “Dad let me down NOW!” 
He ignored me as he carried me down the hallway. 
“Vox? Velvette? Both of you, with me. Now. We have a problem.” He said loudly. 
“Woah, what’s going….” Vox’s voice began. 
I shoved my hand against my father as he walked through the living room.  To my relief, he set me down on the couch. 
“What?” I snarled as three sets of eyes stared at me. “What the fuck are you looking at?” 
Vox checked his phone and then walked over to me. With one finger, he lifted off my Voxtech watch. 
“Hey! Give that back!” I demanded. “I’m going to be late to my game!”
All three of them ignored me. Wordlessly, Velvette walked away and returned moments later, bathroom scale in hand. She set it infront of the couch and gave me a hard look. 
“Step on.” 
“Fuck you,” I snapped as I stood up. I tried to ignore the black spots that danced just out of sight. “My weight is none of your fucking business.”
“Reader!” Valentino said in dismay. “That’s no way to talk to your Aunt.”
“I’m leaving, I’m already late. Thanks, Dad,” I continued sarcastically as I kicked the scale aside. 
Inside, Ana cheered. I bent down to pick up my backpack and the world around me spun. Three steps,  and Vox’s hand gripped my upper arm. The last thing I heard was Ana’s voice screaming indistinguishable words. 
When I came to again, I found myself in a room of gray and blue. Wires stuck out from my chest, and I tried to cough and spit the feeling of something painful in the back of my throat. I tried to reach up, to shove my fingers down my throat, and my skin met padded white cuffs. 
What the fuck?
You’re going to have to work hard to get yourself out of this one, Ana taunted. Great job getting caught, fatass. 
“Hey, baby, it’s alright, Papi is here,” I heard my father’s voice say somewhere far away. 
“Mr. Valentino, I promise we’ll be in touch when she’s more stable,” a new voice said. “For now, it might be best to give her some space to…”
Indistinguishable arguments. My fathers refusal and reminder of who exactly was in charge here. My Uncle Vox and Aunt Velvette chiming in, a mix of talking him down and agreement. 
Panic shot through me as the haze slowly began to wear away. Realization. Through the fog, only one word came to mind. 
Fuck.
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beemynumberone · 2 months ago
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Thoughts about Coach Washijo’s granddaughter and the boys vball team in Shiratorizawa.
my haikyuu masterlist
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Coach Washijo’s granddaughter is really smart (the only one of her cousins who got into shiratorizawa through grades mind you) 
But she doesn’t play a sport and prefers doing art
She’s in the art club
And she needs to complete a project for the school’s open house exhibition
She chose to do something on dynamic objects in everyday life
And of course, she needs a muse. Which she casually brings up in a conversation with her grandpa one day
The coach suggests that she use the vball team as a subject - they’re always bouncing around somehow, it’ll be a perfect way for her to explore movement and all that
And she’s like: why not, it’ll save her from having to work long hours in the hot sun too
The coach introduces her to the team
And thus begins her regular sit-ins during volleyball practice
And the guys start becoming super self-conscious
They’re worried they might not look “cool” enough
So for the first couple of sessions, all she sees is a bunch of guys mewling in her face, esp Goshiki - that guy looks super tensed up and slightly constipated
And their performance worsens too
So one day before the coach arrives, she plainly states to the team: “Don’t worry about looking lame or anything. I’ll paint what I see, and judging from the fact that you are already on the volleyball team, I’m sure you aren’t that lame.” 
And surprisingly, that really boosts the guys’ confidence 
The guys become truly focused in their game and she watches on in awe at the dedication and passion their have in honing their craft
And funnily, she has an eye for capturing fine details at first glance 
So when the team does their drills, she can pinpoint what exactly they are doing wrongly and specifically what they can improve in (?) 
If someone seems to be using less core strength than usual, not putting enough strength in their fingers, etc etc
It works to help the team, yknow 
Also, it gives the team major whiplash to see her be so casual with their usually grouchy coach 
Like once, she got the coach to pose so she could “make a sketch” for him
And she’d got the coach to make the sassiest poses everr (without any argument, btw)
”Yes, one hand on your hip, stick your hip out like this and lean your weight on this foot. Smile!”
The coach keeps the sketch btw 
It’s really cute 
She let the guys see the finished project before submitting it
She’d decided to bind all the paintings she’d made of the guys into a book, to be displayed on a stand at the exhibition
The guys swoon over it 
And they (mainly Ushijima) get really interested in art and painting and stuff because of her 
Tendou loves that she’d drawn him cute but kept his feral-ness
Ushijima doesn’t look that stone faced hallelujah 
Goshiki looks determined, anyone viewing the painting can definitely feel the raw passion and eagerness radiating from him
Shirabu doesn’t look sulky (for once)  
And secretly, she’d been painting a separate team portrait for the guys to keep
Which they treasure very much and hang up in the volleyball club room 
Still there till now with their slogan 
Irresistible force 
Pictures are from Pinterest!
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^The first panel is how I think Coach Washijo would view the sketch of his sassy pose (feat Ushijima, cause I didn’t have the heart to cut the 2nd panel out)
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^And this is Ushijima as a mushroom
(Can you tell who my favourite Haikyuu character is yet? :3)
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pjmparadise · 2 years ago
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3:23 am (don’t go, stay) Pt 1 || JJK
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Pairing: jungkook x f! original character
Word count: 12.1k
Genre(s): fluff, romance, strangers to lovers, slight angst if you squint; neighbor au, pre-debut Jungkook au, pre-debut au, comic book artist Jungkook au, apartment au, neighbor au
Warnings: cursing, mentions of jungkook’s penis (yeah yeah... he sleeps naked ofc), brief injury (jk hurts himself bc he’s a dork); descriptions of anxiety and fear (jungkook is scared for a sec, oops); nudity mentions, jungkook is a little horny (what can I say....), jungkook gets a hard on lol; he’s also down bad pathetic crushing and is super clumsy, and brief mentions of home robberies (lol this feels random, but it isn’t I swear), very heavily dialogue based
Audience: 18+ (minors, DNI!)
Summary: Jungkook has had a couple of awkward run-ins with his pretty upstairs neighbor, who he may or may not be secretly pining over, and one night, she pays him an unexpected visit.
“My patio, though. Did you fall? I heard a thud.”
“Are you flirting with me? I’ve heard that pickup line before, but yours sounds a little different.”
He smiles. “I wouldn’t use pickup lines like those with you.”
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⋆✦⋆ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
A/N: WOOO! my first jungkook fic!! We recently got his birth time, and thus this title was born lol! I’ve been working on this baby for a few months now, and it’s finally finished!! After a long time of contemplating, i decided to make our female character an original character, and i know it’s kind of a rare thing in the community, but i felt it worked best with my story. It’s been a bumpy ride with this one since it’s my first lengthy fic (over 12k words... sheesh!) that will be a part of a short series. I’m very excited and a little nervous, but if you’re here, I’m glad to have you here. Thank you for giving my work a shot <3 (ps. italics indicate jungkook’s inner thoughts as well as flashbacks)
a big thank you to my lovely beta’s: @cherrysoulth @the-boy-meets-evil​ and @jeonjcngkook​ you’ve all helped me shape my fic and have been so helpful, and I am so so grateful. truly. seriously. thank you for brainstorming with me, for reading my work, and for being so sweet and so supportive.
a special thank you to @itaeewon​ for the lovely banner! I love it so so much &lt;3
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Jungkook is awake to hear the sound of a muffled thud nearby.
His bedroom is dark and silent save for the alarm clock resting on a bedside table flashing bright red numbers at him. ‘It’s late, it’s late, you should be asleep,’ the time says. Jungkook shuts his eyes, groaning and rubbing a hand over his face. “I know, fuck, I know,” he mutters. He’s fully naked, lying on his back, eyes wide open and boring into the ceiling, blanket kicked off to the side, and arms folded behind his neck–still remembering a phone conversation with Namjoon earlier in the day.
“So she walked toward the elevator as it closed, and you didn’t open it for her?” Namjoon scoffs over the phone, shaking his head and clicking his tongue to show he’s disappointed. He knows Jungkook froze, Jungkook already told him he wanted to reach out and push the button for her, but Namjoon asked again anyway—he likes to give him a hard time. “Every time you see this girl, things just kind of go wrong. I’ve noticed.”
“Yeah,” Jungkook says with a sigh. “I’ve noticed too. Is it a sign? Should I give up?” In his apartment, he sat curled up on his couch, his chin on his kneecaps. He’s fallen silent in thought.
“No, nothing like that. Maybe she didn’t get to see it was you, so she thinks it was someone else, or maybe she doesn't even think about it anymore. You know, like things that happen in your day you forget about later unless something reminds you of it?”
“Yes!” Jungkook relaxed, falling back against the couch with a hand over his forehead. “That probably is what’s going on. She went on with her day; other things have to happen, right?”
Namjoon was quiet. In his apartment, he was opening mail and reading over a proposal he was meant to sign soon. A project he hasn’t mentioned to anyone else, Namjoon folds the letter and sets it aside. “Sorry, yes. Yes, don’t worry too much. It will ruin your day. I mean that. Sorry for the pause. I just opened some mail.”
“Ah, okay. Well, you’re right.” Jungkook rose from his seat then. “Namjoon-hyung?”
Namjoon nodded even though he couldn’t be seen. “Yeah?”
“Thank you. I don’t know if I say that enough, but you’re always helping and guiding me when I don’t even realize I need it.”
“Thank you, Jungkook. Finish your comic tonight, and submit it tomorrow. I know you’ll place in the contest and do well. You haven’t scrapped it have you?”
Jungkook sighed. Rubbing his eyelids, walking distractedly around his living room, he spoke with his eyes closed. “I have it. I finished it; I just don’t feel too good about posting it, even with the pseudonym; it feels like too much. Too much with what we already have going on as a group even. We’re trying to do something together, and the comic stuff is just… I don’t know. I don’t want it to distract me.”
Namjoon was on his back patio, leaning over the railing and looking out at the park across from him. “Jungkook, I’m going to tell you something and think about it however you want to. I respect your life, but I think—and these are just my opinions. I think you doubt yourself too often and need to take some chances. Luck turns out; it does.” Namjoon folds his arms over the railing, leaning his body against it. “No rush, bro. At all. The music we’re trying to pursue, it’s not going anywhere, you know?”
Jungkook nodded from his living room.
“Like, okay, look.” Namjoon fixed his gaze on a flock of birds rising from the trees. “The guys, we all have our passions. Yoongi with his piano, Jimin is passionate about his dancing, Taehyung with his instruments, Jin and his gaming, and Hoseok he’s been designing his own clothes lately; with me, you know I like poetry and painting, but we all share music. That is for the team, for a part of us, but we each have so many parts. You like art and storytelling; your comics are so cool, bro. You love watching Taehyung practice the trumpet, and Jimin dance after practice. We like to see you pursue your other dreams too.  Pursue it, and don't worry about the group, is all I ask.”
Jungkook almost cried. He stopped pacing. His heart was racing; it was all he had heard momentarily. If Namjoon were there in front of him, he’d hug him. Maybe he’d even cry. “Ah, Namjoon-hyung…” he swallowed hard at the saliva in his throat, blushing. ‘Namjoon always knows what to say,’ he thought. “I will think about it. I will set an alarm, just in case. I’ll decide in the morning, you know it’s my style to do that the day of. If I think about it now, it will be like this all day, and I’ll stress too much.”
“Good, then. Just think about it.” Namjoon smiled.
Jungkook lies motionless with his eyes shut, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, mouthing along to Namjoon’s words. “We like to see you pursue your other dreams too.  Pursue it, and don't worry about the group, is all I ask.” He sighs. How could he not worry about the guys? He’s twenty-five. Most idols start out much younger, and the mandatory enlistment is already so near for his hyungs. It’s bad timing, is all. My comic book can wait.
He wants to sleep, so he turns over, laying flat on his stomach, facing his wall. Resting his full body weight on his flaccid penis is slightly uncomfortable, but he ignores it. It’s the type of restless night that he has no chance up against, and even with his eyes closed, he feels painfully awake. Jungkook is thinking of her again—her pretty smile, the pink sundress she wore in the elevator, her ability to look him in the eyes and not shy away—and it’s almost like she's here, in the same room with him. He pictures the sundress again, the way it clung to her frame, highlighting every curve. Man, I want her. He shifts his hips around, surprising himself with a massive erection.
The thud strikes again suddenly, and he sits up, alarmed. Shit, is that here? Like outside my apartment? Jungkook squints in the darkness, bringing a hand to the nightstand to fetch his glasses. Any sign of arousal is now extinguished.
“Bam?” He calls out in a sluggish voice.  The clock beside him flashes bright red numbers at him. 3:23. “Ah, shit,” Jungkook mumbles, turning the clock away. A sound he can’t distinguish comes from his left, directly outside his bedroom. “It’s like home alone,” he says to no one.
Jungkook rests his head against the wall, the texture cold against his feverish face. He can hear the sound of a muffled conversation. “Shit, that’s right here, right outside,” he mumbles, stepping back. He reaches over mechanically to switch on the lamp beside him.
Now, Jungkook is painfully aware of his nakedness and frenetically searches for bottoms to change into. He’s thinking about how his legs don’t feel like his own as he walks to the chair by the door, where he sees basketball shorts. It’s like sleepwalking. Even though he’s awake, Jungkook feels as though he might’ve actually fallen asleep, and this is some strange anxiety dream he’s creating to cope with his qualms about submitting his comic. Still, he goes along with it, quietly changing into the shorts, walking out into his living room, and ducking his head when he passes the glass patio door.
Cursing under his breath, annoyed at himself for forgetting to throw on a shirt, Jungkook shakes his head at himself. I don't want to fight an intruder shirtless and commando in basketball shorts, damn... A part of him feels a rush of adrenaline as he crouches behind a potted plant and, chewing on his lower lip, fantasizes about a robbery gone wrong, one where he puts his boxing skills to the test—the other part of him wants this to be a dream, a sign from the universe that he ought to submit his comic. I’ll fucking do it if I survive this.
Jungkook stays like that for a while until he hears a sound again. Rising from his crouched position, he walks toward the back patio window, pulling back the curtain to peer out. He feels a tightness in his chest, and his hands tremble slightly. A shameful part of him is relieved that he’s alone and no one is around to see how shaken up he is.
He whistles quietly, calling to Bam, forgetting his brother is watching over him tonight. Craning his neck, he glances around his balcony patio and sees nothing. “Bam, come here,” his whispering is frantic. He whistles again, patting his leg lightly. Nothing. You’re okay. It’s nothing. It’s probably the cats again tipping over the plants. Just fix it tomorrow. Now, go back to bed. You need it. Jungkook is about to whistle once more when he remembers. His eyebrows knit together; shaking his head, he places his fingertips on his eyelids, murmuring a lamented, “Ah.”
Thinking better of it, he draws the curtain back again and sighs with relief before taking note of a figure crouched behind a chair with a hand shooting up to rub their head. Panic washes over him. His inner monologue consists of a string of every curse word he can think of as he ducks out of view. Fuck, fuck, fuck, that’s a person. If he’d been scared earlier, now he’s downright petrified.
Desperate, he begins to look around the room for a weapon. Anything. Jungkook stands still, breathing in heavy gulps of air, cradling his head as he adjusts his vision to the darkness of the living room. ‘Can’t even turn a fucking light on,’ he thinks as he drops to the ground and crawls around his living room. His home’s silence unsettles him. Jungkook can hear the nothingness aside from his ragged breathing, so he pinches the skin on his arm and hisses at the sharp pain. Okay, real life it is. His bare knees skid against the hard flooring, and his clammy palms slip beneath him; his heart is thudding hard and fast, the blood pooling between his ears. He’s scowling, chewing his lower lip, his chest heaving as he fumbles a hand under the couch; he fingers a cold object and remembers what it is. Aha! He comes up with a golf club Taehyung left behind a few nights ago. I love you, Taehyung!
Jungkook grips the golf club until his knuckles take on a pale color. Having a weapon gives him a newfound sense of security, and like before, he’s fantasizing about kicking someone’s ass. “You come to my house at three in the morning? My house?” he says as he walks through his living room, rolling his shoulders.
He draws the curtain again, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness; he sees the figure facing away from him and hunching over, a phone glowing against their face. He can call the police, and he almost wants to, but to avoid the drama of a police visit at three in the morning, he decides against it. Imagine the guys find out I called the police? He shudders at the thought. The stranger looks small anyway.
Jungkook reaches for the doorknob and pulls back the door. It’s a lot chillier than he’d anticipated. He folds his arms over his bare chest instantly, the skin covered in goosebumps—his teeth chatter of their own accord.
“Don't move!” He raises the golf club in a mid-swing position, ready to strike. The person shifts around, holding up the hand with the phone. “I said, ‘Don’t move’!” He sounds ridiculous, but he doesn't care. In the shadows, he watches the phone’s glow shut off. “I called the police, so don’t try anything. They’re on the way.” His voice doesn't even sound like his own. He takes a few steps toward the stranger, his grip tightening around the golf club. His heart feels heavy in his chest.
It’s hard to make out the features of this person, but they rise, walk toward the dim light spilling from the neighbor’s window, and he can see them now. The stranger looks straight at him, and he’s met with wide eyes staring at him. She’s standing, squinting at him with a hand on her hip, and she smiles wide. Damn! If this were an animation, she’d have a halo effect.
Jungkook has seen her a total of seven times—he can’t help it; he likes to keep track of these things. It’s his upstairs neighbor, their interactions before tonight being brief and in passing (the most recent engraved in his mind and tormenting him), and he’s thought of her tirelessly and has fantasized about a time they should meet, and things go well for a change.
Jungkook doesn't know her name, but he could recognize those beautiful dark eyes anywhere. He’s looking into them now, his body anchored, mouth turning into sawdust.
She’s talking to him; he’s just not listening. Not really. He can't grasp the reality that it’s actually her, and she’s standing on his patio, and she looks so beautiful. Should he be thinking that?
Her long black hair is in a loose ponytail, her eyebrows arch as her deep dark eyes blink at him, and her lips move. “Please tell me you didn't really call the cops,” she says, bursting through his trance.
Damn, I sounded so stupid! Jungkook blushes. He hopes she can’t tell from where she stands.
“I was trying to call my friend; I swear I was not snooping or breaking in.” She smiles, but her voice sounds worried. Her eyebrows furrow like she’s trying to read him. “Honest,” she says in a small voice as she leans on the railing and raises her hand with the cell phone for emphasis.
She’s wearing a dark gray sweatshirt twice her size and sandals with white socks, and he can’t tell if she’s wearing shorts or if the sweatshirt is all. He can feel his face reddening just from the possibility of her nakedness underneath the sweatshirt, so he decides not to focus on that.
Jungkook rubs the nape of his neck, abashed. The cold air surrounds him, and he folds his arms across his chest, remembering his exposed chest. His empty threat echoes and bounces around in his head, and he looks away from her. “I didn't call the cops, sorry. I didn't know what else to say. It’s what they say in movies.”
“You would be right anyway; this is your patio.” She laughs a little at that, and his heart rate picks up. She pushes herself away from the railing, smiling, and walks toward him with an outstretched hand. Her nail polish is glittery, and he doesn't notice, but this small detail makes him smile. “I’m Rei. I live upstairs. Maybe you’ve seen me before.” There’s a coy look on her face as she says this, and it makes him nervous.
So her name is Rei!!! Fireworks set off, exploding behind Jungkook’s wide eyes.
“Huh, maybe,” Jungkook lies. He shakes her hand slowly, his hand enveloping hers entirely, the contact sending a warm shock through his body.
“Maybe a few days ago,” she says, with a finger to her chin, like she’s thinking over something. “Oh, yes, have I seen you on the elevator?”
“The elevator?” He feigns innocence as he tongues his lip ring anxiously. “That’s strange. Every day is a blur for me.”
“For me, too,” she replies. She’s almost smirking, watching Jungkook lie. He can tell she’s caught him. “You just look sooo familiar.”
“That’s a first.” Still, he denies it.
“Maybe you just look like someone I’ve seen,” she says, looking into his eyes as if searching for something she placed there. “You have one of those faces, you know?”
Jungkook raises his eyebrows, lips parted to speak, but nothing comes out. 
Is she flirting with me or giving me a hard time? DAMN!
“I have an ordinary face?” Jungkook wonders after a moment.
“Either that or my memory is failing me,” she says, sighing and shaking her head. “Which do you think it is?”
“I don't have an ordinary face,” Jungkook says in a small voice, “I have piercings on my face.”
“That’s true…” she’s watching the ground and suddenly looks into his eyes again. She holds his stare unblinking, and then her lips pull back into a big smile showing off cute bunny teeth. Just like me. “I’ve always had a good memory; I was just kidding.”
“Oh,” Jungkook says, blushing.
He can smell her perfume when a cold breeze blows past him, carrying her real-life presence and enveloping him in it. It’s sweet and mixed with a scent of detergent he recognizes, and he’s watching how strands of her hair float beside her face. She’s so cute. Damnnnn.
“You should open the door for the ladies,” Rei says, raising an eyebrow, and stepping closer, she says, “Just harmless advice. Stranger .”
“I will consider that,” he replies, avoiding her fixed stare, attempting to ignore how she’s riled him up with a loud clearing of his throat. But his chest is on fire, his heart thudding hard against his rib cage at her closeness. “My patio, though. Did you fall? I heard a thud.”
“Are you flirting with me? I’ve heard that pickup line before, but yours sounds a little different.”
He smiles. “I wouldn’t use pickup lines like those with you.”
She laughs, and he internally swoons. If he were a cartoon, his heart would burst out of his chest in comical dramatic thuds, his pupils heart-shaped.
“I’m kidding. I know I’m giving you a hard time when I’m on your patio at three in the morning, but I can explain why I’m here,” Rei mimics Jungkook’s movements by crossing her arms across her chest, her lower lip trembling, “but can I come in? It’s cold out, and I'm in the worst attire for this weather.” She gestures vaguely at her exposed legs, and Jungkook’s stare lingers before she notices—so he responds with a nod as he gestures for her to follow him inside. “Though you might have me beat. You came out here without a shirt, damn.”
Leading the way, he blushes at her comment and gives his head a light shake. She’s so talkative! Yoongi was right about her.
With a dreamy air about him, he remembers Namjoon’s words. Except now, all he remembers is: “You need to take some chances. Luck turns out; it does.”
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Inside, Jungkook excuses himself to his room to change into a shirt. He reaches for his glasses beside his bed and goes to the closet. “Shirt, shirt, shirt,” he mutters as his hands sift through empty hangers. When was the last time he did laundry? He groans. “Shirt?” he reaches to pick up a heap of white clothing in the deep corner of the closet. He brings the shirt to his nose, sniffs, and walks back into the room, raising an eyebrow and nodding with approval. His hands are shaky as he maneuvers his head through a t-shirt sleeve in a panicked rush. He yanks the shirt off again, the t-shirt now inside out and knotted up in his grip; he groans as his fingers work the fabric. What if she’s gone when I go back out there? Agh, what if I’m dreaming all of this up, and lack of sleep is finally getting to me?
Rei’s voice comes through the walls, and though this is their first official meeting, he knows she’s smiling as she calls out to him. “You okay in there?”
Smoothing out the wrinkles on the shirt, he glances at his reflection behind the bedroom door before stepping out, his chest heaving and his nostrils flaring. “I’m okay; all is OK. Sorry.” He offers her a thumbs up and a big goofy grin that makes her laugh.
“Did you go on a hike without me?” She asks from her seat on his couch. She rests her face on her palm, looking up at him as he walks past toward the kitchen.
“Hike? I just put the shirt on; it was fighting me, though.”
“No, I meant,” she shakes her head, laughing. “I meant that as a while for changing into a shirt. Bad joke, sorry.”
“Ah,” Jungkook says.
“You’re wearing glasses,” she comments, her eyes looking over his face.
“I am,” he says, glancing her way.
It looks like she wants to say something else but doesn't.
He raises his eyebrows, nodding and tonguing the inside of his cheek. It doesn't happen often, but he doesn't know what to say. He walks into the kitchen with his hands in his pockets. “Do you drink tea?” He wonders as he fills a kettle with water and sets it to boil.
Rei nods, stretching her legs before her and craning her neck back to look up at the ceiling. “Chamomile or whatever you have, I’m not picky.” She points a finger above her head, motioning for him to look. “Those are stars. Is this wallpaper? It looks pretty. Is it glow-in-the-dark?”
Jungkook is in the kitchen, his eyes watching how her finger moves in a swift motion of the length of the ceiling. He thinks about how her hand felt in his grip and wishes he’d been more present. “It’s… I don’t know, actually. It’s not a wallpaper; it’s carved into the ceiling, and yes, it glows but not like the bright green; it’s softer.” He looks at her, and she scrunches her eyebrows in confusion. “Want to see?”
She twists her body to look at him, her smile so big he can’t help but return the affection. “Yes. Show me.”
“Grab the remote beside you; turn off the lights with it.”
She clicks the lights off, and the gasp she lets out makes his heart flutter in his chest. Aside from the hard thudding in his chest, the only sounds nearby are the buzzing of the refrigerator, the ice machine rolling out handfuls of freshly carved-out cubes, and the bubbling water in the kettle. Jungkook doesn't dare disturb the quiet; he’s leaning against the kitchen table, wanting her to stay. He looks for her in the dark, his eyes finding her silhouette on the couch, his lips pulling back into a smile. She’s better than in his daydreams; she smells sweet and of detergent, and she feels like a real person just like him, so near but out of his reach. And here, in the same room as him, so close to him, Jungkook realizes she could’ve left by now but hasn’t.
“I’d love it if I had this on my ceiling,” Rei pouts, “want to trade?” She clicks the lights back on, and Jungkook blinks, slowly adjusting to the brightness.
He pretends to mull it over, humming and tonguing his cheek. He puts on his best-thinking face. “No way, but you can come over and look at the stars when it's overcast or raining outside.” He walks toward the stove, where the water boils in the kettle. With his back turned to her, he’s hiding his blushing face as he sets two cups out before him.
“I think that sounds nice,” she replies, surprising him. “So what, I walk outside sometime, see a gray sky, and come downstairs to see you? ‘Hey, neighbor, can I see the stars?’ and you say, ‘Come in, I’ve just made cocoa, would you like some?’ and I say, ‘Thank you, are you sure?’ and then you say, ‘Sure’ except I never leave because I like the stars so much and you don’t know how to tell me I should go home.”
“Oh, that’s a good conversation. Is that what you’d like me to make? I like hot cocoa,” Jungkook says, brushing the hair out of his eyes. “You think I'd want you to leave?”
“Well, if I were here all the time….” she looks at him through her lashes, and he catches her eyes and raises an eyebrow at her, a playful smirk on his lips. And she shakes her head, laughing. “Do you mean it, though?”
“About you coming to see the stars whenever you’d like?” Jungkook asks, leaning against the kitchen island. She nods at him in two slow motions of her head. “Yes, I mean it.”
“The skies are unusually gray these days, aren’t they?”
“I’ve noticed that too,” he says, opening the fridge. He grabs a box of cherries and shuts the door with his elbow. “But no rain.”
“Exactly, I told my friend Kimi; she lives with me upstairs and is almost a sister to me, except we have different parents. Well, I told her, ‘Haven't you noticed how it looks like it’s going to rain every day, but it never does?’ and she says, ‘Rei, it rains. It just happens to be when you’re asleep,’ and can you believe it? I woke up yesterday, and it was early, not like tonight, but early for me, and I looked outside my window, and there was dew sticking to the glass, and it was all sweaty when I touched the windowpane, and I realized she was right, it rained during the night, and I just missed it. Isn't that something so lame?”
“Huh,” Jungkook says, chewing on a cherry and offering the box to her. She shakes her head no and mouths a ‘Thank you’ to him. “So we’re off asleep and just missing the rain, so it always works out that we’re missing out on something during the day. It’s always like that. Kimi sees the rain, and you’re off sleeping, but you probably get to see other things I miss when I’m taking a nap and on and on.”
“That’s true. But I thought about catching it tonight. When I went to bed hours ago, I kept thinking about the rain and wondering if I stayed up, I might see it, and it wouldn’t just feel like I kept missing it and living the same gray day.”
“It’s like Santa Claus,” Jungkook says, scrunching his nose as he tongues a cherry stem in his mouth, “waiting up all night for him to show up just for you to see your dad dressed up as Santa and realize he’s been putting the presents down there for years.”
Rei laughs at this and covers her face with her hands like she’s protecting her laugh from anything sharp. “Your dad did that? For real?”
Jungkook scrunches his eyebrows and pinches his nose bridge, and with a tone of feigned affliction, he says, “Yeah, he did. I knew the truth before a lot of my classmates.”
“How old were you? When he ruined Santa Claus. Do you remember a thing like that, like how old you were?” She rests her chin on her palm like she’s weighing her head. He thinks she looks cute like that but doesn’t say anything.
“I don't know exactly, but I was in the third year of school,” Jungkook says, suddenly thinking back on his infancy. He chews his lower lip when the answer suddenly comes to him, and he remembers the conversation he had with the guys a while back. They’d all taunted Seokjin when they found out Seokjin didn't know the truth about Santa until he was thirteen. “I was seven. I can't believe I remembered that. I was seven….” His mouth hangs open, and he remembers what he wore when he first saw his dad hunched over behind the tree with a gift in hand— a white flannel pajama set and his mother’s slippers. Where has this memory been hiding?  “Damn.”
“I was six,” she says, smiling. “My childhood was ruined a year before yours. Or wait, are we the same age? I just assumed we were.” She laughs again, bringing a hand up to her face to hide her smile.
“I assumed the same thing,” Jungkook admits, feeling his cheeks redden. “I’m twenty-five.”
“Oh wow,” she says, almost to herself. “Me too.”
He doesn't know what else to do but clear his throat and nod.  He never imagined getting this far (whatever that means). He’ll struggle to explain this later when Namjoon asks—Jungkook knows he’ll ask.
The kettle begins to whistle, and he’s reaching for the two coffee mugs as she says something behind him he doesn't catch. And he turns his head over his shoulder and nods at her. “What happened? Sorry, I didn't catch that.”
“I said, ‘You don't have to do that for me.’” She turns her head away as she says this, her long hair cascading along her profile, hiding her.
“I have a visitor,” he says, turning over to look at her with a grin. “I have good manners.”
“Oh, sure, manners,” she replies, rolling her eyes at him like a friend he’s known for years. “Is that my tea? It smells amazing.”
“It is, but it’s hot, so let’s leave it here.” Jungkook offers her a tight-lipped smile, shyly making his way toward her. “Mind if I sit next to you?”
“No, not at all; come, sit.” She pats the spot beside her and scoots over to make room for him. “Thank you for the tea and for letting me in. I know it’s late.”
Jungkook glances at the clock on the kitchen stove. 3:55. “It’s not that late. I was awake anyway, so I didn’t mind.” He’s toying with his lip ring again. “Why were you out there anyway?”
It’s been some time since Jungkook’s been this close to a girl. He feels his heart thudding away in his chest, her presence stirring up a desire that’s been dormant. Loose strands of hair frame her face, and his eyes follow her movements as she brushes the strands away. She looks embarrassed, her cheeks reddening. Still, he finds her so cute. “Truth?”
“Yes.” He scrunches his nose when he smiles at her.
“I locked myself out of my apartment. Before bed, I stepped out into my patio for a smoke and to read more of my book. I was also trying to test my rain suspicions to see if I could catch it while it happened. So, I’m out there romanticizing my life, pretending I’m in a movie; you know how we act when we’re alone and suddenly want to be poetic?” She looks at Jungkook, and he nods lightly. “That was me, except I got cold right away and said, ‘Oh fuck this, I’m going to bed,’ and that’s when I realized I’d locked the back door, and I was so mad I almost cried.” She places her fingertips against her forehead, continuing her recounting. “So, of course, I get the idea of calling a locksmith, but they’re closed; I don’t know what people should do if they need help during the night.”
“Most people sleep, I think.”
She clicks her tongue. “Right, some people do, but you and I are not those people, right?” She draws an imaginary line with her forefinger from her chest toward him. He nods and feigns oblivious as his leg brushes against her bare thigh as she shifts in her seat. “So, not only is every locksmith not available, but my service is horrible, so I am standing on my tiptoes trying to get a bar, and my phone slips. My heart almost burst.” She brings a hand to her chest for visual effect, and his eyes watch her chest as it rises and falls with each breath. He’s smiling at her—a wide smile that hurts his cheeks. “If it weren’t for your patio, my phone would be shattered to hell on the ground. I look over my balcony, and for the first time, I notice how close our balconies are.” Rei presses her hands over her thighs, leaning forward in her seat and fixing her eyes on the glass patio door across from her. “I mean, I’m sure you’ve noticed, but I don’t go out there much. Anyway, I’m rambling. I noticed I could jump directly into your patio because there’s a mattress out there, and well….” She makes a motion with her hands that says: ‘ Ya know?’
“You weren’t scared of jumping? The balconies are close, but we’re still six stories up.” Jungkook rests his hands on his knees, fully invested in this story; his eyes never leave her. She forms a tight line with her lips and gives him a serious look that makes him laugh. “Ok, so you were scared.”
“I was scared! But there’s a mattress out there, you know,” she says in a small voice. She’s blushing and scratching at the side of her nose to avoid his eyes.
Jungkook notices this and clicks his tongue, leaning back in his seat.  “So it was not an accident, then?” He raises an eyebrow at her, sucking his teeth in feigned disapproval.
The truth is, he’s not mad about it; he wants her here. He almost feels like he is in a dream.
“Not entirely. Don’t ask me how I thought about returning to my place after retrieving my phone because I didn’t think that far ahead.”
“Oh, there’s a mattress out there. You could’ve just slept there; no big deal,” Jungkook says with a laugh. Rei brings a hand to her face to hide behind, making a groaning sound. “I’m sorry; I don’t mean to laugh at you. I just don't know what to think— this has never happened before.”
“And it won’t happen again; let’s hope.” She laughs, and it’s different from before; it sounds deeper like she reached into herself and decided to really show him. And Jungkook likes the sound of her laugh but does not comment. She moves a few strands of hair from her face and rests her cheek on her hand, leaning on the couch's armrest. It’s slowly dawning on Jungkook how badly he wants her. What am I supposed to do with her this close to me? Damn. “So, what’s your name? You didn’t say when I told you mine.”
He rises from the couch, remembering their tea.
“Jeon Jungkook,” he says as he pours the tea, “I guess I forgot to introduce myself. Huh.”
Rei’s looking at him with her chin in her hand and a serious look on her face as he’s walking toward her with an outstretched hand in offering. “It’s chamomile,” Jungkook announces.
“Jeon Jungkook,” She repeats with a light smile. “I like it. I don’t know any other Jungkooks.”
“Yeah? I’ve had this name for a long time. I like it too.”
She takes the cup and brings it to her face, inhaling the scent and shivering, and says, “Thank you again. This tea smells sweet. It reminds me of this tea my grandmother used to make my sister and me when we were kids. She would put a little bit of honey, the real kind, and peppermint leaves; it was….” She sighs longingly. “I miss that tea; this smells like home.”
Sitting beside her, he takes a sip of tea, his gaze on her unmoving. Her lips part as she blows gently, the steam rising from the cup in lazy strokes. Jungkook’s heartbeat quickens when she matches his stare with her deep dark eyes that seem to look for something in his.
“This tea has honey, but I doubt it’s the real kind you mentioned, but I still think it’s good.” He clears his throat, looking away as he adjusts his glasses on his nose bridge.
“I like your glasses. I wanted to say that earlier,” Rei comments, taking a sip of her tea, “I don't know why I didn't say anything.” She moves around in her seat, tucking her legs beneath her, then asks, “Can I wear them? Are they prescription?”
“They’re just reading glasses. You can wear them. I put them on sometimes just because they suit me,” he pulls his glasses off, wipes the lenses on his shirt, and hands them over.
“Ah, so you like how they look on you,” she says, her eyes gleaming as she takes the glasses from him and sets them on her face. “How do they look?”
If he were a cartoon character from one of his comics, he’d have melted into a puddle, exploded like dynamite, turned into stardust, and returned to his original self. Except, she’s a real person just like he is, flesh and blood and so beautiful, and he’s off in space being reborn.
“Look at me,” he motions for her to turn his way. She looks straight at him, wearing his glasses and blushing at his attention. She begins to unfold in front of him, her playful demeanor softening. “You look pretty. If they weren't my prescription, I would give them to you.”
“Here, they’re hurting my eyes,” she says, laughing. She removes the glasses and starts rubbing her eyes with closed fists. “You’re sweet, though. I couldn't take a guy’s glasses. How will he go on drinking his tea and letting me in to watch the stars?”
Jungkook feels a warmth spread in his chest. God, how is she real? He runs his fingers through his long hair and coughs once, then again. His nerves are getting to him. She’s too close to him, her bare thigh soft against his leg. He begins to count backward in his head.
“Were you really awake already, or did I wake you?” She asks him all of a sudden. Her eyes stay on him as if waiting for him to say something else.
“You don’t believe me? I was awake. Swear.” He raises his free hand at his side.
She appears to mull that over for a bit, bringing her cup of tea to her lips but not taking a sip. “What were you doing?”
Jungkook is silent, and she sits unmoving until he speaks.
What was I doing? Besides dreading another deadline? Thinking about a comic I might not submit or thinking about not having a shot in hell with a girl like you? Images of the times they’ve run into each other flick by in his head like a slow PowerPoint slide. The registration office, desolate stairwells, crowded evacuations, elevators closing, Rei standing in front of him in a summer dress with a strange look on her face; Rei on his back patio, hunched over with a phone near her face; Rei in his apartment, on his couch, next to him. He feels the adam’s apple in his throat rising and falling. He’s been quiet for who knows how long.
“Thinking, I guess.” He breathes out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “I don’t know why I took so long to say that. It sounded boring in my head, so I had to think if there was something else I forgot about.”
“That is pretty boring, just thinking. But that’s life, though, isn’t it? Kind of boring sometimes.”
Jungkook nods, blushing and avoiding looking at her. What if she can read minds? He straightens his posture and runs his fingers through his hair again, his eyes fixed on the ceiling of carved-out stars. It’s OK. It’s OK. She’s still here.
The living room is almost dead silent. Jungkook notices how Rei sips her tea and looks over the area. It’s neat, for the most part. Bam’s toys lay scattered near the laundry room entrance, along with some of Jungkook’s dirty socks the dog likes to chew on, and Bam’s food bowls are resting up against the wall beside his doghouse. The potted plants Namjoon gifted Jungkook are still alive and pop against the beige coloring of the walls in front of them. The TV is massive, his Playstation console resting on its side. Her eyes find the corner shelf where Jungkook’s Marvel figurines are on display behind glass doors, and she turns to look at him with a sparkle in her wide eyes. “Are those yours?” She gestures with her thumb. He nods, chewing his lower lip anxiously. “Can I look?” She rises from her seat when he motions for her to go on. Like standing in a museum, she silently peers into the display with her hands clasped behind her back.
“I just got that case a few days ago when I got that plant next to you,” Jungkook remarks, joining her.
“I remember,” she says distractedly.
“You remember?” His eyebrows raise, and he looks at her fixedly, bringing a fingernail to his mouth. He scrunches his eyebrows, rubbing at his forehead with his fingers; he remembers, too.
He’d bumped into Rei on his way upstairs, both arms holding the bonsai trees obstructing his view, taking long strides up the stairs, chanting to himself and grunting in rhythm. He was on the 50th stair.
“Hey!” A voice shouted at him. “What the hell?”
Jerking to the side of the staircase, flattening against it, Jungkook jumped at this voice. “Sorry! You’re okay?”
The voice struck him as familiar, but mostly, he was surprised he wasn't alone on the staircase. The person laughed a lively laugh, and he felt his chest tighten. He lowered the plants, meeting her eyes. “I’m okay,” she said, shaking her head. She grinned at him, and his heart gave a squeeze. “These things happen. I should take the elevator next time.”
“The plants, I mean. You walked past me going up the stairs and hit me on the head with it.” She glances to her right, catching his eyes briefly. He groans, nodding lightly. She continues, voicing their shared memory, “You were carrying two pots of plants that day and lost your balance or something like that.”
He nods with his eyes closed, his eyebrows drawn close together as he tongues his cheek. “I remember, too,” he opens his eyes to look over at her as he continues, “sorry again. My friend told me not to do that, and I didn’t listen.”
A Spiderman figurine holds her attention, and she’s smiling. He feels his cheeks burn at her sincere gesture. She pretends not to notice and says, “You like running into me like that, then?”
“Like how? It was an accident,” Jungkook says, standing beside her and stretching his arms behind his head.
“Riiiiight,” she says, smirking. “Accident.”
“I didn’t know you were in the stairwell. No one takes the stairs,” Jungkook counters, his voice taking on a defensive edge.
“I take the stairs, I like the exercise, and it’s less embarrassing for me,” She admits. “Running in front of people just looks so stupid. I get too worked up about it and think people are just laughing at me, and they might be, but this way, I can do it in private.”
“Running across the street when cars let you pass is very embarrassing for no reason,” Jungkook says with a laugh. “And okay, fair. I took the stairs that time just because the wait for the elevator was so long. I didn’t mean to hit you that time either.”
“Jungkook, we have to stop meeting like this.” She gives her head a light shake and looks down at her hands. She picks at the glitter on her nails distractedly. “So many accidents. We’re too clumsy.”
“I know what you mean. Namjoon told me to leave one of the plants in the lobby, but I was too impatient. I’m like that sometimes.” He can’t seem to stop blushing.
But Jungkook has to agree. There have been too many accidents in their run-ins with each other, and he remembers each encounter with extreme detail.
Jungkook saw her for the first time when he moved in and face-planted into her back as she stood by the entrance of the registration office. But it didn't happen right away, at least.
The office was big and bustling with sounds. Jungkook walked in, asked out loud if there was a line, and someone nearby replied that yes, there was a line, and he was right at the tail of it. He bounced on the heels of his feet, humming a melody to himself, tapping his fingers against the sides of his legs. A TV across from him played a K-Pop music video of a group he’d never heard of. Beneath the TV was a table with a Terra Kaffe espresso machine accompanied by a spread of dan-pat bbang, songpyeon, bingsu, and reusable cups. His stomach grumbled, but he kept still, willing himself to look away.
Rei stood in line, a foot or two in front of Jungkook, sporting her hair pulled back, secured neatly with a clip the shape of a butterfly. She wore casual clothing: a black long-sleeve sweatshirt, baggy pants, and white Nike shoes. She had earbuds in, and he could hear the muffled sounds of a guitar, and though he did not fully understand why, he smiled.
“Next in line, please,” a woman behind a glass window called out, taking an uninspired sip of her iced coffee as she waved a hand toward her. “Come on, next in line.”
Jungkook wore a black t-shirt, navy plaid bottoms, and socks with slides, though standing there, he began to regret his attire. His eyes looked over the office, and mentally, he tallied the number of girls he spotted. Nine. He felt his cheeks warming up, his neck growing hot, and when he looked over to his right, a girl waved at him, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. He blushed, nodding at her. Why hadn’t he worn something nicer?
He was adjusting his sock, balancing on his right leg, when a dog ran past him, toppling him over. He hopped on his right leg, his arms flailing at his sides, and his face instantly smashed into Rei’s back. If he had a chance to do it over, he wouldn’t have cried out so loud. Even now, months later, he cringes at the memory. He’d turned away, cupping his aching nose after she whipped her head over her shoulder at the sudden impact. Their eyes met briefly, her pupils dark and wide; she mouthed something to him, his ears ringing, all of the sounds around him muddled into incoherence.
“I’m so sorry. Excuse me,” Jungkook mumbled, turning at his heel and speed-walking past a group of girls that giggled when he passed them.
Jungkook thought about her all day after that first day. While he unpacked, walked Bam, and cooked for himself later in the evening. She was pretty, sure, but there was something else. Something he couldn’t break apart and understand— it was new and brought on a strange sensation and desire to know her. He didn't know it then, but he’d see so much of her it would become nearly impossible not to think of her.
And here they are, five months later.
“You agree, don't you?” Rei prods. “Maybe you’re the clumsy one, Jungkook. I was just standing there.” She says that like she knows what he’s thinking. That first day they saw each other. She’s thought of it too.
He swoons at the sound of his name escaping her lips again. “Jungkook,” he mouths, taking it in—not wanting to forget how it sounds when she says it.
She turns on her heel, returning to the couch and fetching her phone from between the cushions. Her backside faces Jungkook, and he shyly lowers his gaze when he catches a glimpse of her ass in shorts that do a poor job of hiding anything. “I’m impatient too, as you know now,” she offers, looking down at her phone, her face illuminated with the screen's glow. She reads something and has a serious look on her face. “It’s getting late, isn’t it?”
He squints at the clock on the stove. 4:27. “Yeah, I guess so,” he replies, trying to hide his disappointment.
“Your figures are cool, by the way. They look like the real deal. Are they?”
He nods silently, tonguing his lip ring. Jungkook watches her with a gut-wrenching desire to step forward and take her face into his hands and kiss her.
“You’re a Marvel geek. I'm guessing,” she says, staring down at the ground. It’s like she’s suddenly shy. Her voice is quieter. “I like some of the movies. I saw the new Spider-man with my friends last week. I’m late, I know.”
“I have Disney plus,” Jungkook says, his eyes looking her over. “And I’m not trying to say anything like the ramen stuff, you know, all that stuff people say to each other recently to get together. It’s a real offer.”
Rei laughs, bringing a hand to cover her face. “So you don't want to get together?” She looks at him with a deep intensity in her eyes and smiles coyly, making Jungkook swallow hard.
“I said that, didn't I? That’s not what I meant. It’s just that nowadays, words have different meanings. Let me rephrase-”
She takes a step closer to him, and his chest feels ablaze. She’s so close he can smell the fragrance of her clothing much clearer than before. We use the same detergent.
“I’d like to come by sometime,” she says, her eyes lingering on his hands holding his cup, “for a movie, no ramen.” Now she smiles warmly and takes a step back.
She likes doing this to me. It’s torture.
“Really?”
“Yeah, why not? You seem nice. I don’t think you’d be a freak, right?”
“Right,” he says, nodding.
“I know we’re technically strangers, but you have a good vibe,” she says, shrugging. “I show up here so late, and you serve me tea. You’re a nice guy.”
“Am I?”
“I think so. Are you?” She quirks up an eyebrow, twitching her lips between a smile and a laugh.
Jungkook smiles at her. He feels his cheeks growing warm. “I am. I don’t know why I challenged you about it.”
“Because you like to flirt with me, I think,” she retorts, crossing her arms across her chest.
“I’m just a nice guy,” he says as he places his palms  against the kitchen counter for balance, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Uh-huh.” She glances at her phone screen, reading the time, and Jungkook does the same with the time on the kitchen stove. She's going to leave. I can feel it.
“I guess I should get going…”. Rei looks apologetic for some reason. A pink shade colors her cheeks, and she brings a hand to her forehead and lets out a deep breath as she says, “Kinda hot in here, no?”
Jungkook wants to tell her she doesn't have to go and that he doesn't want her to, but he only offers her a timid smile and looks away, nodding in agreement. “A little. I’ve been feeling it too,” he says, looking at her and catching her eyes.
Should I move now? Is it now? My move? Will she kiss me back?
Still, he brings his cup of tea to his lips as she stores her phone in the pocket of her hoodie, and she pauses as if remembering something. “And why is there a mattress outside?”
He’s drinking his tea and begins to choke. Coughing, his chest on fire, and his throat closing in, Jungkook rushes to double over his sink, and she’s standing behind him with a wrought-up look.
“Are you okay?” She steps closer to him, lightly touching his arm.
Jungkook coughs, clearing his throat; he can feel the blood rushing to his face as his eyes instinctively shed tears. The feeling of her touch on his arm feels like fire. “Sorry, I don’t know what happened. The uh, the mattress?” He looks toward his patio, a panicked look in his eyes behind the tear-stained glasses. He pauses, looking down at the floor. “I have them all over, so I can nap when I feel like it.”
She throws her head back and laughs, not taking him seriously until silence hangs between them. She raises an eyebrow. “Wait, really?” With that, her phone goes off in her pocket, and she reaches for it. “Sorry, one sec.”
He leaves her to talk on the phone with whoever and walks over to pick up Bam’s toys and dirty socks to throw in a hamper. Jungkook can hear the muffled phone conversation a room over, so he hums a song. She speaks in a hushed voice, but he hears his name mentioned.
He coughs before he reappears in the kitchen.
She’s humming to herself, lingering by the door, and his heart squeezes. ‘Don’t go,’ he wants to say. ‘Stay.’
“I should go…” she says, not budging from where she stands, chewing her lower lip, looking at Jungkook through full eyelashes. Almost as if waiting for him to interject, and him, not knowing how to.
“If you want,” Jungkook says. He swallows hard at a lump in his throat. The plead to have her stay pushed down into his chest.
DAMN!! 
A look he can’t decipher takes over her face, and then the next moment, she’s smiling at him, reaching for the doorknob just as he does. They share an embarrassed exchange of looks when their hands touch, and he shakes his head, an anxious chuckle escaping him. His face feels warm as he pulls the door open for her. Rei steps out into the hallway, turns over her shoulder, and raises her hand to wave at him slowly.
Again, he yearns to kiss her and again lacks the courage.
“Bye, it was nice meeting you, Jungkook.”
“Goodnight, Rei,” he replies, leaning on the doorframe, his heart sinking into his stomach.
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The next day, Jungkook is cooking for himself. He submitted his comic in the morning and has endlessly replayed last night’s events in his head.
“I should’ve kissed her,” he says to Bam.
Jungkook’s phone pings a few times and is followed by a call. He answers, distracted as he serves himself bibimmyeon and pork belly. He props the phone between his chin and ear, tilting his head comically as he walks back and forward to the table, setting down a steaming bowl of sticky rice. “‘Ey, Namjoon-hyung!…” He drags the chair out from underneath and settles in front of his plate. Jungkook reaches over the table, yanks a paper towel, grabs his chopsticks, and begins digging into the rice. “Wait,” he glances at the clock on the wall. 6:47. “It’s almost seven,” Jungkook says, confused. “Your meeting with the record executive started at six… it ended that quickly?”
Namjoon smiles. “The meeting was quick. I have really good news.” He pauses for effect. He’s in the studio, eyeing the email on screen. “Hold on,” he says, placing the phone on the desk and turning the speaker on.
 Jungkook is chewing his cheek, the chopsticks loosening in his grip. He lets the silence exist for a few seconds, then he rubs the back of his hair, leaning back in his chair, his spare hand fisted over his mouth. “What?” He grumbles into his fist.
“He liked my demo. He had some comments about it but said it would do well. He said everyone else liked it; whatever that means, we’re in. He said we can come in for a group meeting where we introduce the guys, and that way, we can all talk about what we want to do going forward.”
Jungkook is speechless; they’re in. All seven of them. He can’t believe it. He stares wide-eyed at Bam, who tilts his head quizzically. “No way. No way. Is this for real?” Jungkook’s heart is thudding so hard he can see it beneath his shirt.
“I swear, Jungkook. It is.”
“Do the guys know?” Once more, Jungkook meets the eyes of his dog, and he’s smiling so hard he feels his nose scrunch.
“Some of them do, yeah. I was with Jimin earlier.”
“Yoongi,” Jungkook says, bringing his palm over his forehead. Smiling with his eyes crinkling, he feeds himself rice. “Yoongi will be so happy. We all are, you know but him .” Jungkook makes a sound with his teeth. “He’ll be so proud of all of us.”
“I know, I know. Yoongi hasn’t slept well since we first submitted our demos, and when I mentioned I had a meeting with an executive, he grabbed his jacket and took off to the studio. I don’t know what he’s been doing when he comes in, but I know he might cry.”
“I might cry too,” Jungkook admits in a hushed voice.
Namjoon wipes at his eyes, and a silence hangs between them. They’re both sniveling on the receiving end. After Jungkook clears his throat and allows himself another sniffle, he starts eating again.
“What did you make?”
“I have a lot of rice left. I made bibimmyeon and pork belly, but I have some noodles, too, if you want me to make them. Come and eat with me if you’re free. Let’s celebrate.”
“Can I leave my bike outside?” Namjoon asks. Namjoon shuts off the shared laptop in the studio, grabs his puffer jacket and the book he’s been reading, heads over, and flips off the light switch. His phone remains on speaker as he locks the door and shoots a glance down the hallway. From a distance, Yoongi does a quick two-finger salute in passing. Namjoon’s heart gives a squeeze.
Jungkook thinks it over. He’s never seen anyone leave a bike outside. “I don't know, honestly. Bring it to my apartment; it’ll be fine. I have something to tell you, by the way,” he says, referring to the previous night.
“Just saw Yoongi,” Namjoon says, jingling the keys on his finger and making his way out of the building. “I have to tell him, but I think he’s already in his studio locked up. You know how he gets.”
“He won’t let you in,” Jungkook says, scrunching his nose and stifling a laugh through a mouthful of steak.
“Exactly. And what is it? I’m bringing my bike, I thought about leaving it chained, but it’ll stress me out.”
“He’s almost done with his demos, Hobi said the other day,” Jungkook replies. “But it’s about her, bro. You won’t believe me.”
Namjoon laughs through the phone. “Mystery-neighbor-crush her, you mean?”
“Neighbor stuff, am I that annoying? Don't answer that. I’ll leave the door unlocked for you; just come in because I have to wash Bam.”
“All right, bro, give me twenty, and I’ll be there.”
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Jungkook is sitting across from Namjoon, who raises an eyebrow at him as he chews on his steak. “So she came in here,” he swallows his bite and continues, “was on that couch?” he signals with his chopsticks, “and she went home after that?”
Jungkook nods. The moment he’s been dreading: admitting he chickened out. He’s not proud of himself and debates whether to omit a few things.
“Yeah, what else could’ve happened?” He takes a drink of his water, avoiding Namjoon’s gaze.
“So many things, bro. But, the very least that should have happened is that you got her number or something like that. Did you ask?”
Jungkook is quiet. His cheeks are flushing with heat. He’s chuckling at himself, remembering how he clammed up around her.
“You just let her leave, right? She walked out, thanked you, and you probably made her a tea she didn't drink.” Namjoon is laughing when Jungkook groans and shakes a fist above his head. “Ah, Jungkook!”
“I know!” Jungkook shakes his head. “But I got a name. I got a name; that’s something, isn't it?”
“Well?”
“It’s Rei. I don’t know where she’s from and all that, but that name just suits her, doesn't it?”
“It does, it does. But come on, bro! This girl lives so close!  For starters, she stuck around. She could've just left after explaining herself. Instead, she sat down right where you’re sitting and stayed .” Namjoon feeds himself rice as he shakes his head and continues while he chews, “She looked at you the last time we evacuated; I saw her. And how many times have you bumped into her already? She probably thinks you’re out to get her.”
“I know. I kept thinking the same. I thought: ‘She could've left by now, but she hasn’t. I don’t know, hyung, I just froze. I just kept nodding; it was so stupid.” Jungkook closes his eyes and places his fingertips over his eyelids, shaking his head in lament.
“Not stupid, bro,” Namjoon offers, swallowing his bite. “I’ve seen her around too, and she’s really pretty, but it’s a weird sensation when she’s nearby; it’s like her beauty is different. I don't mean it like I want her now, nothing like that, but it sort of feels like I am stuck too. Like, what can I say right now?”
Jungkook nods, understanding the sentiment. “It knocks the wind out of me sometimes when I see her,” he says, reaching for a napkin. “I wanted to say so much more, but I couldn't. It was different being close to her like we were. This girl is killing me, Namjoon-hyung. You said she looked at me?”
Namjoon smiles warmly. “She did, at the evacuation a week ago. Was it a week now?” He wipes at his mouth and looks at Jungkook expectantly. Jungkook nods at him. “Well, a week ago, I went out last and caught her looking your way. She had her hand like this,” he brings his hand up to shield his eyes against nothing, “and she was smiling. She didn't see me noticing.”
Jungkook scoots closer. He rests his chin on Namjoon’s knee, looking straight at him until he’s cross-eyed. “At me?” he asks, loving that this happened.
Namjoon shakes his leg free and takes a sip of his water. “I think she likes you. She was looking at you the same way I’ve seen you look at her,” Namjoon reaches for his phone, checks a text, and continues, “so she would’ve been into you. Did she flirt with you?”
Jungkook mulls it over. He doesn't want to read too much into it, but he thinks she did flirt. “I could be wrong, and I’d hate to be wrong,” he says, “but I feel like she was into me, like, actually into me, and I thought about kissing her. Would that have been too forward?”
“Hmm,” Namjoon says as he chews his food. “Maybe. I have to see you two in action, to say. I think you can trust your gut, and if you felt that way, maybe she was giving you those vibes on purpose, you know? Sometimes girls are so forward that it's confusing. Like, ‘am I reading this wrong?’ When the whole time there was only one way to read it.” He gives his head a light shake.
“She was talkative like Yoongi predicted.”
“Oh, was she now?” Namjoon looks surprised. “I sided with Jimin when he said she seemed shy and kind of mean. Not mean, but you know the mean look girls have that makes them look kind of cool?”
Jungkook nods with a mouthful of steak.
“That’s actually interesting that she was talkative. That’s good. I think you’d do bad to get with a shy chick again.”
Jungkook once dated a girl in high school he didn't know how to talk to, and when he meant to break things off, he’d just ignored her for the entire year. She was too shy, too quiet, too reserved. He was everything else but.
“I agree with you on that,” Jungkook says honestly. “Back to Rei, she’s even prettier up close, hyung. I thought I was in a dream, that sounds so cheesy, but it’s true.”
“It was, what, four in the morning?”
“Three. Close to four.”
“Exactly. I would think that's a dream too. Seems like it. Are you sure you’re not messing with me?” Namjoon elbows Jungkook lightly.
“I want her. Is that so pathetic?”
“A little bit,” Namjoon teases, bringing his thumb and pointer finger to a slight pinch. “Like this tiny little space right here is where you live.”
Jungkook rolls his eyes as he walks into the kitchen for a beer.
“Honestly, Jungkook, I think she likes you back. Pass me the rice. Want some of the steaks?” He shows Jungkook his bowl, and Jungkook accepts, opening his mouth to be fed. “You can feed yourself.”
“Ah,” Jungkook says, mouth agape. “Just one piece.”
Namjoon is feeding Jungkook rice when the doorbell rings. The two exchange bewildered looks, and Jungkook shuffles from the ground, sliding on the flooring with his socks as he peers through the peephole. He falls to the ground as if shot, crouching with a deathly look about him.
Namjoon shifts in his seat on the floor and, stretching his neck, asks Jungkook who it is. Over and over, quietly, he’s asking who’s at the door.
Jungkook doesn't answer until Namjoon stands. He shoots a hand up to grab Namjoon’s sleeve, motioning him to crouch beside him. Whispering, he says, “It’s Rei; what do I do?”
“Get up!”
“I can't. I can't. I don't know what she wants. What if she knows?”
“Knows what? Get up; I’m opening the door in 3, 2,...”
Jungkook stands. He can feel his heart beating viciously, and his hands are sweating. He glares at Namjoon, raising his hand and motioning for a cutthroat. “I’ll kill you,” he mouths as his friend walks away.
Jungkook peers into the peephole and sees her turning away. He pulls back the door quickly, causing her to turn around. She smiles, and he wants her all over again. His relaxed demeanor vanished. “Hey, what’s going on?” are his first words.
Rei laughs, and he can feel himself blushing. He drops his head when he remembers Namjoon is a witness.
“Hey, neighbor,” she says, smiling the same coy smile she lent him last night. She pulls a paper from her pocket, extends it to him, and says, “It’s an invite to my birthday party this weekend; if you don't have any plans, I thought it would be nice to hang out and see you again. I’ll have friends over, and of course, you can bring yours.”
A party? Wait, see me again?? “I will be there. This weekend. I’ll make an appearance.” He stops talking when she laughs. He can feel the blood boiling on his face. What the hell is going on with him? “Sorry, yes, I mean, thank you.” Jungkook can feel Namjoon’s burning gaze behind him—he can picture how his friend stifles a laugh into his fist.
“No problem. Who’s that?” She points inside the apartment.
Namjoon waves when Jungkook turns around to see him standing behind him, a smirk tugging at his lips. Jungkook widens his eyes at him, mouthing for him to stop laughing. Stepping aside for his friend’s introduction, Jungkook signals toward his friend with a swift movement of his hand. “Namjoon, this is Rei. Rei, this is Namjoon, a good friend and gifter of bonsai trees.”
“I’ve seen you, no?” she talks to Namjoon, who nods, flexing his pointer finger, indicating that she has. He’s chewing cheese puffs, and Jungkook raises an eyebrow at him, silently questioning him: ‘Where did you get those?’ His stare says.
“At the evacuation, I was there.”
“Ah, yes, you had bright green hair like a highlighter pen then.”
He laughs. “That was me, yeah! You were with that girl, the…one with the red hair in pigtails.”
“Ah. That’s right! You have a good memory.” She sounds impressed.
Jungkook tongues his cheek, shaking his head beside them unnoticed.
“You too, you too. Cheese puff?” Namjoon offers a bag of cheese puffs.
“You’re tempting me, but I will have to decline. I just had lunch.”
“Your friend, the one with the pigtails, will she be at this party?”
Namjoon is nervous, but he plays it off well. Only Jungkook can tell.
“I think she can be there,” Rei replies, her eyes shifty and full lips pursing. She seems to think it over, anxiously looking at Jungkook and chewing on her lower lip. It’s as though she’s waiting for Jungkook to glance her way. Only Namjoon is seeing this.
Jungkook is annoyed. They’re talking so easily. He shifts uncomfortably, his fingers gripping the door. He watches how Namjoon chuckles and how she timidly looks down at her hands. The glittery nail polish made his heart feel like a stone in his chest. He wants to interject. But how?
“I’m sure the guys will be free this weekend too; we might celebrate our little accomplishment here sometime soon, so Jungkook can tell you about that and invite you when the time comes, right, Jungkook?”
Jungkook only nods. That’s all he seems to be capable of when she’s around. He feels so strange around her. He feels the same way each time, like he’s coming down with something suddenly. Didn’t it just get so hot out here with the door open like this? He wonders. Is anyone else sweating?
Their voices continue around him. He nods a few times when the conversation shifts toward him, but he feels lightheaded. He wants her so badly.
He doesn’t mean to, but he clears his throat, turning the conversation around him to a simmer.
“So, Jungkook, Namjoon told me he’d come this weekend and bring your other friends. There’s a theme, by the way.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “It’s fairytale-themed!” She raises her arms above her head like a big reveal and holds her pose, awaiting their reaction.
Namjoon laughs, turning away; he says: “I’ll give it good thought! Thank you for the invite, Rei!”
“And you?” She looks at Jungkook.
“Me?” Jungkook swallows hard at a lump in his throat. His brain seems to forget how to form sentences when she’s around.
“Yes, you. Do you have any ideas, JK?” she smiles, lopsided.
Is she flirting with me? Here? Namjoon-hyung! Come back!
“I have to rewatch all of my favorite fairytale movies to have an idea,” he says, bringing a hand to his head. He feels the heat emitting from his forehead. “I’m kidding. I think something cool like Dracula.”
“Is that a fairytale?” She laughs.
“Define a fairytale. Isn’t it just make-believe?”
“You don’t think vampires are real?” She raises an eyebrow at him, but he can tell she’s intentionally giving him a hard time. Her smile is surfacing and betraying her.
“I do, actually. Ah, okay. Give me time. I’ll think of something. What about you? Who are you going as?”
She pretends to think it over even though she already has an idea. “I won’t say; you’ll have to see.”
He’s fully leaning against the doorframe, his foot slipping under him, and he almost falls over. He mutters something to himself, and she’s biting back a laugh. “You want tea or something before you go? If you’re not busy.”
“Ah, I want to say yes, but my friends are upstairs; I just stopped by real quick but thank you.”
He nods. “That’s okay, next time.”
“I’ll catch you two later,” she says, waving.
She turns to walk away, and Jungkook doesn't know what takes over him, but he shouts after her: “Thank you!”
He’s too embarrassed to see if she turns around. He closes the door immediately.
He doesn't even want to look at Namjoon. He stands facing the door for a while, his head hanging low, eyebrows scrunched up in physical anguish. He chews his lip and winces at himself, remembering.
“I said that out loud,” Jungkook says, incredulous with himself.
“You said that out loud,” Namjoon reiterates from somewhere in the room.
Sighing, Jungkook turns over, and flinches at a grape Namjoon tosses at him. His nose scrunching, he catches another grape mid-air and chews noisily. “She wants to know me properly,” he says, with a dreamy air.
“So be her prince charming,” Namjoon jokes, plopping down on his couch, busy on his phone.
“So I will be,” Jungkook says, tilting his head back to look up at his ceiling. She’s up there, walking around, talking to her friends, and he’s beneath her, dreaming of the weekend. “What day is it?”
“Wednesday.”
“Let’s go; I need an outfit.”
“Now?”
“Now, get up! Get up!”
“Let me finish my grapes; I just washed them,” Namjoon whines, still not glancing from his phone’s screen.
“Okay, but after, we’ll go.” Jungkook walks into his room, grabs his glasses, and steps back out.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
Jungkook nods, biting the corner of his lip distractedly. “Oh, I’m serious.” He reaches for the car keys on the table beside him. “I’ve never been more serious.”
And he is. He’s never been more serious about anything else. He wants Rei, but he wants her to want him, too. He can’t help but feel as though his luck is turning out.
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A/N: thank you for being here! I hope those that looked forward to the full first chapter have enjoyed this! It's my first lengthy fic, as I've already stated, so any feedback is greatly appreciated! reblogs, comments, and anything that lets me know you've enjoyed this will make me the happiest writer :') I appreciate you for giving my work a shot <3 Let me know if you'd like a second part, what you liked, etc. I'd love to hear from you, reader >.< until next time!!
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anotherhumaninthisworld · 27 days ago
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Me again. Your (amazing) post on Camille and Robespierre got me thinking about the ins and outs of the Vieux Cordelier story. There are so many interesting details there , and moments where it could almost have gone a different way. I wondered what your assessment is of Camille’s mindset over this period? Obviously he must have been aware that he was taking a massive risk, but what was the ratio of kamikaze to (possibly deluded) belief he could actually change Robespierre’s mind and thus policy?
If the latter, I feel like that in itself is evidence that they were quite personally close, given “clemency” obviously not the way Robespierre was naturally leaning politically ?
Secondly, to what extent would you say Camille was attempting to back down in numbers 6 and 7, and could it have saved him if he had been willing to so that more fully, or was it just too late at that point?
Finally, somewhat separately, what do we actually know about Danton’s role in the indulgents campaign , and to what extent was Camille his “mouthpiece” ? It often gets phrased that way , but Danton actually comes across as marginal to the stand-off in the textual evidence from Vieux Cordelier itself and the debates in the jacobins around this time. Camille certainly seems to be the main one on the front line. What evidence do we have that Danton wanted him to go through with the riskier numbers of Vieux Cordelier?
Sorry, three to four very wordy questions there…and I’m aware you can’t answer them without a *lot* of guesswork . The whole tale is so fascinating.
In a letter to his father dated August 1 1793 (the last one conserved written by him as a free man) Camille expresses regret over a revolution that has not turned out the way he wanted it, as well as a wish to spend more time with his family:
Where is the asylum, the underground where I could hide from all eyes with my wife, my child and my books? I cannot help but constantly think about the fact that these men who are killed by the thousands have children, also have their fathers who accuse us of their grief, which it would have been so easy to spare them of. At least I have no reason to reproach myself for any of these wars which I have always opposed, nor for this multitude of evils, the fruit of ignorance and blind ambition sitting together at the helm. Farewell. I embrace you. Take care of your health, so that I can hold you against my chest if I am to survive this revolution; although there are times when I am tempted to cry out like Lord Falkland, and go and get myself killed in the Vendée or at the borders to free myself from the spectacle of so many evils and a revolution that to me does not seem to have brought common sense into the council of those who govern the republic and in which I see little else than ambition in place of ambition and greed in place of greed. It is true that freedom of the press is a great remedy whose benefit we owe to the revolution, and there is this advantage in the new regime over knaves, that we can have hanged, and over the ignorant and the intriguers, who we can deliver to ridicule. The state of things, such as it is, is incomparably better than four years ago, because there is hope of improving it, a hope which does not exist under the despotism of which the slaves are condemned like spem bon habent, but it is to the prize of so much bloodshed, that I feel such a sacrifice from the nation’s men should offer it a bigger happiness.
On December 14 1793, he also admitted that, on October 30, the day the Girondins were condemned to death, he had exclaimed: ”they die as republicans, but federalist republicans.” Camille’s accusers the same day did on the other hand declare that the correct quote had been ”they die as republicans, as Brutus,” and in his Les mysterès de la mère de Dieu dévoilès, released a few months after Camille’s death, Joachim Vilate described an even more dramatic reaction from his part:
This led to the account that I gave them of the particularities of the judgment of this case. I observed that I was sitting, with Camille Desmoulins, on the bench placed in front of the jury table. When these returned from deliberation, Camille comes forward to speak to Antonelle, who was one of the last to return. Surprised by the change in his face, he said to him, quite loudly: ”ah my god, I pity you, these are very terrible functions.” Then, hearing the juror's declaration, he suddenly threw himself into my arms, agitated, tormenting himself: ”ah my god, my god, it's me who kills them: my Brissot dévoilé [sic], ah my god, it’s that which kills them.” As the accused returned to hear their judgment, eyes turned towards them. The deepest silence reigned throughout the room, the public prosecutor announced the death penalty, the unfortunate Camille, defeated, losing the use of his senses, let out these words: ”I'm leaving, I'm leaving, I want to leave.” He couldn't exit. […] The late hour of the night, the torches were lit, the judges and the public were tired from a long session, it was midnight, everything gave this scene a dark, imposing and terrible character, nature was suffering in all its ailments. Camille Desmoulins felt worse.
In his 2018 biography, Hervé Leuwers also underlines how Camille throughout the fall of 1793 started to absence himself from both the Convention and the Jacobins, and when in rare instances did take to the floor it was with moderation in mind — on October 16 he and Philippeaux demanded some adjustment to a decree ordering the arrest of all foreigners belonging to countries currently at war with France at the Convention, and on November 26 he warned the Jacobins that "when a man is proscribed by public opinion, he is halfway to the guillotine." (Leuwers does however note a similar absence during the spring of the same year, AKA, the same period Camille was working on the fatal l’Histoire des Brissotins, so this is perhaps a weaker point). All these pieces could hint at the idea Camille’s mindset at the time was that of a a man who had grown disillusioned with the revolution and was willing to try to moderate it (and perhaps atone for some of the bloodshed he had himself contributed to causing?) 
The first number of Le Vieux Cordelier was released on December 5, just two days after a jacobin session where Danton had opposed the idea of sending a group with a guillotine to Seine-Inférieure in order to deal with rebels fleeing the Vendée — ”The Constitution must be asleep, while the people are busy striking their enemies and terrifying them with their revolutionary operations: this is my thought, which will undoubtedly not be slandered; but I ask that we distrust those who want to take the people beyond the limits of the revolution, and who propose ultra-revolutionary measures.” Coupé d’Oise protests against this, arguing that the club must not listen to ”proposals tending to diminish the vigor of the revolutionary movement.” As a consequence, Danton defends his patriotism and asks that a commission be set up to look over his conduct, after which Robespierre stands up as well to take his defence — ”In political matters, I observed him: a difference of opinion between him and me made me observe him carefully, sometimes with anger; and, if he was not always of my opinion, would I conclude that he betrayed his homeland? No, I have seen him always serve it with zeal. Danton wants us to judge him. He's right, let me be judged too. Let them come forward, these men who are more patriotic than us! I bet they are noble, privileged people!”, ending by asking that everyone says what he sincerely thinks about Danton. Aside from Merlin de Thionville, who hails Danton as the saviour of the republic, no one says anything, and Momoro therefore concludes this means no one has anything to accuse Danton of. The discussion therefore ends with the latter embracing the president of the club amidst loud applause. Camille references the session in the number, describing it as the event that caused him to return to the journalistic pen:
Victory is with us because, amid the ruins of so many colossal civic reputations, Robespierre’s in unassailed; because he lent a hand to his competitor in patriotism, our perpetual President of the “Old Cordeliers,” our Horatius Cocles, who alone held the bridge against Lafayette and his four thousand Parisians besieging Marat, who now seemed overwhelmed by the foreign party. Already having gained stronger ground during the illness and absence of Danton, this party, domineering insolent in society, in the midst of the most sensitive places, the most compelling justification, in the tribunes, jeering, and in the middle of the meeting, shaking its head and smiling with pity, as in the speech of a man condemned by every vote. We have won, however, because after the crushing speeches of Robespierre, in which it seems that talent grows in pace with the dangers of the Republic, and the profound impression he has left in souls, it was impossible to venture to raise a voice against Danton without giving, so to speak, a public quittance of guineas of Pitt. […] I learned some things yesterday. I saw how many enemies we have. Their multitude tears me from the Hotel des Invalides and returns me to combat. I must write. I have to leave behind the slow pen of the history of the Revolution I was tracing by the fire side in order to again take up the rapid and breathless pen of the journalist and follow, at full gallop, the revolutionary torrent. A consulting deputy who no one has consulted since June 3, I leave my office and armchair, where I had all the time in the world to follow in detail our enemies’ new system, an overview of which Robespierre laid out to you and which his occupations at the Committee of Public Safety have prevented him, like me, from seizing in its entirety. I feel again what I said a year ago, how wrong I was to put aside the journalistic pen and grant intrigue the time to adulterate the opinions of the departments and corrupt that immense sea by means of a mass of journals, like many rivers that ceaselessly bringing poisoned water. We no longer have any journals that tell the truth, or at least the whole truth. I return to the arena with all of my well-known honesty and courage.
To say something about Camille’s mindset based off of this first number, it can in other words be concluded that he by this point is on the side of both Danton and Robespierre, wanting to aid them in a fight against ”a foreign party,” that he doesn’t specify much about, but that, through the jacobin session that he claims inspired him so much, can be deciphed as ”ultra-revolutionaries.” Camille also, like in the letter to his father four months earlier, takes a stand in favor of freedom of the press — ”Let no one tell me that we are in a revolution and that the freedom of the press must be suspended during a revolution.”
In the second number of Vieux Cordelier, released five days later on December 10, Camille praises three speeches Robespierre has held in the meantime. Two of them were smaller interventions on December 5 and December 6 that were both about, and in favour of, liberty of cults. The third speech was the ”Response of the National Convention to the manifesto of the united kings against the republic,” read, in the name of the Committee of Public Safety, by Robespierre on December 5 as well. In it, he defended the French people, accused of ”rebellion, immorality and irreligion” by said united kings. Robespierre argued that it was in fact they themselves that were guilty of these vices and insisted on the French people’s wish for freedom of religion:
Your masters tell you that the French nation has proscribed all religions, that it has substituted the worship of a few men for that of the Divinity; they paint us in your eyes as an idolatrous or foolish people. They are lying: the French people and their representatives respect the freedom of all religions, and do not proscribe any of them.
Camille joins Robespierre’s side, openly taking a stand against those pushing for extreme dechristianization:
Finally, Robespierre, in his first speech which the Convention has decreed to dispatch to all of Europe, has lifted the veil. It suited his courage and his popularity to adroitly slip in, as he did, the great and salutary statement that Pitt had changed his batteries; that he undertook to do by exaggeration what he could not do by moderation, and that there are men, patriotically counter-revolutionary, who worked to form, like Roland, public spirit and push public opinion in the opposition direction - but to a different extreme, equally fatal to liberty.  Since then, in two speeches no less eloquent to the Jacobins, he has expressed himself with still greater vehemence against the intruders who, through perfidious and exclusive praises, flattered themselves by detaching him from all of his old comrades-in-arms and the sacred battalion of the Cordeliers, with whom he had so often defeated the royal army.  To the shame of priests, he defended the God that they abandoned so cowardly. By rendering justice to those who, like the priest Meslier, renounced their profession because of philosophy, he put in their place those hypocrites of religion, who, having become priests for the sake of rich meals, were not ashamed to publish their own ignominy, in accusing themselves of having for a long time been vile charlatans, and coming to tell us at the bar: ”Citizens, I lied for sixty years for the sake of my stomach.”
He nevertheless also underlines that he is against this not because he himself is religious, but because he sees it as a counterproductive method for fighting superstition:
Certainly I am not a sanctimonious hypocrite or a champion of priests. […] I have always thought that at least the clergy should be cut off from the body politic; but for that it was enough to abandon Catholicism to its decrepitude and to let it end with its beautiful death, which was soon approaching. It was enough to let reason and ridicule act on the understanding of peoples and, with Montaigne, to look at churches as houses of fools which had been allowed to subsist until reason had made enough progress, lest the madmen become angry.
For the first time ever the journal also denounces someone by name, in this instance Jean-Baptiste ”Anacharsis” Cloots and Pierre-Gaspard ”Anaxagoras” Chaumette, attacked for their push for dechristianization:
Anacharsis and Anaxagoras believe they are pushing the wheel of reason when in fact it is that of counter-revolution; and soon, instead of letting papism in France die of old age and starvation, ready to breathe its last breath without giving our enemies any advantage, since the treasure of the sacristies could not escape Cambon by persecution and intolerance against those who wish to liturgy and be liturgied, I urge to you to send a force of constitutional recruits to Lescure and Roche-Jacquelin.
This is also the number of Vieux Cordelier we know with almost certainty Robespierre had gotten to proofread before it got sent to the printer. On December 12, Robespierre also continued the attack Camille had started two days earlier as he got Cloots expelled from the Jacobins when the latter passed through its scrutiny test — ”Cloots, you spend your life with our enemies, with the agents and spies of foreign powers; like them, you are a traitor who must be watched.” When, two days later, the turn had come to Camille to go through the very same examination, Robespierre also helped him pass it and encouraged him to keep writing his journal — ”[Camille’s] energetic and easy pen can still serve [the revolution] usefully, but, more circumspect in the choice of his friends, he must break all pacts with impiety, that is to say, with the aristocracy; under these conditions, I request the admission of Camille Desmoulins.” With all this added together, I would say number 2 of the Vieux Cordelier is the biggest example of ”journalism on the terms of the governance” there is throughout Camille’s entire career.
In number 3, released December 18, Camille begins by bringing the reader back to the Roman Empire, in particular, the reigns of Augustus, Tiberius, Caligula and Nero, a time during which, according to the historian Tacitus, there existed ”a law which specified crimes of the state and lèse-majesté and imposed upon them capital punishment. […] As soon as remarks became crimes of the State, it was only a small step to transform into crimes simple glances, sadness, compassion, sighs, even silence.” Camille then goes on to describe how, under this law, people could be rendered ”suspect” for just about anything — from being rich to being poor, from being melancoly to being happy, from being introverted to being extroverted, from being a poet to being a military man, from holding a high post to resigning from said post. Even positive attributes, such as being virtuous, incorruptible or an ally of Augustus could result in being rendered guilty of ”counter-revolution,” resulting in a visit from the doctor who then got ”to choose, within twenty-four hours, the sort of death they liked best.”
But, and this is something both contemporaries and modern historians often have missed, Camille then makes sure to underline this lengthty description of a tyrannical reign is not at all meant as an allusion to France’s current state — ”let no one say, for instance, that in this third number and in my translation of Tacitus malignity will find similarities between those deplorable times and our own. I know this well, and it is to put an end to these rapprochements, it is so that liberty does not resemble despotism, that I have armed myself with my pen” — but to France under the ancien régime: ”Do not let the royalists tell me that this description tells us nothing, and that the reign of Louis XVI did not resemble that of the Caesars.” As examples, he cites the massacre of the Champ-de-Mars, the Nancy affair, the war in the Vendée, the ”horrors” committed in France by the English and Austrian armies. In this ”fight to the death between the Republic and the monarchy” Camille defends the revolutionary government and its institutions, objecting against British prime minister William Pitt who ”has made every effort to give our liberty the attitude of tyranny and thus turn against us the reason and humanity of the eighteenth century.” The revolutionary tribunal, he argues, has not sentenced any innocent people to death:
Despite so many guineas, can one cite to me, asked Danton, a single man, strongly pronounced in the Revolution and in favor of the Republic, who has been condemned to death by the revolutionary tribunal? The revolutionary tribunal, of Paris at least, when it saw false witnesses slipping into its bosom and putting the innocent in danger hastened to subject them to the penalty of retribution. It is true that it has condemned persons for words and writings. But, to begin with, can one regard as mere words the cry of Vive le Roi, that provocative cry of sedition that even the ancient law of the Roman republic that I have quoted would have punished with death? Second, it is in the melee of a revolution that the tribunal has to judge political crimes; and even those who believe that it is not exempt from errors owe it this justice, that in matters of writing it is more attached to the intention than to the corpus delicti; and when it was not convinced that the intention was counter-revolutionary, it has never failed to set free not only one who had spoken words or published writings, but even one who had emigrated.
The Committee of Public Safety in its turn excused for its more drastic measures, such as the suspension of the Constitution, on the grounds that the times demand it:
The Committee of Public Safety believed that to establish the Republic it needed for a time the jurisprudence of despots. It thought, with Machiavelli, that in cases of political conscience the greater good erased the lesser evil; it therefore veiled liberty’s statue for some time. But will this transparent veil of gauze be confused with the thick vellum of the Cloots, the Coupes, the Montauts, that funerary pall under which it is impossible recognize the principles in their casket? Will we confuse the Constitution, daughter of the Montagne, with the superfluities of Pitt; the errors of patriotism with the crimes of the foreign party; the public prosecutor's indictments on certificates of citizenship, on the closing of churches, and the definition of “suspect persons,” with the protective decrees of the Convention, which have maintained freedom of worship and principles?
Before putting forward that the biggest threat of them all is ”what Marat would have called the conspiracy of dopes: I speak of those men who, with the best intentions in the world, are strangers to all political ideas, and, if I may express myself thus, are scoundrels of stupidity and pride, and, because they belong to such and such a committee or they occupy this or that eminent place, hardly suffer that one speaks to them,” Camille also argued that, in the state of things, both moderation and exaggeration had to be avoided, but, if forced to choose, the latter would be the better alternative:
Those who judge the founders of the Republic so harshly do not put themselves in their place. See between what precipices we walk. On one side is the exaggeration of the moustaches, which does not care if, through its ultra-revolutionary measures, we should become the horror and the laughingstock of Europe; on the other side is moderation in mourning, which, seeing the old Cordeliers rowing towards common sense and trying to avoid the current of exaggeration, yesterday with an army of women laid siege to the Committee of General Security, and, taking me by the collar as I happened upon them by chance, claimed that, during the day, the Convention would open all the prisons, letting us loose under our feet – along with a certain number, it is true, of good citizens – a multitude of counter-revolutionaries, enraged by their detention. […]  In this dual between liberty and servitude, and in the cruel alternative of a defeat a thousand times bloodier than our victory, “exaggerating the Revolution had less peril and greater value than falling short,” as Danton said, and the most critical necessity has been that the Republic secure victory on the battlefield.
Camille also once again makes a case for unlimited liberty of the press:
I hope the freedom of the press will be reborn in entirety. The best minds of the Convention were strangely deceived on the pretended danger of such freedom. It is intended that terror be the order of the day, that is to say the terror of bad citizens: so there we apply the freedom of the press, as it is the terror of scoundrels and counter-revolutionaries. […] I will die of the opinion that, to make France republican, happy, and flourishing, a little ink and a single guillotine would have sufficed. […] As long as unlimited freedom of the press has existed, it has been easy for us to foresee everything, to prevent everything. Freedom, truth, common sense have defeated slavery, stupidity, and lies, wherever they have found them.
As for people brought up by Camille in the number, Philippeaux is praised for his most recent publication Philippeaux, représentant du peuple, au Comité de salut public, released two weeks earlier, in which he critiques the war in the Vendée, claiming all the good generals have been dismissed while the ”traitor” Beysser, the ”imbecile” Rossignol and ”intriguer,” ”thief” and ”liar” Ronsin are encouraged and showered with honors. Unlike Desmoulins, Philippeaux also critiqued the revolutionary government, even reproaching CPS member Barère for having countermanded his request to put together a commission to investigate the situation a few weeks earlier. This pamphlet, Camille writes, is a ”truly salvatory writing” filled with ”dreadful truths,” even if one also can reproach the author ”for having misunderstood the great services of the Committee of Public Safety.” Minister of war George Bouchotte and Secretary General of the war ministry François-Nicolas Vincent are on the other hand denounced, Vincent getting called ”the Pitt of George Bouchotte,” and Camille writes that men like them should ”hasten to correct their conduct, [those] who, on reading these vivid depictions of tyranny, find in them some unfortunate resemblance to themselves.” Early in the number he also mentions Hébert, but not in the negative terms one might expect. Camille instead writes ”This, that the reign of Astraea may return, is why I take up my pen again; I wish to help Le Père Duchesne enlighten my fellow citizens and spread the seeds of public happiness.”
So taken that Camille is being sincere here, his mindset is still that of someone willing to support and defend the Committee of Public Safety, albeit while very moderately warning of people who wish to go even further.
Following the publication of number 3, Camille did however end up under open attack, the first time on December 21, when the printer Léopold Nicolas told the jacobins that ”I accuse him of having made a libel with criminal and counter-revolutionary intentions. I appeal to those who have read it. Camille Desmoulins has for a long time been on the verge of the guillotine.” Nicolas then also denounced Desmoulins for having come to the Surveillance committee of Paris where he worked to demand the release of one Vaillant, held suspect for his ties to aristocrats and hiding counterrevolutionaries, going so far as to threatening with denouncing the committee to the Committee of General Security if Vaillant was not set free. On these grounds, Nicolas asked that Camille be expelled from the club. Later the same session Hébert too took to the floor and denounced both Camille, his few months old Lettre de Camille Desmoulins, député de Paris à la Convention, au général Dillon en prison aux Madelonettes as well as number 3 of the Vieux Cordelier: 
Ever since [Desmoulins] married a rich woman, he only lives with arisocrats, of which he is often the protector. He has written in favor of Dillon, whom he compared to Turenne, and he did not hold it against him that the Convention entrust him with command of all the armies of the Republic. Camille Desmoulins has picked up his pen again, and in a journal he occupies himself with ridiculing the patriots. In his third number, he has the infamy to say that Georges Bouchotte is governed by Pitt-Vincent: Bouchotte, who has never breathed except for the happiness of his fellow citizens, Bouchotte, to whom we cannot reproach for the slightest fault, Bouchotte, to whom we owe the appointment of the sans-culottes generals who will finally deliver us from the rebels of Vendée, seeing himself compared to an imbecile, to King George!
Hébert also denounced Philippeaux for his pamphlet and Fabre d’Églantine for being ”the kingpin of all these complots” (it was Fabre who on December 17 had obtained the arrest of the Vincent Camille denounced in number 2, along with Maillard and Ronsin, two other ”hébertist”) asking that the three plus Bourdon d’Oise be expelled from the club. The club ended up declaring that they be invited to explain themselves for the next session. 
The second attack took place on December 23 and was launched by the recently returned from Lyon Collot d’Herbois, who seems to have read Camille’s allusion to the terror under the Roman emperors as a critique of the Committee of Public Safety: ”What! people attack the Committee of Public Safety with libels! It is accused of having shed the blood of patriots! It gets blamed for the death of fifty thousand men! And you believe that the authors of these writings did them in good faith? Do you believe that men who translate ancient historians for you, who go back five hundred years to give you a picture of the times in which you live, are patriotic? No, the man who is forced to go back so far will never be at the level of the Revolution.” Right after him, an unknown citizen declared that ”the system of moderation one wants to establish will lead to disastrous results,” and regretted the fact Camille — ”this man who dated to say that he had felt pity over the fate of the girondins” — had passed the jacobins’ scrutiny test a week earlier. He ended by proposing ”that we demand the judgment of any man who is moved by the fate of the conspirators.”
Camille had no time to respond to these three attacks before number 4 of the Vieux Cordelier was released on December 24. He starts by regretting the fact that ”some people have disapproved of my third number, where, they allege, I have been pleased to make comparisons which tend to throw the Republic and patriots into disfavour; they should, however, say the excesses of the Revolution and the patriots of industry,” as well as the idea that ”the present state is not that of liberty; but that of patience, you will be free later.” Camille disagrees with this, arguing that liberty isn’t something that needs to mature, but something concreate that you either have or do not have. He then rather quickly puts forth this radical proposal:
Open the prisons of those two hundred thousand citizens whom you call “suspects,” for in the Declaration of Rights there was no prison for suspected persons, but only for felons. Suspicion has no prison, it has the public prosecutor; there are no suspected persons but those who are accused of crime by the law. Do not believe that this measure would be fatal to the Republic; it would be the most revolutionary step you have ever taken. […] I am of a very different opinion from those who claim that it is necessary to leave terror as the order of the day. I am confident, on the contrary, that liberty will be assured and Europe conquered as soon as you have a Committee of Clemency. This committee will complete the Revolution, for clemency is itself a revolutionary measure, the most effective of all when it is wisely dealt out. Let imbeciles and rascals call me moderate, if they want to. I am certainly not ashamed to be no more of an enragé than M. Brutus; yet this is what Brutus wrote: You would do better, my dear Cicero, to put more effort into cutting short the civil wars than in losing your temper and pursuing your personal resentments against the vanquished. […] the establishment of a Committee of Clemency seems to me a grand idea and worthy of the French people, erasing from its memory many faults, since it has erased the very time they were committed and created a new era from which it alone dates its birth and memories. At this expression of a Committee of Clemency, what patriot does not feel his heart moved? For patriotism consists in the plentitude of every virtue, and therefore cannot exist where there is neither humanity nor philanthropy but a soul parched and dried by selfishness.
While Desmoulins is quick to point out that he is by no means asking for a general amnesty — ”To the back of the line with the motion of amnesty! A blind and general indulgence would be counter-revolutionary, or at least it would present the greatest danger and be obviously impolitic” — it can nevertheless be asked how he could suddenly produce such a drastic call for clemency in a journal that up until this point has been quite meek when it comes to questioning the current state of things. To understand this, it is important to note an event that took place four days before the number was released. On December 20, Robespierre had laid out the idea of so called ”committees of justice” to the Convention, after a group of women had arrived there to beg for clemency for their imprisoned relatives. While it should be noted that he did this with much less enthusiasm compared to Camille, making sure to state that the majority of prisoners were indeed locked up for a reason and throwing suspicion on the forceful attitude of the women, underlining that ”virtuous and republican wives […] address themselves in particular and with modesty to those who are responsible for the interests of the homeland,” the decree he then went on to propose sounds a bit too coherent to just have been pulled out of thin air due to the pressure:
The National Convention decrees, 1. that the Committees of Public Safety and General Security will appoint commissioners to seek means of releasing patriots who could have been incarcerated; 2. the commissioners will bring, in the exercise of their functions, the necessary severity so as not to hinder the energy of the revolutionary measures ordered by the salvation of the homeland; 3. the names of these commissioners will remain unknown to the public to avoid the dangers of solicitations; 4. they will not be able to release anyone on their own authority: they will only propose the results of their research to the two Committees, which will decide definitively on the release of people who appear to them to have been unjustly arrested...
Camille mentions this proposal in number 4, arguing that it’s possible to go further: ”Already you (Robespierre) have closely approached this idea, in the measure you caused to be decreed yesterday in the meeting of the week of 30 Frimaire. It is true that it was rather a Committee of Justice which was proposed. But why should clemency be a crime in the Republic?” That Camille had been influenced by Robespierre’s justice committee also goes along well with what he had to say about the committees of clemency during his trial:
The president: And these committees of clemency that you asked for, what was your motive for showing that much humanity? Desmoulins: I did nothing more than what the warmest patriots had already showed me the example of. I asked for three windows for the incarcerated patriots, and others before me had asked for six. In regards to Dillon, of whom I am accused of having been the defender, I answer that I asked for nothing other than to judge him promptly. I said: judge him; if he is guilty, then punish him; but if he is innocent, hasten to restore his rights as a citizen.
With the committees of justice in mind, I don’t think you can use Camille appealing to Robespierre in particular when talking about a clemency committee as evidence of their strong bond. That said, the fact alone that Camille openly implored Robespierre in person when laying out his proposal I think still proves a certain closeness between the two, considering these words would not have come off as particularly genuine had the two only been superficial acquaintances:
O! my dear Robespierre! It is to you I address these words, for I have seen the moment when Pitt had only you to conquer, where without you the ship Argo would have perished, the Republic would have entered into chaos, and the society of Jacobins and the Mountain would have become a tower of Babel. O my old college comrade! You whose eloquent words posterity will reread! Remember the lessons of history and philosophy: that love is stronger, more enduring than fear; that admiration and religion were born of generosity; that acts of clemency are the ladder of myth, as was said by Tertullian, by which members of the Committee of Public Safety are raised to the skies, and that men never climb thither on stairs of blood.
Like number 3, number 4 earned Camille open attacks from other prominent revolutionaries on two seperate occasions. The first took place on December 26, two days after the release. Barère then denounced Desmoulins (without mentioning him by name) when he, in a report held in the name of the CPS, warned of ”periodical writers who […] revive the counter-revolutionaries, and warm the ashes of the aristocracy.” Like Collot earlier, Barère had him too read the part about tyrannical reigns under Roman emperors in number 3 as a critique of the revolutionary government, underlining that it is actually correct to label both priest, noble, banker, stranger etc, etc as ”suspect.” Barère did however wish to absolve Desmoulins somewhat, adding that he was doing what he was doing ”unknowingly and perhaps unintentionally.” Later in the same report Barère also followed up Robespierre’s proposal of a committee of justice with suggesting even bigger measures, both Robespierre and Billaud-Varennes objected to it, and proposed they stick to the original proposal. Then on December 31, right after an anonymous jacobin had … Hébert cried out that ”all the things that can be used against Brissot aren’t even close to what you can reproach Camille for” and repeated his wish that ”Bourdon de l’Oise, Fabre d’Eglantine and Camille Desmoulins must be chased out from this society.” Hébert also attacked Desmoulins for his call for clemency in number 328 of his journal Père Dushesne, accusing him of being in the pay of Pitt.
Number 5 of the Vieux Cordelier, the longest of them all, released on January 5 1794 and entitled Camille Desmoulins’ great speech in defense to the Jacobins, Desmoulins spent almost only on responding to the different attacks made against him over the past two weeks. He begins by once again underlining that ”the ship of the republic drifts between two reefs, moderation and extremism,”and reminding the reader of what he wrote in number 3 —  ”I have said, with Danton, that to exaggerate the revolution had fewer dangers and was better than to fall short; on the course set by the ship of state it was more often necessary to come close to the rocks of extremism than the sandbank of moderation.” However, with the recent attacks from, as he calls them, ”ungrateful sons,” for the first time, Camille openly states he wants to fight extremism:
But see how Père Duchesne and nearly all the patriot sentinels stand on the deck with their telescope only concerned with crying: Watch out! You are touching moderation! It has been necessary for me, old Cordelier and senior Jacobin, to take charge of the difficult duty which none of the younger people wanted, fearing loss of popularity, that of crying: Beware! You are going to touch extremism! And there is the duty which my colleagues in Convention gave me, that of sacrificing my own popularity to save the ship in which my cargo was no stronger than theirs.
Desmoulins first takes on Nicolas, defending his defence of his cousin Vaillant who, he claims, was denounced only for having giving dinner to a citizen and letting him pass the night at his house. He points out that Andre Dumont, the man who granted the requests that Vaillant be set free ”is not yet suspected of moderatism.” […] ”If I come close to the guillotine for having requested my relative’s freedom for such a minor peccadillo, what will you do to Andre Dumont, who granted the request? Is it fitting that a member of the Revolutionary Tribunal should be so lightly sent to the guillotine?” He also accuses Nicolas of in the recent month having obtained more than 150 000 francs by the revolutionary tribunal for his printing, ”while I, whom he accuses have not increased my savings by a denier,” as well as of having become corrupted by ”having the power of life and death in his own hands” after having been elected juror on the Revolutionary Tribunal.
Turning to Collot d’Herbois, Camille brings up the fact he has already turned out to be in the wrong in several instances before, and that he could prove him so once more — ”if I wanted to retaliate against Collot I would only have to let my pen fly, armed with facts more powerful than his denunciation.” He does however choose to ”bury my resentment of Collot’s attack,” confining himself to warning his ”colleague” to not be misled by the flatteries of Hébert (who in Père Duchesne had been very positive towards Collot and his activities in Lyon). Camille cites ”the interests of the homeland” as the official reason for why he’s going easy on Collot, reminding the reader of the things he has done for the revolution, but it might be suspected the risk of outright attacking a member of the Committee of Public Safety it too has played a considerable role here…
Camille goes harder on Barère, accusing him of having ”darkened my ideas,” by telling the Convention that he doesn’t recognize that there exists suspect people. ”If Barère had quoted me, if at least he had said that I shared his opinion, even the most suspicious republicans would have seen that I too wanted houses of suspicion, and that I only differed in opinion on the reporting of suspects.” He also reminds Barère of some things he himself can be reproached for:
Had it been an old Cordelier like myself, a straight-lined patriot, Billaud-Varennes for example, who had punished me so harshly, I would have said: It is the blow of the fiery Saint Paul to the good Saint Peter who had sinned! But you, my dear Barère! You, happy guardian of Paméla! You, the presidents of the Feuillants! You who proposed the committee of 12, you who, on June 2, put into deliberation in the Committee of Public Safety whether Danton should be arrested! you, of whom I could point out many other faults, […] it’s you who accuses me of moderation!
He nevertheless writes that he is ready to forget this as well — ”I also do you justice, Barère; I love your talent, your services, and I also proclaim your patriotism” — and claims the recent controversies with the two CPS members is simply ”a domestic quarrel with my friends the patriots Collot and Barère.”
The biggest amount of time is spent dealing with Hébert, and here there are on the other hand no kind words spared, instead Camille warns him that he’s going to ”unmask you like I unmasked Brissot.” He reproaches Hébert both for speaking ill of Barras, Fréron and La Poype, all currently on mission in Toulon, praising the by now imprisoned general Carteaux, as well as for the coarse language used by him in Père Duchesne, and accuses him of writing for the aristocrats and persecuring Marat in 1790 and 1791, of having been fired from his job at the theater for theft, and even of having opposed the Insurrection of August 10. He turns Hébert’s claim that he would be in Pitt’s pay back against him, no, it is Hébert himself who ”has been made Brissot’s successor by the agents of Pitt.” He is also ”a scoundrel degrading the French people and the Convention,” and a ”politician without opinions and the most foolish of the patriots if he is not the most cunning of the aristocrats.” To return Hébert’s charge about keeping company with aristocrats, Camille writes that ”the cockroach’s” own social circle includes one femme Rochechouart, ”an agent of the émigrés,” as well as the Dutch banker Kocke — ”an intimate of Dumouriez.” To return his charge about having married a rich woman, Camille writes he only obtained 4000 livres de rentes from her (which btw is a massive understatement), and ends the number by opposing this with an extract from the National Treasury detailing the sums received by Hébert since the summer — 135 000 livres on June 2, 10 000 livres in August and 60 000 livres in October.
Camille also firmly defends himself against those doubting his patriotism and even calling him a conspirator — ”It is true citizens; for five years I have conspired to make republican France happy and flourishing.” He reminds the reader of the fact he wrote verses ridiculing the monarchy already before the revolution. After giving a detailed description of his Great Table Standing Moment of July 12 1789, Camille writes he defies anyone to find a single phrase in the writings he has since produced ”where I depart from republican principles, or deviate from a single line of The Declaration of Rights.” He furthermore adds that no one will be able to ”cite a single conspirator whose mask I did not rip away well before he fell. I have always been six or even eighteen months ahead of public opinion,” something which becomes even more impressive given the fact most of these men had been his personal friends. He ends by imploring the reader ”to recognise your old friends and ask your new ones who accuse me if they find a single one amongst them who could merit such a right to your confidence.” 
Camille also once again both defends and takes cover behind Robespierre by tying the two together as much as possible. He underlines that the dangers of touching extremism ”have already been recognized by Robespierre and even Billaud-Varennes.” When defending his works over the past five years he writes that he has never stopped conspiring against the tyrants ”with Danton and Robespierre.” He points out that, if it is a crime to have defended Dillon like he has, ”there is no reason why Robespierre is not a criminal too, for having defended Camille Desmoulins who defended Dillon.”When responding to Nicolas, Desmoulins underlines that the latter is still a good patriot, given his status as friend, companion and bodyguard of Robespierre. But he also asks why then Nicolas has chosen to listen more to ”what is said [about me] in certain bureaus” rather than the defence given of him on December 14 by Robespierre, ”who has followed me almost since childhood. […] Tell me of anyone who could make a better recommendation?”
The very same day the number was released, Collot d’Herbois went to the Jacobins to speak about the recent writings of Philippeaux and Desmoulins. Similar to the way Camille wrote about Collot in the most recent number, Collot regrets the Vieux Cordelier, saying it has ”lent weapons to the aristocrats,”but seperates the author from his works, reminding the Jacobins of all his past great services to the revolution. He opposes Hébert’s recent demands of expelling Desmoulins from the Jacobins, contenting himself with asking that the numbers be censored, and even appears to give in to his appeals for a committee to look over the suspects — ”I wrap up by demanding that Philippeaux be expelled from the Jacobins, the numbers of Camille Desmoulins censored, and that the Committee of General Security report as quickly as possible on incarcerated patriots.” When the president reads aloud a letter from Desmoulins announcing the release of number 5 of the Vieux Cordelier, Collot quickly responds that he’s not there to talk about it. A bit later into the session, Hébert does however disagree, exclaiming: ”I have been accused, in a libel that was released today, of being a daring brigand, a despoiler of the public fortune.” Camille responds that he has in his hand the extracts from the National Treasury published at the the end of the number, proving this charge true. But just as Hébert is about to counterattack, Augustin Robespierre interrupts, regretting the quarrels infecting the club that were not there when he left on a mission five months earlier, asking that Hébert respond to Camille in his journal instead of here. His brother does however disagree, declaring that Camille interrupted the session as much as Hébert ”claiming to have proof, when maybe that’s not the case.”He then invites the club to ”leave the intrigues and focus only on the interests of the homeland.”
At the next session, held January 7, Camille invited those that held anything against him to search in the numbers of his journal the answers to all their denounciations. When an unspecified person asked that he explain himself regarding the praise he had given Philippeaux in number 3, Camille responded that he had been mistaken and no longer believed what the latter — ”the most insolent of liars” — had written in the pamphlet. Immediately after this, Robespierre attacks Desmoulins, calling his writings ”the pain of patriots and the joy of aristocrats.” Robespierre mainly reproaches Camille for his number 3, asking, like Collot and Barère before him, if its ”translation of Tacitus isn’t in fact piquant satyrs of the present government and of the Convention,” and mocking the praise given to Philippeaux in it — ”What is the charm that excited him about this man? What is this blind confidence which may have induced Desmoulins to make a pernicious alliance of his newspaper with the libels of Philippeaux against the revolutionary government and against the patriots?” He also breifly condemns number 5 for the ”indecent diatribes lavished on several members of the Convention,” before, again like Barère and Collot, seperating author from work and asking that the numbers of the Vieux Cordelier ”just” be burned in the middle of the room. When Desmoulins refuses this ultimatum, Robespierre asks that the numbers be answered instead, and the club reads aloud number 4 and schedules for number 3 and 5 the next session, where Camille will also justify himself. But he is not confirmed to have shown up at the club for the occasion, or ever again at all following this moment.
The short number 6 of the Vieux Cordelier is not released until three weeks later, January 30. Desmoulins opens with the following citation: ”Camille-Desmoulins has indulged in a riot of wit with the aristocrats, but he is still a good republican, and it is impossible for him to be anything else” words he describes as an ”attestation of Collot d'Herbois and Robespierre, session of the Jacobins.” A clear indication Camille is trying to get on the Committee of Public Safety’s good side again, or at least remind its members of what they’ve thought about him in the very recent past. Camille then declares that he now wants to publish his ”political profession of faith,” in order to once and for all shut the mouths of all his caluminators. He reminds the reader that he’s always the same patriot and that the Vieux Cordelier breaths the same ideas as all his previous works:
We see that what one today calls moderantism in my journal, is my old system of utopia. We see that all my fault is to have remained at my death of July 12, 1789, and not to have grown an inch any more than Adam; all my fault is in having preserved the old errors of La France Libre, of La Lanterne, of Révolutions de France et de Brabant, of La Tribune des Patriotes, and of not being able to renounce the charms of my Republic of Cocagne.
Throughout the number he quotes passages from his earlier works, starting with a citation found in his La France Libre, released in July 1789 — “popular government and democracy is the only constitution that suits France and all those who are not unworthy of the name of man.” Four and a half years later, Camille writes, he still believes the same thing to be the case. He adds that he thinks two people can be divided in regards to which measures are the best for saving the republic, like Brutus and Cicero, or more recently like him and Marat. But while safeguarding this right to opinion, he appears to take a step back from his fervent defence of liberty of the press that, as can be seen, has been a theme of his convictions since the August letter to his father:
I believe that a representative is no more infallible than inviolable. Even if the salvation of the people should, in a moment of revolution, restrict freedom of the press to citizens, I believe that we can never take away from a deputy the right to express his opinion; I believe he must be allowed to be wrong; that it is in consideration of its errors that the French people have such a large number of representatives, so that those of some can be corrected by others. 
Immediately after this, Desmoulins also takes a step back in regards to the committee of clemency asked for in number 4. He insists that it was actually a committee of justice he meant, and that the notes and the opening parenthesis included in the number make that clear. He reveals that he’s been reprimanded for the idea by Fréron, who in a recent letter from Toulon had told Lucile to ”tell [Camille] to keep his imagination in check a little with respect to a committee of clemency. It would be a triumph for the counter-revolutionaries.” Camille responds to Fréron in the journal, underlining that he’s not talking about Toulon, where clemency is clearly ”out of season,” when asking for such a committee, but that it’s Paris that could use ”the bridle of the Vieux Cordelier.” To give an example of what he means, he mentions the recent arrest of his father-in-law, held suspect for a few discarded objects imprinted with fleur-de-lis found in his house. This, says Camille, is quite ironic considering his father-in-law is ”the most ultra sixty-year-old I have yet seen,” ”the Père Duchesne of the house,” who would always go on about how only conspirators and aristocrats were arrested and the guillotine too idle.
Camille fully refutes those who think the content of number 3 and 4 is due to the ”influence” of someone else, in particular Fabre and Philippeaux. People who say that, writes Camille, ”do not know the untamed independence of my pen, which only belongs to the republic, and perhaps a little to my imagination and its deviations, if you like, but not to the ascendancy and influence of anyone.” But early in the number he also appears to show his disapproval of the fact Fabre since a month back has been imprisoned, remarking that ”the immortal author of Philinth” has been accused of counterfeiting and that ”today 24 nivôse, […] Fabre d'Églantine, the inventor of the new calendar, has just been sent to Luxembourg, before having seen the fourth month of his republican year.”
Desmoulins quite quickly wraps up, saying that ”I am obliged to postpone the rest of my political credo until another day,” as he wishes for his future numbers to be shorter in order to lower the prize of the journal. The fact that the long number 5 cost as much as twenty sous is what caused no sans-culotte to read it, which in it’s turn caused Hébert to reign supreme. He does however also leave a PS note, where he corrects some errors Hébert wrote about him in Père Dushesne in the wake of the last number of the Vieux Cordelier, before declaring that he’s happy Robespierre’s call on January 8 to focus on the crimes of the English government instead of the two journalists appears to have put an end to their struggles.
Why is there such a big gap between numbers 5 and 6 and why is the latter suddenly much meeker? The simple answer is course that we will never know for sure, Camille’s lack of personal correspondence during this period certainly not helping. The only thing I know of hinting at a motivation is the letter Lucile wrote to Robespierre after her husband’s arrest, where she claims that ”this hand which has pressed yours has left the pen before its time, once it could no longer hold it to trace your praise.” Lucile’s words should of course be taken with a grain of salt given that her goal with the letter is to save Camille’s life, but he idea that he got sick of the Vieux Cordelier once he realized Robespierre no longer had his back is still one I don’t think should be completely tossed aside. After all, checking his track record, whose errands did he most often run? His first journal Révolutions de France et de Brabant (1789-1791) hailed Robespierre as its number 1 champion, even more than for example Pétion and Buzot whose fame and influence at the time were pretty equal to his. When all of Paris gets caught in a war frenzie in December 1791 and forward, it is Desmoulins who sticks by Robespierre’s side in his fight against it and the soon to be ”girondins,” attacking Brissot in Jean Pierre Brissot démasqué (February 1792) and then starting a whole journal, La Tribune des Patriotes (April 1792) to act as a defence of him (”Fréron and I will not abandon you in the breach, in the midst of a cloud of enemies.”) When he the next year delivers the final blow to the ”faction” with l’Histoire des Brissotins, it is Robespierre who gets to proofread it, and finally, when we get to the Vieux Cordelier a few months later, it is again Robespierre (and not Danton) vars involvement we have the best evidence of. Suffice to say, Robespierre’s opinion obviously matterad a lot to Camille, and so for him to lose enthusiasm after Robespierre openly humiliates his journal (that he himself had originally supported) doesn’t sound like that impossible of an explanatory model. Not only that, but Robespierre’s support also served as a protection from critique, a support that was obviously quite important did you wish to keep your reputation and even head. Like you say, Camille must have known he was taking a risk by expressing himself the way he did. Now that his ideas are not getting through and he’s losing the support so vital for his safety, he might have fallen back on the fact that he had a young family to take care of and decided to back down a bit for that reason.
Uncertainty also seems to have reigned over the seventh and final number of the Vieux Cordelier, the one that Camille would never see the release of. According to Hervé Leuwers’ biography (and I’m going off completely on what he writes for this number so that we can finally get this thing over with), three drafts exists of this number. The first one is a severe critique of the revolutionary government that Camille nevertheless persists in claiming he still accepts. He is indignant over the conditions of the detained suspects, denounces the impolitic “annihilation” of Lyon, considers the closure of “bawdy houses at the same time as those of religion” as an entourage to the counter-revolution, expresses worry over the broad powers of the Committee of Public Safety and criticizes Barère and Collot d’Herbois. This draft does however gets scrapped for a second one (Leuwers speculates this might be due to Robespierre on February 5 1794 providing a logic and a moral framework for the revolutionary government in his famous ”On Political Morality” speech, and Desmoulins not wanting to rock the boat) which takes the form of a dialogue between an ”old cordelier” and ”Camille Desmoulins,” officially two different persons, but in practise both alter-egos of the author. This time the journalist launches an offensive against the Committee of General Security and its politics, openly attacking several of its members — Vadier, Voulland, Amar, David and Lavicomterie, and even reproaching Robespierre for having forgotten his anti-warmongering from three years earlier. 
The third draft of the journal, the one Camille in the end wanted printed, no longer contains any of these reproaches towards the government committees, but still takes the form of a conversation between  ”the old cordelier” and Camille Desmoulins.” The ”old cordelier” is loyal to principles and advocates for unlimited freedom of the press, proclaiming it’s stupid to think it dangerous, and that before shooting the ”rascals” they must be denounced. He openly asks ”Camille Desmoulins” if he would dare to use freedom of the press to it’s full extent: ”Would you dare to ridicule the political blunders of this or that member of the Public Safety Committee? […] Would you dare today to address a particular deputy of the Minister of War, the great character Vincent, for example, as courageously as you did, four years ago, Necker and Bailly, Mirabeau, the Lameths and Lafayette?” He also expresses despair over the current state of affairs: ”I no longer see in the republic anything but the flat calm of despotism, and the smooth surface of the stagnant waters of a marsh; I see only an equality of fear […]Where is liberty? frankness? audacity?” The ”old cordelier” even aims a rebuke against Barère and Saint-Just for reports held December 26 and February 26 respectively: ”Saint-Just and Barère put you in their reports from the committee of public safety, because you put them in your journal.”
”Camille Desmoulins” is however more cautious than the ”old cordelier.” He doesn’t want to renounce his faith in freedom of expression either: ”republics have as their basis and foundation the freedom of the press, not this other basis that Montesquieu gave them” (virtue, so here Desmoulins appears to be distancing himself from Robespierre who claimed that it is indeed virtue that is ”the fundamental principle of popular or democratic government” in the speech on February 5). But then he also adds that freedom the press is subordinate to the “salvation of the people” and that the revolutionary government should also have the right to restrict property and freedom of movement. ”Camille Desmoulins” nevertheless continues advocating for indulgence, but this time without debating suspects. Towards the end, he also rekindles his attack on the ultra-revolutionaries: ”would you like this goddess thirsty for blood whose high priest Hébert, Momoro and their like, dare to demand that the Temple be built like that of Mexico, on the bones of three million citizens, and tell incessantly to the Jacobins, to the Commune , to the Cordeliers what the Spanish priests said to Montézume [sic]: The Gods are athirst.”
So going off this final number, I’d say Camille’s mindset was that of someone deeply unsatisfied with the politics of the day. He is however aware that fully voicing this dissatisfaction would be dangerous and/or counter-productive, which is why he scraps the first number entirely, and edits out the attacks on Robespierre and the CGS in the second draft (so in sum, I would say he was indeed attempting to back down a bit in number 6 and 7). Camille also comes off as conflicted about what to believe anymore, the collusion between his ideals and the lived reality evidently very strong.
I don’t know if Desmoulins would have been able to save himself had he chosen to put his guns down even more in the two final numbers. After all, at the time of Camille’s arrest, it’s been more than two months since number six — the meekest one of them all — has been released, so I don’t think the authorities saw him as a threat for what he was visibly doing in the moment as much as for what he had done/said in the past. I think a safer bet would be that Camille might have been able to save himself had he said he regretted his actions and accepted getting his numbers destroyed when denounced at the jacobins by Robespierre on January 7, because then he would still have had this crucial protection left.
As for the question of Danton and his role in the ”indulgent campaign,” like I wrote in this post, the idea that he was some kind of mastermind pulling the threads behind the scenes (like he’s portrayed in for example La Terreur et la Vertu) appears to be entirely based on the testimonies of contemporaries. There’s Robespierre claiming in his notes against the dantonists (March 1794) that Danton had been the ”president” of the Vieux Cordelier, whose prints he had corrected, and also that he had had ”influence” over the writings of Philippeaux. There’s Danton’s friend Garat writing in 1795 that Danton, while recovering from illness in Arcis-sur-Aube, came up with a ”conspiracy” with the goal ”to restore for the benefit of all the reign of justice and of the laws, and to extend clemency to his enemies,” that all his friends became part of upon his return to Paris. There’s Camille’s friend Louis Marie Prudhomme claiming in 1797 that ”Danton, Lacroix, Camille-Desmoulins, Fabre-d'Églantine, put themselves at the head of a secret party against the emerging authority of the Committee which was their work” at that Camille for this purpose had been charged with a ”moral attack” to ensure the triumph of the ”system of clemency.” There’s Courtois who in his old age wrote that Danton softened the Vieux Cordelier’s ”acrimony” in many places, and finally, there’s Jules Claretie who in Camille Desmoulins And His Wife: Passages From The History Of The Dantonists (1876) claimed to have heard an anecdote about Danton telling Camille to write and ask for clemency already in the summer of 1793. But again, determining the veracity in any of these statements is harder than it seems, especially as it’s impossible to say if these testimonies were independent from one another or not. Furthermore, there’s also other testimonies that go against those above. The deputy Levasseur de la Sarthe did for example claim in his memoirsthat ”Fabre d’Églantine was at the head of this [indulgent] faction” and had managed to drag Desmoulins and Philippeaux along, but that ”Danton, loyal to the oath that he would not associate himself with any faction, did for a long time remain outside of cette new and imprudent outcry: later forced to speak out, he allied himself with the faction against the committee,” while Hébert, when attacking Desmoulins, Philippeaux, Bourdon de l’Oise and Fabre at the jacobins on December 21 1793, at the same time praised Danton — ”there are two men who have all my estime and all my confidence: Danton and Robespierre.”
I’ve found two seperate anecdotes painting Danton as someone who, similar to Vilate’s claim about Desmoulins, was deeply moved by the fate of the girondins. The first one comes from Memoirs of the revolution; or, an apology for my conduct, in the public employments which I have held (1795) by Dominique-Joseph Garat:
I could not convince myself that among all those who, since May 31, had retained great popularity, there was not one who did not still retain a little humanity, and I went to Danton. He was ill, it only took me two minutes to see that his illness was above all a deep pain and a great dismay at everything that was coming. ”I won't be able to save them (the girondins)”, were the first words out of his mouth, and, as he uttered them, all the strength of this man, who has been compared to an athlete, was defeated, big tears strolled down his face, whose shapes could have been used to represent that of Tartarus. […] When the fate reserved for the twenty-two [girondins] seemed inevitable, Danton already heard, so to speak, his death sentence in theirs. All the strength of this triumphant athlete of democracy succumbed under the feeling of the crimes of democracy and its disorders. He could only talk about the countryside, he was suffocating, he needed to escape from men in order to be able to breathe.
The other one comes from a memoir that Danton’s sons wrote over their father in 1846. They claimed to have obtained the anecdote from the son of the M. Doulet mentioned in it:
Danton was in Arcis in the month of November 1793. One day, when he was walking in his garden with M. Doulet, a third person came towards them, walking with great steps and holding a paper in his hand (it was a journal). As soon as he could make himself heard he cried out: ”Good news! Good news!” and approached them. ”What news?” said Danton. ”Here, read! The girondins have been condemned and executed,” responded the person that had just arrived. ”And you call this good news, you wretch?” cried Danton in his turn, Danton whose eyes immediately got filled with tears. ”The death of the girondins good news? Wretch!” ”Without a doubt,” responded his interlocuteur, ”weren’t they factious?  ”Factious,” said Danton. Aren’t we factious? We all deserve death just as much as the girondins, we will all suffer, one after the other, the same fate as them.”
This could invite to the idea that Danton, like Camille, was horrified by the fact revolutionary justice had gone as far as it had (or at least that he got scared once he realized said justice could also affect politicians like himself) and wanted to put an end to it. But also like with Camille, this idea cracks a little once you start looking over the things he’s actually fully confirmed to have said himself following his return to Paris in November 1793 and his death five months later. This can be observed in Discours de Danton (1910) by André Fribourg. Below can be seen all recorded interventions made by Danton during this period, as well as which ones had anything to do with the ”indulgent campaign.”
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On November 22, the first day of his public apperances since his return from Arcis-sur-Aube, Danton speaks about a decree granting help to priests who have abdicated, that the committee of legislation and finances has been charged with preparing. Danton supports the decree, pointing at ”the consequences the rejection of [it] would have” — if a priest cannot support himself, he will turn against them, travel to the Vendée and declare himself their enemy. He therefore suggests that it be kept track over which priests have obtained the relief, and that as soon as it is demonstrated to a commune that one has acquired the means to subsist, it will be authorized to remove all priest salary from him. And he ends with these words:
I ask that the blood of men be spared; I ask that you do not lose the means of going home to your enemies, and conciliating them. Be fair to all who are not your enemies; you owe them enough to live on until they can afford it. You can give it to them with economy: here there is no expense. Those who calculate know that a large number will hasten to search, and will find ways to cost the Nation nothing. But show yourselves just, show yourselves great like the people you represent; it wants justice, it wants it to be imperturbable; proclaim it in its name, you will receive its applause and blessings.
Danton’s intervention was met by applause, and the discussion ends with the committee’s decree about help to the priests getting sent to the printer.
Four days later, November 26, Danton spoke in similar terms, regretting the numerous deputations and former priests coming to the Convention that day to show off remains of their churches and renounce their estate respectively. Danton proposes that ”we should no longer admit these anti-religious masquerades,” pointing out that ”there exists a law that charges a committee to receive the renunciations of priests. I demand the execution of it.” After asking for there to quickly be made a report on the ”foreign plot” recently revealed to the authorities by Fabre d’Églantine, Danton once again makes a case for not multiplying the guilty:
The perpetrators and accomplices must be carefully sought after, even within the Assembly. We must pursue traitors everywhere in whatever forms they disguise themselves. But let us be careful to distinguish what is due to error from what is due to crime. The people want terror to be the order of the day; but it wants it to be carried out against the real enemies of the Republic, and against them alone; I read that the people do not want the individual who was not born with revolutionary vigor to be, for that reason alone, treated as a culprit; if they do not deviate from their duties, the people want to encourage even the weak, when they have no idea of ​​crime.
This earned him a reprimand from Fayau, who said that Danton had just ”let escape, without a doubt unintentionally, expressions that do not please me, he has not misunderstood this great truth that the people are sovereign, but while they need to be terrible he invites them to clemency.” Danton responded that he hadn’t even pronounced the word ”clemency,” doesn’t want any indulgence for the guilty, and asks for ”an energetic and revolutionary government.” Fayau retorted, saying that the way Danton just expressed himself of the current government made it seem like he thinks it could easily be substituted for another. But Danton shut him down with the words ”The Republican Constitution is decreed, and I am an imperishable Republican.” Once again he carried the day, the Convention decreeing his propositions amid applause.
On December 1 Danton warned that ”any man who makes himself ultra-revolutionary will render results as dangerous as determined counter-revolution,” and urged the Convention to declare that ”no one has the right to arbitrarily lay down the law on a citizen.” He calls for centralisation and tighter control of representatives on mission:
Let us recall those of our commissioners who, no doubt with good intentions, have taken measures that have been reported to us, and that no representative of the people henceforth issues decrees except in accordance with our revolutionary decrees, with the principles of freedom, and according to the instructions which will be transmitted to him by the Committee of Public Safety. Let us remember that, if it is with the pike that we overthrow, it is with the compass of reason and genius that we can raise and consolidate the edifice of society. 
Two days after that, December 3, the jacobin session reported about at the beginning of this post, the one where Danton once again speaks against what he calls ”ultra-revolutionary measures,” is critiqued by Coupé d’Oise but saved by Robespierre. After this however, Danton’s frequent warnings about ultra-revolution come to a sudden stop, and he instead occupies himself with speaking on other subjects. Did he at this point feel that he could leave over the task to Desmoulins and Robespierre?
On the Convention session December 22, upon the news that a wine merchant suspected of hoarding has been convicted but his innocence has been recognized, Danton cried out for a reprieve, and the Convention repeated it after him. Danton then supported a proposal made by Collot d’Herbois to first make a report regarding the case and send it to the Convention.
The day after that, December 23, Danton called for calm in the Jacobins’ tumultuous discussion about Philippeaux. He does however not defend the accused or his works, underlining instead that ”I don’t have any opinion on Philippeaux or others; I’ve told him myself: ”you must either prove your accusation, or get sent to the scaffold,” but asking that everyone that wishes to speak be heard: ”There is only one misfortune to fear, and that is that our enemies will take advantage of our discussions. Let them profit as little as neccesary, and all keep our heads that are neccesary to us.” Right after Danton, Robespierre makes a similar intervention, underlining that he himself hasn’t read Philippeaux’ pamphlet but hopes he had good intentions with it, before asking for everyone to be heard and the session to be kept ”calm and quiet,” warning of ”the foreign powers [that] surround you here.” When a while later, their advice still hasn’t borne any fruit, Danton irritatingly intervenes again: ”the enemy is at our gates, and we are tearing each other apart! Do all our altercations kill a Prussian?” (vivid applause). Danton ends by asking for ”a commission composed of five members, that will hear the accused and the accusers.” With the support of Couthon, this proposal is decreed and met with applause. 
The next time Philippeaux is discussed by the jacobins, on January 5, Danton again observes that the discussion revolves around facts denied on one side and affirmed on the other. In order to find out what of Philippeaux’s writings actually correspond with reality, he asks that the correspondence from Vendée be analyzed and that the representatives and soldiers interrogated on what they have seen, so that then the Convention and the CPS can clarify the substance of the question. ”Before having reached the goal, let us not prejudge any individual; let's leave it a misunderstood predipitation. We will soon know what to think of Philippeaux when the facts are clearly known.” Danton also expresses doubt over the arrested Ronsin’s presumed guilt — ”I have a hard time believing Ronsin has changed in the way of thinking, he in whom I have always following the trail of liberty, he who during my ministery was pointed out to me as an ardent back up of republican government, and whom I chose, to the great satisfaction of patriots, to after the great insurrection of August 1 go and share the love of the republic in the departments” — something which makes it hard to believe he would have been the one who, through Fabre, masterminded said arrest. It may also be added that Desmoulins was also denounced during the session of both December 23 and January 5, without Danton speaking up for him.
On January 7, after Desmoulins has been attacked by Robespierre, Danton again steps in not to defend the journalist and his numbers, but rather to bring both friends back to order and call for quiet — ”Camille mustn’t be frightened by the rather severe lessons Robespierre’s friendship has just given him. Citizens, let justice and cold-headedness always preside over our decisions. In judging Camille, be careful to not strike a deadly blow against liberty of the press.”
The same day at the Convention, Bourdon d’Oise attacks two men Desmoulins has previously taken on in the Vieux Cordelier, Hébert and Bouchotte, the former of which has attacked ”the most pure patriots” in his journal while being in the pay of the latter, who, as Minister of War, ”draws immense sums from the public fund.” This money, Bourdon claims, is better used paying off the nation’s debt to the families of volunteers. Danton, while declaring that ”I think like the pre-opinionists that the organization of the Ministry of War is bad,” also makes sure to state that ”we must ensure that our decrees do not harm the action of the operations of this same ministry,” before again asking that everything be looked over by the CPS and the Committee of Finances instead, ”so that they present to us a method such that our enemies know that we will never slow down the efforts that public safety and the unshakeable establishment of freedom require of us.” He never mentions any names. If Danton is the leader of the ”indulgents,” he does in other words not do much to continue an offensive launched against the ”rival faction” by one of his presumed ”allies.”
The next intervention takes place on January 13, when Danton spoke about the recent arrest of Fabre d’Églantine, agreeing with Charlier who asked for an act of accusation against him and the three other deputies entangled in the East India Company Scandal, and proclaiming that the Committee of General Security has done a good job by putting a ”man presumed guilty” under the hand of the law, but that it at the same time wouldn’t hurt to let the accused come and explain themselves before the Convention — ”I ask that the Convention confirm the arrest of Fabre d'Églantine, that the Committee of General Security take all necessary measures, and that the defendants then be brought to the bar so that they can be judged before all the people so that it recignizes those who still deserve its esteem.” — underlining that his proposal isn’t contrary to that of the committee. His proposal did however receive a frosty response from both Vadier and Billaud-Varennes, the latter exclaiming: ”Woe to whoever sat next to Fabre d'Églantine, and who is still his dupe.” Right after him, Amar insinuated Danton was accusing the committee of negligence, to which he immediately responded that he wasn’t, ”I do justice to it.”
On January 16, Bourdon de l’Oise asks for the arrest and transfer before the are Revolutionary Tribunal of the deputy Dentzel, who, during a mission in the Bas-Rhin department ”focused on persecuting patriots and incarcerating them,” even having the colonel of the Corrèze battalion, a ”frank republican and known as such,” put in an iron cage. Here Danton wholeheartedly agrees, calling the charges against Dentzel ”grave” and calling for the CPS and CGS to take care of the accusation while nevertheless again repeating that ”we must follow a wise path that puts us aside from errors.”
On January 24 Camille protested against the recent arrest of his father-in-law at the Jacobins, again gaining the support of Bourdon d’Oise who asked that the Committee of General Security make a report about the case in three days. Danton did however object to this, stating that he didn’t want a certain prisoner to be given privilieges just because of his relations. He also underlined that ”no one wants the continuation of revolutionary action more than me,” and that ”it is impossible for revolutionary means not to be momentarily fatal to good citizens” before nevertheless reminding the deputies of Robespierre’s committee of justice (which ended up never happening in practice) and suggesting that ”the Convention consider ways to do justice to all the victims of arbitrary measures and arrests, without harming the action of the revolutionary government”:
I oppose the kind of distinction of privilege which would seem to be granted to Desmoulins' father-in-law. I want the Convention to deal only with general affairs. If we want a report for this citizen, we also need one for all the others. […] My colleague's complaint is fair in itself, but it would give rise to a decree unworthy of us. If we were to give priority, it would belong to citizens who do not find in their fortune and in their acquaintance with members of the Convention hopes and resources in the midst of their misfortune: it must be to the unfortunate, to the needy, that you should first hold out your hands. I ask that the Convention consider ways to do justice to all the victims of arbitrary measures and arrests, without harming the action of the revolutionary government. I would be careful not to prescribe the means here. I request the referral of this question to the consideration of the Committee of General Safety, which will consult with the Committee of Public Safety; that a report be made to the Convention, and that it be followed by a broad and in-depth discussion; because all the discussions of the Convention have resulted in the triumph of reason and liberty.
On January 29, Danton opposed an immediate act of accusation being issued against Dalbarade, minister of navy, accused of rebellion against the Convention — ”I know that we above all must guard ourselves from our passions. If it is vigour that founds republics, I know that wisdom and concilation are what give them a unalterable solidity; and I foresee that if we exaggerate each other we would end up forming parties, and there can only be one, that of reason” — asking (again) that the CPS make a report on the matter first.
Three days later, February 2, Danton applauded the proposal put forward by the CGS:s Voulland to release the imprisoned Vincent and Ronsin, as no charge against them has appeared. He claims to have been sceptical about the decision to arrest them since day one — ”I said to Fabre himself, when he wrested from the Convention the decree of arrest against Vincent and Ronsin: You act like the Convention was great when it went through with this decree, as for me, I maintain that it had only a good intention, and it needed to be clarified.” — and calls it ”an incontestable principle” to not treat as suspects ”revolutionary veterans who, by public admission, have rendered constant services to liberty.” But he also claims to have been motivated by the same principles when asking that Fabre be allowed to come and defend himself before the Convention a month earlier — ”I defend Ronsin and Vincent against prejudice, just as I will defend Fabre and my other colleagues, as long as no one has carried into my soul a conviction contrary to the opinion I have of them.” He also repeats that he believes the intentions of Philippeaux (whose pamphlet is course what landed Ronsin and Vincent in prison to really begin with) were good (even while again underlining he doesn’t agree with his opinions) and that he will surely not object to setting the two free. And he ends by once again calling for unity: ”stop this germ of division that our enemies, undoubtedly, seek to cast among us.”
On February 22, Danton asked for the postponement of a decree put forward by Élie Lacoste, in the name of the CGS, putting under arrest the judges and public pursecotor of the military tribunal of the first district of the Ardennes department. Danton proclaims that ”it is time for the Convention to return to its rightful place, and to pronounce only with full knowledge of the facts,” and that this is ”only the preface to my political opinion; I will say it in time.” He’s proposal was again adopted.
Finally, on March 19, Danton celebrated the arrest of the hébertists, exclaiming that ”the people and the National Convention want the authors of this conspiracy to be punished with death” and that ”never has national representation appeared as great to me as it does today.” He praises the revolutionary government and its two committees. Nowhere, however, does the leader of the ”indulgents” take advantage of the elimination of the so called ”extremists” to ask for more moderation/clemency. 
During the trial of the indulgents, I can’t find Danton’s activities and interventions over the past five months get discussed even once, focus lies instead on his revolutionary career prior to that point, with the intention of proving he’s been a closet royalist and an accomplice of both Dumouriez, the duke of Orléans, Mirabeau and the girondins. At one point, Danton does however proclaim that he still believes Fabre to be a good citizen…
So I would conclude by saying Danton’s part in the ”indulgent campaign” consists of him first warning about the dangers of ultra-revolution, and then asking that revolutionary justice be slowed down a bit in three seperate cases, calling for unity within the jacobin club and Convention, and at one point asking that measures be taken to help those under arbitrary measures arrest. In these two last points, he’s quite similar to Robespierre during this same period… Danton never shows himself hostile towards any of the ”ultras” until they have been put on trial, even expressing doubt over the first arrest of Ronsin and Vincent and joy over their release. This while simultaneously not showing the strongest ties to his fellow ”indulgents” — he claims that Philippeaux had good intentions but nevertheless underlines that he doesn’t share his opinions/hasn’t made up his mind on him, he proposes that the imprisoned Fabre be allowed to come and explain himself before the Convention but also applauds his arrest, he goes against Bourdon de l’Oise on both January 7 and 24, and he steps in to act as mediator when Desmoulins gets denounced by Robespierre, but does nothing to really defend him and his actions neither then nor when he’s openly attacked on December 23 and January 5. Danton, like Desmoulins, also never openly questions the authority of the government committees, appearing instead to hugely respect them and finding them important for the salvation of France, given how often he asks that matters be handed over to them.  
As for what evidence we have regarding Danton’s view on the later numbers of the Vieux Cordelier, I would say there’s none, in both directions.
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beyondthisdarkhouse · 2 months ago
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Having read some of your older posts on Mercedes Lackey (and thus going in with mostly-full knowledge of Everything), I want to give her books a try…but there are so many of them. Any you recommend as a starting point?
Hmmm. I've probably only read one-fifth of her bibliography, so other people might have different suggestions. Speaking personally, the series of hers I think holds up best is the Tarma&Kethry&Kerowyn arc - Oathbound, Oathbreakers, Oathblood, and By the Sword. The last one technically stands alone, but it's fun to know the backstory.
I think they're some of Lackey at her best - a blend of worldly cynicism and deep moral ideals, willing to let her characters be a bit messy and interesting.
If you want to get into the Heralds of Valdemar... God knows. There was originally a trilogy of trilogies that had the big plot (OG Heralds of Valdemar/Arrows of the Queen, Mage Winds, Mage Wars) but now there are so many prequels and sequels and tie-ins, I think you could potentially pick a series that sounds interesting and dive in there. I personally don't like anything she's written in the last 20 years, but her new books still have an audience.
Other series I know people still love after all this time are Elemental Masters and Bedlam's Bard, though I haven't read them myself.
Other people will, of course, have their own opinions to contribute. That's what we do on Tumblr. Do hot takes and piss on the poor.
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delicatenightfury · 1 year ago
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Trust
2022 Month of Writing: Day 20
Pairing: Kaz Brekker x reader
Prompt: "It's hard to bury your past."
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Word Count: 3k (this turned out longer than I was expecting)
Author's Note: please don't steal my work! you can choose to respond to the prompt as well, but don't steal my work
I'm not totally sold on this, but if you're interested in a part 2, please let me know!
I based this off the Netflix show Shadow and Bone (even though I liking the books better 😅) - just a heads up
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y/n pressed a damp cloth against her arm where she had gotten a long cut. She winced slightly but focused on cleaning the wound before it got infected. She and the other crows had just barely survived an encounter with Pekka Rollins and his men in what, unfortunately, was an ambush. Her abilities as a Squaller did help some, but one of the Dime Lions sliced her arms, making it more painful to control wind. She had been lucky with her injuries and required far less attention, thus why she was tending to herself. Nina needed to be focused on Inej instead of her.
She tensed slightly when she heard the familiar sound of footsteps accompanied by the thump of a cane. They stopped somewhere behind her, letting silence fill the room for several minutes. She knew it was petty, but she wasn’t going to be the one to speak first. Several minutes later, he finally caved.
“We need to talk.”
“I don’t want to talk to you,” she said lowly.
“It doesn’t matter. We need to talk.”
“Yes, it does matter, Kaz.” She sent him a glare over her shoulder. “You almost got us killed tonight.”
“We have to cut off Rollins’ resources-”
“Do we? You’ve been content just doing simple business for the Crows Club. Then, all of a sudden, you take a mission to saints know where and somehow manage to cross Rollins in the process. Now, we have been framed for murder. And I wasn’t involved in any of it, since you left me behind, yet I still got dragged into this mess.”
She threw down the cloth and picked up a clean one to press firmly against her arm. She held back another wince, glad that the bleeding had seemed to stop for now.
“The mission was need to know.”
She glared at him.
“And I didn’t need to know?” Kaz didn’t respond, but he didn’t look the least bit apologetic. “I had to go into hiding, Kaz, because Rollins added my name to that bounty before you even stepped foot onto the boat that brought you all back to Ketterdam.”
“It was never my intention.”
y/n scoffed.
Kaz slowly came closer, but still kept his distance.
“We were sent to Ravka to locate the rumored Sun Summoner,” he said.
That made y/n pause. She had heard the rumors. All of Ketterdam had. Especially when the Fold expanded and wiped out several towns. The Sun Summoner was a Grisha who was able to manipulate light, who might be able to use their power to help tear down the Fold once and for all.
“And?” she asked.
“We found her. The Darkling used her power to expand the Fold. We had several run-ins with her, but she didn’t come back to Ketterdam with us. Our employer was looking for answers.”
“About the Sun Summoner?”
“Amongst other things.” She glanced at Kaz. He was looking at the far wall, but was only a few feet away from her now. Feeling her gaze, he looked down at her. “He took a particular interest in you.”
“Me?”
“He saw your wanted poster in the street and made an inquiry.”
“That’s not much to go off of, Kaz.”
“He’s a privateer. Rich. Seems to be from Ravka. His inquiry was brief, since his main focus was on the Sun Summoner, but he seemed determined.”
“Again, not completely helpful. This privateer have a name?”
“He called himself Sturmhond.” y/n froze. She knew Kaz was watching her for a reaction, but she couldn’t care. “You know him.”
y/n tossed the dirtied rag aside. She nodded slowly.
“I used to. It was a long time ago.”
“When?”
“Why do you care?”
“Because just hearing the name caused you to freeze up, y/n. I need to know if I can trust you to still function properly should we encounter him again.”
She looked at him.
“You’re worried about how well I’ll perform? Thanks for the vote of confidence, Kaz.” He continued to stare at her. She picked up clean bandages to begin wrapping her arm. “You don’t have to worry about it. It was a long time ago.”
“Not good enough.”
“Will you just leave it?”
“No.”
“Kaz-”
“y/n.”
“Drop it.”
“Tell me.”
She sighed.
“He’s my brother.”
There was a long beat of silence as Kaz took in her words.
“I wasn’t aware you still had family.”
She scoffed.
“As if I could call them that. I was the third child and therefore expendable. Being Grisha just gave them another reason to ignore me.”
She tightened the bandage she had put around her arm. It was a rough job, but it would hold until it could be properly looked at later. She began to clean up her supplies, sticking it in a corner for when it was needed again. As she moved, she caught a glimpse of Kaz. He was still looking at her, as if trying to find more answers.
“What?” she said. Her voice sounded more harsh than she meant it to.
“There’s more that you’re not telling me.”
y/n rolled her eyes.
“Just drop it, Kaz.”
“Not if you have information that will help us.”
“And how is my past going to help us with Pekka Rollins?”
“It will prove that I can trust you.”
y/n stopped. She set down the clothes she had been folding and looked at Kaz. His expression remained cold and hard. He rarely showed emotion as it was.
“You’re questioning my loyalty?” she asked. He simply stared at her, causing her to huff. “Thanks for that, Kaz. After all this time, I’m glad to know where we truly stand.”
She got up quickly and made her way to the door, passing by Kaz along the way.
“y/n-”
“Don’t. Just don’t.”
She hurried outside to avoid him seeing the hurt on her face.
The following week was rather eventful. The Crows had created quite a bit of chaos after releasing false Firepox at all of Pekka Rollins’ businesses. In the same night, Kaz got Rollins to lift the charges he had put on the Crows and admit that he was responsible for the crimes. Rollins had been arrested and taken to Hellgate.
During that time, Kaz and y/n had barely spoken to one another. They only spoke when necessary and even then, they did little to converse with one another. Jesper and Inej were quick to notice the difference. Even Nina and Wylan noticed but neither felt it was their place since they hadn’t known the Crows long.
y/n had been reading in her room when a sharp knock came. She stood and went to the door, finding Kaz on the other side.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Downstairs,” he said. “We have guests from Ravka.”
y/n sighed but nodded. She stepped around Kaz to make her way downstairs, letting him go to wake Wylan and Jesper.
“y/n?”
She looked up sharply at the familiar voice, her eyes widening.
“Zoya?”
The dark haired Squaller smiled widely. She moved forward to hug her.
“Saints, what are you doing here? We thought you were gone! Not even Baghra knew what happened.”
y/n looked down.
“Zoya-”
“And who is this?” A tall man approached them, a smile on his face.
“Tolya, this is y/n. Nikolai’s sister.”
Tolya’s smile grew.
“You’re Nikolai’s sister? It’s wonderful to finally meet you. I traveled with him for many years. He’s spoken of you often.”
y/n was going to respond when a glimpse of Kaz caught her eye. He was standing by the stairs, watching their interaction. Her shoulders deflated when his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. She knew immediately that he had caught at least part of their conversation. She looked back at Zoya.
“It’s a bit of a story,” she said. “One that can be shared later. I assume you are the guests Kaz told us about?”
“Yes. We have a mission for you.”
Soon, the Crows were seated in front of Zoya and Tolya, who handed them a document. 
“The neshyenyer?” Nina said after they had explained the mission. “Sankta Neyar’s blade.”
“So you haven’t completely forgotten what you were taught at the Little Palace,” Zoya said with an almost taunting tone. “Just your loyalty to Ravka.”
y/n couldn’t help but feel like the statement was also directed at her.
“Ravka or Kirigan?” Nina countered. “It didn’t take him destroying a city for me to question my loyalty.”
“So, that we all know you two have history,” Jesper said, “what’s the payment for this particular job?”
“Name your price,” Tolya said. “It matters that much.”
“Is that the Lantsov family crest?” Wylan asked, looking over Nina’s shoulder at the paper.
“You know it is because it’s hideous.”
Zoya shot her a glare before glancing at y/n, who only smiled in amusement. She was never a huge fan of the Lantsov crest. To hear someone felt the same was a little refreshing.
Tolya looked at the group. “Prince Nikolai requests your services to retrieve and deliver the neshyenyer to Alina Starkov in East Ravka.”
“She’s returned?” Nina said.
“As has the Darkling,” Zoya replied. “With an indestructible army of shadow monsters.”
“Saints,” y/n muttered.
“I do not like the sound of that,” Jesper said.
“She needs the blade to kill them. It’s the only thing that might work.”
“Retrieve the blade, and the prince will pay you whatever you ask.” Tolya told them.
“But I like the sound of that,” Jesper said.
“I assume same goes for you?” Zoya asked Kaz.
“I’d welcome the chance to help your prince spend his country’s money.”
Nina quickly expressed how instead of kruge she wanted someone released from Hellgate. Zoya decided to poke fun at Nina for her attraction, but y/n nudged her arm to quiet her. Nina had told y/n of Matthias, the Fjerdan she had fallen for before she came to Ketterdam. She admired Nina’s determination to free him.
“The offer is the offer,” Tolya said. “And Prince Nikolai is a man of his word.”
“But we need to go now,” Zoya told them.
y/n looked to Kaz, who was scanning over them. His eyes lingered on her for a long moment before he pocketed the document.
“It’s settled,” he said. “We’re in.”
The group dispersed quickly after to begin preparing. y/n watching Kaz walk away. When he disappeared upstairs, she sighed.
“Well something’s going on with you two,” Tolya said suddenly.
“Excuse me?” y/n said.
“You and Brekker.”
“It’s nothing.”
Tolya hummed as if he didn’t believe her.
“I haven’t been here long, but I can sense the tension between you two.” He slid into the seat that Zoya had vacated and tilted his head at her. “What happened?”
Despite being much larger than her, he did not come across as intimidating. y/n felt herself relax.
“You said that Nik told you about me. Well, I’ve never talked about my family. But when Nik was in town as Sturmhond not long ago, he made inquiries about me. Kaz demanded answers I wasn’t ready to give.” She sighed. “He implied that he couldn’t trust me.”
Tolya nodded slowly.
“Have you tried talking to him?” he asked.
“Kaz is unbelievably stubborn.”
“And if Nikolai’s stories have revealed anything, I believe you are too.” y/n chuckled. “So why haven’t you told him?” y/n paused and looked at him. Tolya offered a small smile. “Perhaps the first step in receiving trust is showing it? Someone always has to take the first step.”
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y/n watched Kaz from the doorway of his room. He was going through various maps and documents spread out over his desk. She knew that he knew she was there. Somehow he always knew. Nonetheless, she knocked on the doorframe.
“Yes?” Kaz said.
“We need to talk.”
He barely glanced at her.
“It’ll have to wait.”
“No, Kaz. We need to talk now. We can’t keep working like this and you know it.”
He huffed and looked at her as she stepped into the room, shutting the door behind her. He leaned back against his desk.
“What is it?” he asked. “In case you’ve already forgotten, we have to leave for Shu Han soon.”
“I haven’t forgotten. But if this plan works, you need to know the truth.”
“About?”
“Me.” She waited for him to make a quip or dismissal, but received none. So, she took a deep breath. “My real name is y/n Lantsov. I’m the third child of King Alexander and Queen Tatiana. I never made my society debut because once it was discovered that I was Grisha, I was taken to the Little Palace. From then on I was raised with the intent of identifying as Grisha, not a Lantsov.
“As a result, my parents basically forgot I existed. My eldest brother barely spoke to me as it was, so I was only truly close with my other brother. I wasn’t allowed to see him. Kirigan wanted there to be little to no reminders of our pasts so that we could separate ourselves from the otkazat’sya.”
She paused and looked outside. Ketterdam was bustling with activity, both legal and illegal, just as it always was. Ketterdam never slept. 
“Early on, Nik and I would sneak out at night to meet. We were children and would rather play than train and learn. Nik loved to play pretend. We had found an old boat and we’d be sailors. I’d use my powers to steer us. He’d call himself Sturmhond with the distinction that he was a privateer, not a pirate.
“But we eventually got caught. I was disciplined by my instructors and put through more rigorous training. More so than some of the others. At first I thought it was because I had snuck out, but time went on and I was still pushed harder. My powers are no where near Zoya’s level. I doubt even an amplifier could get me there. Unfortunately, it took me too long to learn why that was.
“Kirigan wanted me pushed because of my background. He was… almost giddy about the fact that I was a Lantsov. I started noticing his power plays against my family. When he would visit the Grand Palace, I was among his small entourage of Grisha. He would give me special tasks when we visited, as if flaunting the fact that I was under his command instead of my parents.
“One day, while a group of us were traveling, we were attacked by Fjerdans. Drüskelle. They ambushed us, their goal to bring us to the Ice Court for a supposed trial. But we knew better so we fought back.” y/n took a deep breath to calm herself and force back the memories. “When I realized I was the last one standing, I used my powers to knock the remaining Fjerdans unconscious. I couldn’t kill them, despite the fact that they had just killed my friends.
“But as I stood there, I realized that I was alone. For the first time in years, I was by myself. I realized that there was nothing tying me down in that moment, so I fled. I went to the nearest port and stowed away. I ended up here and chose to make a new life for myself. One where no one knew who I was, where I would have more freedom than I could have imagined. Then I met you. And you know the rest.”
Silence fell over the room. y/n didn’t want to admit it but she was nervous how Kaz would react. She could feel him watching her, staring holes into her back.
After a minute, she felt the air shift and heard Kaz push himself off the desk. He slowly walked toward her, cane thumping at his side. She continued to stare outside even as he came to stand next to her.
“So Sturmhond is the prince,” he said.
y/n almost wanted to scoff - of course that was what he chose to say first - but she refrained.
“Yes. Tolya confirmed it for me.”
“And when he came to Ketterdam and inquired about you, it was because he thought you were dead.”
She shrugged.
“I suppose so. I don’t know what got reported to the king or Kirigan after the ambush. At some point, I stopped caring. It wasn’t my problem anymore.” She looked down. “Guess I was kidding myself. It’s hard to bury your past.”
Kaz huffed.
“Not if you bury it somewhere no one will ever look.”
“And I thought no one would look in Ketterdam,” y/n said, finally looking at him. “The Darkling never left Ravka and I had no idea where my brother was. I hadn’t seen him in years. I didn’t even know he had gone to serve in the military until he had been gone for three months.”
Kaz studied her for a long minute. y/n wished (not for the first time and certainly not the last) that she could read him.
“When we retrieve the neshyenyer and go to Ravka to deliver it, what will you do?” he asked. “I have no doubt we’ll run into your brother at some point.”
y/n sighed.
“I don’t know. I suppose I should talk to him at the very least. He deserves that.”
“And after?”
She shrugged.
“I’ll figure it out when I get to it.” She looked him in the eye. She knew that her answer probably left him unsatisfied but it was the best she could offer in the moment. “What about you?”
“Me?”
“Last week you said that my past would tell you whether or not you could trust me. Now you know. What’s your verdict?”
Kaz’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he scanned her over. She refused to look away. Finally, he nodded.
“I trust you,” he said. “You’ve got our backs.” He stepped back, breaking eye contact with her so that he could gather various things off his desk. “Now finish gathering what you need. We leave for Shu Han in an hour.”
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eleanor-bradstreet · 1 year ago
Text
Slide (Benedict Bridgerton x Reader)
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Benedict Bridgerton x fem!Reader Modern AU Rated: T - language, suggestiveness, whump/blood/injury Word count: 5.4k
Summary: Benedict takes you on holiday to a remote bothy in the Scottish highlands. But things do not go according to plan.
Author's Note: This is an anon request fill for Benedict and Reader stranded in a cabin with an illness/injury. You can't threaten me with a whumpy good time, because this idea completely took over my brain and I wrote it in a day. 😅 Enjoy
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“We should take advantage of the break in the rain. Let’s go on a little hike.”
“A hike?” You looked up from the sofa where you sat curled with a book. Benedict was standing by the door of the bothy, excitedly pulling on a coat. You had been having a relaxing holiday. Five days in a private luxury bothy in the Scottish highlands. He had been coming to the spot alone for years to paint and now wanted to share it with you under the pretense of your dating anniversary. You didn’t know if you believed such things deserved celebration, but your work in the city had been draining you lately and the reprieve was much appreciated. 
As luck would have it, your trip coincided with the rainiest weather in decades. It was always raining somewhere in Scotland but this was something else entirely. Torrential downpours for sporadic periods each day. But that hadn’t dampened your time together. Thus far, four days of nothing but lie-ins and fireside bottles of wine; reading while Benedict painted from imagination; lazy sex in the mornings and raucous sex at night. It was a bit dangerous that the bed was lofted, as your activities threatened to send you flying off of it. The little hideaway was so secluded that there was no internet and no cell signal, and that was one of the reasons Benedict loved it so much. He said he could hear his muse more clearly without the rest of the world butting in. Neighbors were also an impossibility, as the bothy was situated in a little copse of trees accessible only by crossing a footbridge that skirted a rough cliff edge. Nothing too high off the ground, but narrow enough that your car was parked half a mile away on the other side of the bridge. It was a tiny paradise, just you and the trees and the birds. The rain had occasionally relented to allow you a few rambles nearby, but you hadn’t undertaken anything as ambitious as to be called a ‘hike’.
Benedict was pulling his boots on and waving you toward the door. “Come on! Fresh air will do us good. Let’s go.”
You were remiss to leave your cozy nest but you knew he was right, and his crooked smile was irresistible. With a sigh you rose to your feet, donned your own coat and followed him.
He took your hand as you traipsed through the wet grass down the trail toward the bridge. The air had an earthy musk scent from the previous night’s deluge. It did feel good to stretch your legs. You didn’t even bother asking where you were headed, you would let Benedict lead you. But he suddenly stopped short. 
“You’ve got to be joking.” 
The path before you no longer led to the footbridge. Instead it ended abruptly at a slanting jumble of boulders. A rockslide off the side of the nearby cliff had completely blocked your exit.
You both stood dumbstruck, puzzling out your next steps.
“I don’t know how we didn’t hear this,” you murmured, imagining the rumbling crash of so many large stones piling upon themselves. 
Benedict chuckled next to you. “Well, one of us was being exceptionally noisy last night.”
You smacked him but it only made him laugh harder. Your frustration was building, so unused to being confronted with an obstacle you couldn’t quickly surmount. Or perhaps you could.
“I’m going to climb over.” You said definitively. “It looks solid enough. I’ll get to the other side, go back to the car and get help so this can get cleared away.”
“Well, I’m going with you.” Ben’s brow furrowed, something anxious in his eyes.
You shook your head. “Maybe. But one at a time. Let me test it out and find the footholds. I’m lighter than you.”
“Be careful,” he urged, but you were already clambering onto the nearest rock, pulling yourself over the larger pieces and tentatively resting your weight with each careful step. The top of the mound rose about eight feet off the ground and you scrabbled your way to it easily enough. Standing on top, you could see on the other side that the footbridge was still intact. It gave you a surge of confidence and you stepped forward, eager to scurry down the other side. Then everything sank, your stomach and your optimism as your right foot found a weak spot and shuddered downward in a small cascade of stones, sinking in up to your thigh until you felt it pinned at the ankle, the rocks trapping you in place.
“Shit!” You hissed, tugging uselessly to free yourself. It didn’t hurt, but it had immobilized you.
“What’s wrong?” Ben called from below, panicked.
You gritted your teeth. God, this was embarrassing. Off you had gone with bravado and now the universe was going to show you better. It was going to double down in fact, because you felt the first drops of rain spattering you from the dull grey sky. You clawed at the stones around your leg, able to toss some aside but others were so large you’d never be able to lift them. An animal part of your brain was starting to flood with fear, but you fought to keep your voice steady.
“I’m bloody stuck.” You lamented. “My leg is caught.” It wasn’t a request for assistance, but you should have known how he would react. 
“Hang on, I’m coming!” From your vantage point you could see Ben dash forward and begin to climb the rocks, not caring to test the stability of his steps, just rushing toward you. You opened your mouth to tell him to slow down, but your voice caught in your throat as everything suddenly rumbled, an ominous herald of what was coming. You both froze, staring wide eyed and feet apart from one another. Then everything shifted and fell away. 
Your entire sense of gravity tilted as the rocks beneath and around you slid, all jumbling together as they surged further away from the cliffside. You felt your leg snap within the grinding stone and cried out, landing on your side and feeling a jagged edge glance across your forehead. Your eyes fell on Benedict clamoring to reach you as he lost his own footing on the tumbling wave. He was unsuspecting, his eyes locked only on you when a massive boulder came rolling as easily as a toy ball and slammed into his side, knocking him out of view and into the tumult of roiling earth beneath you. You screamed his name but it was lost to the thunderous clatter. 
Amidst the chaos, one thought began to form clearly in your mind. This was how you would die. Crushed in a rockslide thanks entirely to your own stupidity. And worst of all, you had dragged Ben with you. The nightmare deepened as the sky ripped with a clap of thunder and rain began to pummel you in earnest as everything continued to slide and roll around you. Numb with anguish, all you could do was bury your face in your hands and wait for fate to claim you.
But it didn’t. In what felt like only a moment, everything stilled. The rocks had stopped moving, their sound had died away, and you were lying on top of the mound sensing nothing but the cold patter of heavy rain. You were still alive, a fact that was confirmed by the burning pain you felt pulsing in your leg. Looking down you saw that it was freed, released from the churning rocks, but it was bloodied and wouldn’t respond to your attempts to move it. Though it was a novel experience for you, there was no doubt in your mind that it was broken.
That was the least of your worries. As you came back to your senses they all tuned to one goal. You had to find Benedict. You called out for him, voice croaking, but were met with silence. You pushed yourself up to look around. The slide hadn’t buried the trail any further, only shifted on top of itself. You could see the path back to the bothy on one side and the footbridge on the other. But no Benedict. You screamed his name again, louder. Nothing. A sickening dread started to rise from your stomach as you began to pull yourself over the rock. You couldn’t stand properly and even if you could, you didn’t want to risk disturbing anything. It was better to spread your weight across the surface and so you began to slither on your belly, fingers bloodying themselves on rough edges as you dragged along in the direction you had last seen him. Everything was turning slick and muddy with the rain. You moved back down toward the trail, eyes sweeping, and just near the bottom is where you saw a spot of orange amidst the rubble. His shirt.
“Ben!” You shrieked, half-rising on your good leg to hobble over to him. You reached the bottom of the rock pile and saw him lying at the edge of it. You chanted his name desperately as you landed at his side. He was on his back mostly unhidden, a few small stones piled around his limbs which you pushed away, but one large one wedged over the right side of his chest. He was frighteningly pale and seemingly unconscious, lying still as he was battered by rain.
“Ben,” you called to him, taking his face in your hands. “Ben, wake up!” When he didn’t respond, your heart started hammering. No, no, no. You bent an ear to his mouth, silently praying to every deity you had ever heard of. To your great relief, he was breathing. But he was struggling. Your eyes landed on the boulder, covered in lichen and mocking you. You suddenly hated it more than you had hated anything in your life. With a surge of strength you didn’t know you possessed you drove yourself against it, leveraging with your good knee. It felt like fighting a brick wall and yet somehow after a moment, it loosened and you shoved until it tumbled backward and off of Benedict. 
Immediately he took a loud, wheezing inhale followed by a groaning “Fuuuuucccckkkkk.”
You would have laughed with relief if you were not so strung out on adrenaline and hell bent on getting as far away from this death trap as possible. 
“Ben,” You shook him lightly. “Benedict, open your eyes.” 
He did so, blinking against the rain, taking a moment to focus. Those bright, gentle eyes gazed back at you and made you feel rooted to the earth again. 
“We need to get back to the bothy. Can you stand?”
He stared at you, seeming dazed, then brought a hand to your forehead, speaking softly. “You’re bleeding.”
As his fingers came away red, you were surprised that you didn’t feel any pain other than the dull throb of your leg. None of this was important right now. You had to get to shelter and then you could assess all of your wounds.
“I’m alright.” You stated firmly. “We need to go, come on now.”
He wrapped his right arm around your shoulders, the sleeve of his coat ripped and dirtied. You braced against each other as best you could and tried to stand but both fell back with shouts of pain, you unable to tolerate any weight on your shattered leg, and him clutching at his right side. You were in bad shape, but had no other options than to push through. No one was coming to help you and neither of you would leave the other.
You locked into each other’s eyes, breathing hard, and a silent understanding passed between you. Now was not a time for weakness. You would need to be strong for each other. You banded your arms around each other once again and, wincing and gasping, slowly staggered to your feet. Ben leaned heavily across your shoulders while you hopped on your left foot and dragged the other behind you.
Somehow through the pouring rain, with the screaming throb in your leg and Benedict swaying weightily beside you, you inched back along the trail to the bothy, soaked to the bone once you finally shambled inside. You maneuvered to gingerly lay Benedict onto the sofa but he still cried out at the movement. Then he laid still, eyes screwed shut against the pain as he exhaled raggedly through his nose. Spurred to action, you hopped loudly around the small space gathering towels, blankets, water, and the tiny first aid kit stashed in a cupboard. What use it would be, you didn’t know, but it was all you had. You checked your phone, already knowing there was no signal to dial out but instinctively needing to confirm it. Your mind spun. Plans. Actions. Steps. You were going to fix this. You were going to get out of this situation. You just had to keep your head, which was significantly harder to do when the man you loved was lying nearby as pale as a ghost and groaning. But you could get yourselves warm and dry. That was a first step.
After stoking a fire in the woodstove you lowered to sit next to the sofa, clumsily tumbling onto the floor as you winced at the shooting ache in your leg. Benedict’s eyes flew open and he looked at you with concern. “Your leg’s broken?” He intuited.
“Mmhmm,” You nodded, breathing through the pain. “But I’m fine. We need to check you out.”
You mopped his hair and face with a towel, the friction and heat from the nearby stove bringing some color back to his skin. You searched his eyes.
“What hurts? How do you feel?”
He grimaced. “Dizzy, but not too bad. I don’t know if I’m concussed or if I just got hit by a great bloody bunch of rocks.” He ended with his telltale smirk.
You were feeling anything but humorous at that moment. His joke made your insides seize, worried something may be seriously wrong.
“Have you been concussed before? Do you know what it feels like?”
He grinned further. “I have. You don’t grow up with seven siblings and not end up concussed. This doesn’t feel the same, but I can’t be sure.” Your mind started to quest through any errant information you had about concussions. He could read the panic in your expression and brought a hand to wrap around yours. “Hey, it’s going to be alright. If I start to go loopy that’s not a good sign, but I really think I’m okay.”
All you could do was nod tightly, imagining a dozen horrific scenarios and realizing there was little to nothing you could do about them. You simply had to stay focused on the moment and the fact that he was clear headed now. 
“What else?”
He waved a hand vaguely over his right side. “Something bad, here.”
As carefully as you could, you worked in tandem to peel off his sopping coat while bit back yelps of agony. You frowned at the sight of his right arm, scraped and lacerated shoulder to wrist, but it didn’t appear to be broken. Then you lifted the hem of his t-shirt and he arched as best he could so that you could pull it off, turning his face away as he seethed into the cushions. You sucked in a breath, horrified by what you had uncovered. A bruise, black and purple and green, mottling the entire side of his body and rippling with each breath. Cursing to yourself, you rested fingertips lightly over it and even that caused him to flinch. 
“I think…” you wavered. “I think your ribs are broken.”
He stared at the ceiling, his voice tight but sarcastic. “Yep, that feels about right.”
“Can you breathe?”
“Well enough,” he sighed. 
The severity of the situation was sinking in. Hysteria was starting to bubble in your chest but you locked your jaw, determined to keep it together. “What do I… What should I do, Ben? How do I fix this?”
He turned to look at you, his expression going soft. “You can’t fix it.”
That threatened to push you over the edge. Your constitution slipped, your chin started to tremble, tears mounting in your eyes.
“Hey, hey, hey.” He cupped your face with a large hand, pads of his fingers pressing into your hair, urging you to focus. “We’re going to be alright. This is what’s going to happen. Tomorrow is our last rental day and the owners visit the property between guests. So they’ll come, see the path is blocked and know that we’re stuck here. They’ll get help. We just have to wait until tomorrow. We have everything we need here. We just have to be still and wait.”
You nodded, swallowing hard against the tears, ashamed that you couldn’t be stronger but breathlessly grateful that he would comfort you even when he was grievously injured. You kissed the palm of his hand and steadied yourself against its warmth. So very little was in your control, but you were determined to right the things that were. Moving carefully and trying to ignore the protesting pangs from your leg, you dried him off and piled him with blankets. The stove was burning high and the bothy still had the cozy air you had enjoyed the past few days. You stripped off your own soaking tops down to your bra and wrapped yourself in a blanket. Then you wet a rag and started to clean the cuts on his arm, dressing them with the ointment and bandages from the first aid kit.
Benedict watched you silently, something twinkling and bemused in his eyes. You worried that if you stared at him too long you were going to cry, so you focused on your task. Once you were finished he held out his hand.
“Give me the rag.” You handed it to him. “Come here.”
You shifted up to face him, concerned. “What do you need?”
Wordlessly, he pulled your chin closer with one hand and began to lightly dab at your forehead with the other. You closed your eyes, feeling the tears threaten again. If there was one thing Benedict Bridgerton would never cease to be come hell or high water, it was a caretaker of others. You weren’t quite sure what you had done to deserve such a man, but you knew it was imperative that you never let him go. As he wiped the blood away, your cut started to sting. You hadn’t found a mirror to examine it and you frankly didn’t want to. He was your only concern right now.
“Does it hurt?” He asked softly. You were too overcome to do anything other than nod. Then he pulled your chin down even further, leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to your wound. 
That’s what broke you. You finally let the tears spill down your cheeks, burrowing your face into the side of his neck. “I’m so sorry, Ben,” you whispered.
“What are you sorry for?” He asked, bewildered.
“I should never have tried to climb those damned rocks.”
He huffed. “You were trying to help us. I’m the one who shouldn’t have jumped up after you.”
You pulled back, sniffling. “You were trying to help me.”
“And look where all of that help landed us,” he smirked, causing you both to chuckle. But his laugh almost immediately turned into agonized gasps. 
“Alright, alright,” You put a steadying hand on his shoulder. “No laughing.”
“You need to splint your leg,” he rasped.
“How precisely should I do that?”
His eyes darted around the room. “The kindling for the stove. Take two long pieces and tie them off with towels.”
You began to drag yourself across the floor toward the woodpile, a realization forming that perhaps two people with zero medical training between them should not be as drawn to outdoor isolation as you were. You gathered two sturdy sticks and a handful of dish towels and then scraped your way back to his side.
“Make sure your leg is straight and tie it tight,” Benedict instructed. You nodded but were filled with apprehension. Ever since you had collapsed on the floor, your useless leg had been twisted at an appalling angle. You knew setting it was going to hurt. Taking a deep breath, you reached forward and tugged it straight. A white hot jab of pain jolted through your whole body, causing you to scream. Distantly, you could hear Benedict speaking to you, his hand rubbing circles across your back. His touch was what you focused on, the only thing helping you to fight the nausea as you lined up the wood and tied it tightly on either side of your broken limb, whimpering with each knot pulled. You fell back against the side of the sofa, panting as you found equilibrium and the searing pain faded back to an insistent throb. Benedict wrapped an arm across your chest, the closest thing to an embrace he could offer. You lay in silence together, exhausted, settling in for what was sure to be the longest night of your life.
Warmed by the fire and lulled by the rain driving against the windows, the atmosphere inside the bothy would have been dreadfully romantic if you weren’t both immobilized by broken bones and stranded, awaiting rescue. It would have been all too easy to fall asleep, but you were determined to stay awake until help arrived. You scooched yourself around the floor with all the grace of a geriatric slug, feeding the stove and brewing tea which you helped Benedict to drink as he lay flat. Out of habit you kept checking your phone, wondering if by some miracle a cell signal would appear.
“Sorry there’s no service here,” Benedict frowned. “Part of the whole appeal. Going off the grid.”
“I know,” you ran a reassuring hand through his hair. “It’s not your fault, I just can’t help checking. We need something to occupy ourselves.” Your eyes fell to the stacks of books beneath the coffee table, a motley assortment from the owners and you suspected, prior guests. You began to assess the authors, gauging his reactions.
“Dostoevsky?”
He grinned. “Well, I would enjoy that but I know it would put you to sleep.”
He was right. You set it back. “Ooo! Byron!” You lilted, waving the book at him tauntingly.
He groaned. “God, please. I’m in enough pain already.”
You laughed and tossed it aside. Next was a sleek, mysterious cover with a blurb promising ‘luxurious, unbridled passion’. You smirked. That seemed exciting enough to keep you both awake. 
“We’re reading filth,” you announced, settling in next to him again. You had expected something humorous, the kind of tawdry romance novel that every aunt seemed to be fond of. But while the story started out playful enough, the simmering sexual energy woven by the author’s talented prose was so evocative, you both started to squirm. The fearless, beautiful depictions of the lovers’ encounters were so salacious that you were too stunned to keep reading them aloud, your mouth falling open as you blushed instead. Dimestore trash this was not.
Benedict shifted behind you but you couldn’t look at him. “Maybe save that one for later,” he croaked. “Jesus, who wrote that?”
“Faye someone.” You mumbled, setting it aside with a mental note to steal it or buy your own copy.
“Please make me think of something else now,” Benedict pleaded, his voice tight.
“P.G. Wodehouse it is.” You smiled, grateful to have found something light and familiar.
“Brilliant.”
By the time you finished the short volume it was dark outside but the rain hadn’t let up. You could have switched on the lights but that seemed too harsh for the states you were in. The fire was a more relaxing illumination.
Your stomach rumbled, waking up after an extended period of anxiety. “We should eat something.” You had food enough to cook meals for one more day, but could scrounge for now. You trailed a hand lazily over Benedict’s cheek. “What do you want?”  He raised a brow. “Scotch. Neat.”
“You’re not drinking in your condition.” You said firmly, eliciting an exaggerated pout from him. “And neither am I. Do you have an appetite for anything solid?”
“Not really.”
“Just bread?”
You knew that would bring a light to his eyes. “With butter?”
You grinned. “Of course.” It was never a question with him. That was the one thing he would always happily eat. Setting off on another crawling journey across the floor to the kitchenette, you cobbled together your dinner. Bread, butter, a bit of cheese, a jar of olives. It would do. It was damn near continental. 
After your haphazard meal you found Benedict’s eyes drifting closed, everything about him looking utterly spent.
You held his hand in your own and kissed his bloodied knuckles. “Ben, you’re drifting off. Should you…can you sleep with a concussion?”
His eyes fluttered open, bleary. “Yes,” he mumbled. “Just wake me up every couple of hours to make sure I know my own name. Ask me some questions.”
“Alright.” You nodded, trying to ignore the spike of fear inside. What if he was hiding how he truly felt for your sake? What if he did have a concussion and got worse while he slept? What if you couldn’t wake him up again? Part of you wanted to plead with him to stay awake through the night, but it was overruled by the part that told you to trust him. Choosing hope, you squeezed his hand and laid it across his chest.
“What about you?” He was fading fast, eyes closed.
“I’m not tired,” you lied. “Get some rest.”
Then your vigil began. You set your phone alarm to go off every three hours and brewed another pot of tea. You would stay awake. If anything was compelling enough to combat your wearied body’s exhaustion, it was the need to make sure Benedict kept breathing and that he could come back to you when you woke him. You stayed at his side, studying the angles of his handsome face in the glow of the fire, grateful that he seemed to be peaceful. And you waited.
__
“Ben?”
“Mmm?”
“Where are you?”
“In Scotland.”
“Why are we here?”
“We’re on holiday.”
“Who is your eldest brother?”
“Anthony.”
“Alright, go back to sleep.”
“Ben?”
“Mmm?”
“Where are you?”
“In the mountains.”
“Why are we here?”
“I wanted to paint.”
“Where did you take me on our second date?”
“I said, ‘What do you say we go to Marseille?’”
“Yes, it was awful of you. I finally committed to you and then you said cheesy mad shit like that.”
“But you came with me.”
“I did.”
“And you enjoyed yourself.”
“I did. Go back to sleep.”
The third time you woke him, the light was turning grey outside and the rain had weakened to fits of spray. It was the day of your rescue. You just had to wait a few more hours. You decided you should probably wake Benedict for good.
“Ben?” You ran your hands through his hair, coaxing him back.
“Mmm?” 
He had awoken so easily each time, it was reassuring.
“Where are you?”
“I’m with you,” he slurred.
Your heart faltered, touched by his response but also concerned at its vagueness. 
“And who am I?”
Even though his eyes remained closed, his lips tilted into a small smile. “You’re the love of my life.”
Your breath caught in your throat. Exhaustion, fear, relief and love heaping upon one another.
Your voice trembled. “Where are we both right now?”
“We’re stuck in the bloody bothy.” He spat.
You chuckled, running your thumb over his forehead. He seemed to be lucid. “Why are we here?”
“I wanted to ask you,” he sighed, sounding almost as if slipping back into sleep.
You were confounded. “Ask me what?”
At last his eyes blinked open, settling on you with the steady, blue-grey stare that you could drown in. 
“Get my coat.” 
Still confused, you did as he asked, pulling his coat from the side of the sofa and handing it to him. It was only when he began rummaging through the pockets that realization struck and you froze. Time seemed to slow as he finally pulled out a small box and tossed the coat aside. He pried the lid open and brought it to rest on his bruised chest so that you were staring face first at a silver ring twined with a sapphire and pearls.
“Ask you to be my wife.” He declared, that timeless cheeky grin lighting his face. You couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t move. You weren’t sure if you were delirious with exhaustion or dreaming. He continued. “The hike was to an overlook. The landscape I painted that you love so much? I wanted to ask you there. I’m sorry we didn’t make it.”
Everything was falling into place. His insistence on this holiday. The uncharacteristic request for a hike. He had meant it to be one of the most memorable days of your life. It had certainly turned out that way, but not in the expected fashion.
Entirely ignoring the beautiful ring, you pulled him into a kiss.
“Oh, Ben.” You weren’t sure if you were laughing or crying or about to faint. You just needed to have him close.
He nuzzled his nose against yours, trying to convey as much affection as he could while not being able to move.
“This isn’t how I wanted it to be, but I need to ask you before anything else goes wrong.”
You stared back at him in alarm. “Nothing else is going to go wrong. Don’t you dare say that.”
He only smiled, devastating with his boyish grin and the cheerful crinkles around his bright eyes. 
“So? Will you?”
“Yes! Yes, of course I will.” Your words were muffled into his lips as you kissed him again, hands wound tight into his hair, never wanting to let go. You didn’t feel tired anymore. You didn’t feel your pain. All you felt was him. Even now he smelled so wonderful, tasted so wonderful. He was light and certainty. He felt like home. 
When you managed to pry yourself off of him, his eyes were glittering. He plucked the ring from its box and slid it onto your shaking hand.
“In sickness and in health.” He beamed. “I think we’ve already covered that bit.”
“Yes, we have.” You fell upon him again, breathless, everything fading behind the reality that he would be yours forever. It was a twist of fortune you’d never feel worthy of.
A few hours later you were snogging rather ferociously when someone began pounding on the door. It was emergency services. Just as Benedict had foretold, the bothy owners had seen the rockslide and sent help. He was infuriatingly correct in that way most of the time. A team of people dressed in yellow bandaged you both further and expressed surprise as how well you had handled yourselves under the circumstances. The rubble would take too long to be cleared but with specialty equipment they carried you expertly over to safety and into awaiting ambulances.
Your tallied damage was three leg fractures, three forehead stitches, three broken ribs and no concussion. ‘Symmetrically maimed’ as Benedict proudly announced to your family members who sped up to Scotland to collect you. In the subsequent weeks everyone was so busy fluttering around your injuries that no one noticed your ring finger. You and Benedict made a game of it, placing bets on who would be the first. You won the bet when three weeks in, Violet suddenly clamped eyes on your left hand and started yelping. Then added to the endless questions about your harrowing tale of survival, you were peppered with questions about wedding plans. Muscling through each day as a couple of lovesick invalids, you hadn’t found time to make any, but you had agreed on one thing. No matter where you went on honeymoon, hiking would not be on the itinerary.
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Tagging: @angels17324 @bridgertontess @broooookiecrisp @secretagentbucky @faye-tale
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meltorights · 4 months ago
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WAS the forbidden fruit a metaphor for sex?
in short, no--but,
god blesses humankind after he makes them, and sexuality is part of the blessing. the book of genesis is a patchwork compiled from four different sources. in particular, the creation account has two sources, the first "god said let there be light." in this account god makes humans after ordering the whole universe in seven days. he then tells them to "be fruitful and multiply."
but in the second (and older) story, God comes down to earth. he takes clay. molds it. breathes life into it. and it becomes the human. then he makes all the animals to be its companion. this is an image of god experimenting. failing, if we may be so bold to say. each time, the human names the animal, but cannot see them as its companion.
and then god puts it to sleep, and takes a bone, and makes the woman--here, the hebrew begins using specifically gendered words for "man" and "woman," and when the "man" wakes up, he says: "here is bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh," recognizing someone like himself at last.
and the account of the Fall is a continuation of this story. like many of the stories from the first few books of the bible, it's sparse in detail, it does not give motivations or elaborate explanations, it just narrates events. a man and a woman in a garden. two trees, one of which god forbids them to eat from. a snake (certainly not, in the human author's mind, the devil). a question. they eat. and they are driven out.
and on one level we should simply take this story at face value. we can't really reconstruct an "authentic meaning" without doing some violence to the text.
these books do not deal in complex metaphors or analogies. they do not skirt around sex--whether it is violent and contrary to the law or not. people "lay with each other." the wisdom books of the bible employ metaphor--whether it's the misogynistic warnings of sirach or the exuberant celebration of sex and bodies in song of songs--but these earlier text simply narrate. majestically and unconcerned about the questions they raise.
and these gaps leave for all kinds of explanations, filling-ins, that seem plausible! a man and a woman lead many people to think it must be about sex, or about seduction--that eve, being a woman, seduced adam into taking the fruit, and that he was to weak to resist her and impose his (god's!) authority. or that the tree of knowledge of good and evil represents our desire to make whatever we choose "good" or "evil" and thus impose our will on the world. but none of that is in the text.
the one hint of sex is that when they eat the fruit they realize they are naked. but the story is not so much concerned with nakedness as with shame. they make clothes from themselves to cover their bodies from each other, they hide from God, telling him they were afraid because they were naked.... the fruit is not some "Unchastity" or "Impurity," the fruit is what makes unchastity and impurity possible. before they were perfectly at home in their bodies, now they see them as a source of shame. they are alienated from their own bodies, in their shame alienated from each other and from God, even from the earth--now they must sweat in labor to eat.
you could think that in the garden the first humans had perfect sexual freedom, without shame, without inhibition, and without any kind of abuse of power or exploitation. and then they lost it all.
that's not in the text, but like i said, the text is sparse. if anything is sexual, it's these gaps the text leaves for us--they're erotic, like clothes that conceal just the right parts of the body. they're what invite us to penetrate the text, to meld with it, to be rough and passionate with it. i normally don't go in for the whole "text as orifice" metaphor: it seems a bit irreverent, a bit embarrassing, a bit try-hard at times, but here it's true..... the holes in the text can enable us to love it. so, in that sense, the fruit could be sex; as a gay person who grew up in a deeply homophobic catholic setting, I can certainly relate to such a reading, un-textual though it may be. we must recognize that we cannot read the text without doing some level of reading into, without penetrating--the text wants us to do so.
and for christians, of course, the text, the Word, the Logos, is God.
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undertale-fic-librarby · 3 days ago
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Hey! Do you know any good Errormare fics? I know ‘Wayward’ and ‘At Their Mercy’, but I’m looking for more 👀
Howdy, thanks for asking! Here are some fics that might fit what you're looking for!
It's All Just Training, Right? by atomiCherry, Souldew_UT (Explicit, Complete)
Hopping from universe to universe after his own Anti-Void no longer suffices as a safe place from the chains of Fate, Error winds up in Nightmare’s Castle with none other than the God of Negativity himself, who’s far too pleased with the Destroyer’s presence. Unaware of Nightmare’s true intentions, Error finds himself taken aback by a suspicious yet remarkable deal that very few people have the courage to propose. It was meant to be a simple session, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, but then the both of them find out that there might be more to their meeting than meets the eye… - updates every Tuesday and Friday
Catalyst for Concord by Somebody_OntheInternet (Mature, Incomplete)
“My ecto-o isn’t unsummoning.” He kept his gaze firmly locked on the carpet, refusing to look the other God in the eye. The tentacle in his grasp curled around his radius and ulna, and he squeezed it. There was an awful, crushing silence for a few moments, before his husband spoke: “…you don’t think..?” *----*----* After their mating cycles lined up, the "evil" Gods of Destruction and Negativity find themselves in quite the predicament. They must figure out how to balance their dangerous work with the task of ensuring their baby's development is healthy. That, and they have to ensure the Council does not find out. No matter what, Ink cannot find out.
Signed, Your Penpal by Hellsaint7w7 (General Audiences, Incomplete)
Geno and Nightmare fall in love through anonymous notes to each other and their love of books. But of course, Geno doesn’t stay Geno forever and Nightmare doesn’t handle it well.
Day 1: Teratophilia/Size Difference by Destiny_Of_A_Dragon (Explicit, Complete)
Nightmare feeds on too much Negativity and the only way Error can get them to calm down is by letting them use his body. Error felt Nightmare’s whole body shift and ripple— and couldn’t resist taking a peek over his shoulder again. The destructive Skeleton froze in a soulbeat, eye-lights shrinking as he saw the corrupted Guardian fumbling with their own pants, mind not stable enough yet to undo them properly. Eventually, the fabric tore— and Error’s eyes went wide as he saw what was underneath. S-stars, that was—! That was—! Nightmare was currently over twice his size and full to bursting with excess magic, but Error hadn’t really thought about what effect that might have on their ecto!
Chocolate Pampering by Souldew_UT (Mature, Complete)
Error succumbs to anxiously drown himself in chocolate - eating more and more every day than usual. He pays so much attention to the chocolate which eventually causes Nightmare to get stupidly jealous. Nightmare doesn't like sweets, but he likes to mess around with Error, so he takes all the chocolate away when Error is not present and hides it.
Thanks for the recommendation! The fics being recommended are…
Wayward by Queer_Sleep_Demon (Mature, Incomplete)
Error had always been in control of his teleporting abilities. He knew the ins and outs of world-hopping like the back of his hand. The joke was on him, though, because the multiverse didn't play by anybody's rules. An impulsive decision to teach Nightmare a lesson in respect went horribly wrong. As a result, Error and Nightmare become stranded in a foreign and hostile dimension. Finding a way out was easier said than done.
At Their Mercy by Devcipher (Teen And Up, Complete)
The multiverse had been perfectly balanced when the seven higher beings weaved it together. Through countless interferences, however, the balance has begun to tip, and stability is threatened. Fate's creation has been unresponsive to their warnings, and thus a solution must be made. While feuding with Destiny over a monster to be Ink's counterpart, Karma intervenes. Inspiration from Harrish6's Forced God of Destruction universe, but a unique alternate multiverse/universe of my own. Discord is constantly breaking the link for the ATM discord but: https://discord.gg/DgHWGnMNrs *EDIT: My server got raided twice please message me for a link lol* Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/devtemrys
Here's a few more fics that are similar to what you're asking for!
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chubsonthemoon · 2 years ago
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GUESS WHOSE BOOK ARRIVED TODAYYYYYY SO NOW I GET TO POST PICS!!!!
This is To Hell and Back Again, by dear dear @perexcri. Cover design by @byierficrecs (thank you SO much for letting me use your design!). Binding by me!
I'm not in ST fandom, but I had the pleasure of skimming this fic while I was typesetting, and can I just say? I'm rooting for these kids SO hard. I'd go to hell and back again for them--[GUNSHOT]
But in all seriousness, Leah's writing is whip-smart, sincere, and funny as hell. I cannot recommend it enough to anyone who is a fan of these crazy kids. Her ao3 is a veritable treasure trove of excellent byler stories, which you should absolutely check out right now go do it!!!
As usual, process chatter and more pics, under the cut! <3
WORD COUNT: 144k
FONTS:
Title: Hellprint
Heading/Chapter Headings/Spine Titling: Norwester
C4 Summary: Roboto Condensed
Main Body Text: Garamond
COVER MATERIAL: Epson Premium Presentation Paper Matte, printed on my Epson Ecotank (more on that later baha)
HEADBANDS: Trebizond silk thread in the colors Garnet and Black
EDGE PAINTING: Acrylic paint in Crimson and Black
TITLING: Red iron-on foil for the text and white HTV for my maker's mark. Cut by Charlotte, my Cricut!
BINDING:
This was my first go at a German Bradel binding! I've seen lots of Renegade folks use this method and am so psyched I got around to trying it myself. I modified DAS's approach a bit and tipped on endpapers instead of sewing them in (there were a lot of new things to learn so I decided to shelve sewn endpapers for the next binding XD). I also only had 2.0 mm bookboard instead of 1.0 mm, so instead of layering two of the same boards like DAS did, I instead used one 2.0 mm board and one very thin piece of cardboard to create the groove for the hinge. The original article that DAS bases his video on actually uses boards of two different sizes too--a "thick" board and a "thin" board--but I still want to experiment with DAS's way of doing it, especially since I think it'll be easier to do cutouts on thinner board.
As far as matching the groove with the hinge, I think I did pretty okay for my first try! One board is definitely better fitting than the other though baha. There's always room for improvement, but hey that's where half the fun is anyway (and also you can't tell after the case-in whew), so I'm not stressed about it :D
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COLOR SCHEME:
Nearly all of my design decisions for the color scheme were based off of @byierficrecs's gorgeous cover design! They were so generous in letting me use their cover and answering my questions about fonts, for which I can't thank them enough. And with so many wonderful elements to work with, it was so much fun to tease out the elements I loved from their work!
I decided to keep with the theme of red/black, which I also thought was fitting for a ST fic set largely in the Upside Down. Thus, black painted edges with red vines, as a kind of inverted, "upside down" continuation of the cover:
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Even the thread I used to sew the signatures is red/black! :3 (please also ignore how the picture of the textblock is not focused on the actual textblock ajsldkfjs it was very late when I took that photo)
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COVER PRINTING:
This was my first time printing a cover on my new printer (!!!), and BOY oh boy was it an adventure. Figuring out the dimensions took a second, but not as long as it took me to figure out what settings produced something I was happy with. Behold, all my test prints:
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Very long story short, let's just say now I understand why being a prepress color specialist is literally a career you can have in publishing LOL.
Also, for some reason I could only sometimes get the bleed to work? Basically what I ended up doing was painting over the parts where the design didn't quite extend over the turn-ins, using with the same black acrylic paint I used for the edges. You can see this more clearly in the photos I took of the groove, and the endpapers covered the messy bits when I cased in:
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THE MAIN INGREDIENT: LOVE
Finally!! The most important part of the process!!! HI LEAH ILY!!!! This fic is special for a lot of personal reasons, but chief among them is LOVE!!!! Your A/N's made me tear up when I first read it, because AH! You read my words of love!!! And went and wrote hundreds of thousands of your own words of love!!! And now I hope I've given that love back once again :3 And on and on we go, ad infinitum, until we are relieved of the curse of literacy and greet whatever comes after all this, thanks be to Todd. But until then, I'm so glad I get to shoot holes out of bagels and scream about radioactive tumblr posts and cry over fake people with you, friend :] Truly, peace and love on FUCKING Planet Earth. We are making it and we will all go together when we--[ANOTHER GUNSHOT]
I'm so excited to see where we're going, and what other stories we have to tell. But for now: EEEEEEEE YOU WROTE A BOOK!!!!!!!
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<33333!!!
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cringecompanionapologist · 29 days ago
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In Which I Do an Obviously Bad Idea
So, back in the day, the day being one in 2006, there was a LiveJournal post called Doctor/Turlough: The Shipper's Manifesto, or something like that, going over the appeal of Five and Turlough as characters and as a slash pairing, while also recommending which TV episodes, BF audios, and novels were good for shipping. Since this was 2006, a lot of stuff that I'd recommend is left out, due to not existing at the time. But, by this point, the VMA and PDA ranges of novels had wrapped up, so all the Turlough novels that exist now existed in 2006. They are described in the post thusly:
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The novel Imperial Moon is missing, but it's not very slashy either. The slash fandom of the era considered most of the books unremarkable, provided the standard warning for The King of Terror, and said to avoid Turlough and the Earthlink Dilemma.
Notice how despite the standard warning for The King of Terror, the manifesto doesn't warn you not to read it. The only book that they straight up Do Not Recommend is Earthlink Dilemma. This was the first place I ever saw it discussed at all.
So, either this book is really bad or really pisses off Five/Turlough shippers specifically. Or both. I'm guessing both. But, one of the best ways to get someone to do a thing is to tell them NOT to do the thing. So I wanna what the fuck is going on.
To start out with, let's talk about why Earthlink Dilemma is a thing in the first place. Unlike basically every other Doctor Who novel that isn't a novelization of a TV story, Turlough and the Earthlink Dilemma is not a product of the Wilderness Years. In 1994, the Virgin Missing Adventures launched as a line of books telling new stories about Doctors 1-6 (7 was considered the current Doctor at the time). Earthlink Dilemma came out in 1986.
There as been Doctor Who EU material for almost as long as there has been Doctor Who, with the TV comics starting up in 1964. Other than those, there were the annuals containing more comics and short stories. Most of these had very little to do with the actual show. They were cash-ins.
The first Doctor Who Novella, Doctor Who and the Invasion from Space, was released in 1966. It also had very little to do with the show. There were already novelizations of a handful of serials out by this point and there would be many more, but outside of those, the idea of Doctor Who in novel form was pretty much abandoned.
The big change began in 1980, with John Nathan Turner becoming producer for Doctor Who. He proceeded to fuck a lot of shit up and one of the ways he fucked shit up was by pandering to the fanbase, treating them as the primary audience of the show. But, this had some positives. The TV Comic stories died out around the same time fanzines starting doing their own comics. One of these, Doctor Who Weekly, which became Doctor Who Monthly, which became Doctor Who Magazine, was given a sort of official status. JNT gave them a lot of interviews. But the important thing to this story is that we got better comics done by people familiar with the actual show.
Through this process, the BBC started to get more control of the Doctor Who EU and now they wanted to cash-in. Sort of. Target, the company that released the novelizations, was down to do original Doctor Who novels, but not ones featuring the actual Doctor. Instead, spin-off novels starring companions would be a thing. Thus, in 1986, The Companions of Doctor Who series began. And the very first one was Turlough and the Earthlink Dilemma.
Now, the Companions line didn't last very long. The fandom didn't seem too into it, so it ended up being only three books, all following the continuing adventures of companions after leaving the TARDIS. Here's a list of literally all of them:
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The series only lasted a little over a year.
Take note of the authors of these stories. Harry Sullivan's War was written by Ian Marter AKA The Guy Who Played Harry Sullivan. K9 and Company was supposed to be a TV series but it never got past the pilot. What we've got here is a novelization of said pilot. Terence Dudley wrote several Doctor Who serials, so, like Ian Marter, he had experience with the show. Ian Marter, along with playing Harry, wrote a few of the Target novelizations. Basically, both of them were experienced Doctor Who writers.
K9 and Company is basically never talked about as a novel. I can't find much commentary on Harry Sullivan's War either. In general, all three of these books are mostly forgotten. But, Harry Sullivan's War and K9 and Company have the advantage of being written by people who at least somewhat knew what they were doing.
But then there's Tony Attwood. It was hard to find anything on this guy. His page on TARDIS wiki just says he wrote Earthlink Dilemma. He has no Wikipedia page, though there is a Tony Attwood that does. It's not the same Tony Attwood. The most I could dig up for Tony Attwood as a writer of fiction was Earthlink Dilemma and something for Blake's 7. So, not an established Doctor Who writer, nor even really an established writer. It's hard to say how this guy even ended up writing this novel. So, I think a portions of Earthlink Dilemma's failure was a tragic case of No One Knows What They're Doing.
According to the introduction at the beginning of the book, Mark Strickson himself seemed to like it. He was consulted for the book. However, Peter Grimwade, the writer who basically created Turlough was not. I can't find a source for this, so it might just be bullshit gossip, but apparently Grimwade was actually kinda pissed about this. He felt like Turlough was his creation. Considering that he wrote the novelizations for the Turlough serials he wrote, one wonders why he wasn't given the project of writing The Turlough Novel. Mark Strickson found the character pretty vague and JNT's idea for the character was pretty vague, so Grimwade seems to be the only person involved in Turlough's creation who really knew the character at this point.
From the few people who've read Earthlink Dilemma, Turlough's characterization is criticized, usually considered to be out-of-character. But it doesn't seem like Attwood believed there was a character to get wrong, because Strickson was frustrated with being given nothing to do. So Turlough's characterization was probably considered something that could be created for the novel. To be fair, the show did, in fact, fail to give Turlough much to do, so whatever personality he was given was rarely on display. Later novelists and BF writers actually managed to expand on the vague, small amount of characterization in the show.
Anyway, I'ma do a stupid and read Earthlink Dilemma. I intend to blog about it here, both to motivate myself to keep going, and to make sure that someone talks about the book in enough detail that reading it for oneself will no longer be necessary. If the book really is a trainwreck, I can save people from it.
For now, to start out with, I'll talk about the introduction. Mark Strickson left a note for the readers at the beginning of the book and he says some interesting things.
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Of course, if you ask Turlough's fandom, the various states of bondage are often one of the things we like about the character, but it probably wasn't as interesting to play as it is to watch.
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Two things stand out here:
The first is the sense of humor. Big Finish tends to give Turlough a lot of funny lines, so that's an aspect of the character that continued to be expanded upon, though most of the humor is based on Turlough being various levels of Done with everything.
The second thing that jumps out is the romantic side. This implies that Turlough's gonna get a girlfriend. In was 1986, so an explicit gay romance would've been considered subversive enough that he'd explicitly reference it if there was one. So, Strickson is actually all for Turlough being straight.
Note: I don't intend this as an insult. He perceives Turlough as straight when a large audience perceives him as gay, but saying "I didn't intend for this to be gay and thought my character was straight." isn't a rejection of gay characters existing or condemning the fandom interpretation. I will continue to say Turlough Gay because that's the vibe I get from him, but as far as I can tell, all the queer-coding around Turlough was unintentional. This makes sense with the philosophy of the showrunners at the time. They didn't want to do anything controversial and the didn't want romance or, even worse, sexuality, to factor into the show at all. This means that no matter how easy it is to see the entire Fifth Doctor Era as full of queer-coding, the writers absolutely did not have the guts to do it on purpose.
As for how the queer-coding got there, I have a theory. Peter Grimwade was gay and he based Brendon School on some of his one public school experiences. Since we mostly see Brendon through Turlough's eyes, he might've accidentally taken on the traits of a teenaged Grimwade. Turlough Gay because the primary influence on the character was gay and being autobiographical at that moment. Later writers, not knowing what to do with the character, carried on projecting that vibe.
Of course, this is speculating on the psyches of real people, so I can't say that for certain. I don't know these people.
I do get this amusing vibe that Strickson wanted Turlough to be a romantic lead when the companions were never the lead during this era and romance wasn't allowed at all. So, we know that something usually considered out-of-character for Turlough will be present in this novel.
Lastly, there's this:
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Mark Strickson draws a little tie for his signature and I love it.
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4noki-vns · 9 months ago
Text
The Art of Asset Reduction: VNConf 2024 Write-Up
youtube
This is a write-up for my Visual;Conference 2024 talk on asset reduction: presentation of scenes with reduced art labor.
I will discuss how to reduce production requirements via various methods of asset presentation and staging, walking you through case studies of existing visual novels. This talk will guide you to answer the question: How do I fulfill my project scope without asset bloat?
This is an art talk that assumes you have already scoped down your story and have created a list of scenes that you need. This is not a talk about scoping down your game's story.
You have scenes you need to make. How are you going to make them (and with style)?
Abstraction
Cut-ins
Reduce
Reuse
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I. Abstraction
I start off with abstraction as a reminder that visual novels are a combination of visual and novel (amongst other aspects)
Abstraction
Abstraction is a strong tool for bringing focus to the writing, highlighting ambiguity and setting the mood with colors.
Examples I mentioned in my talk include:
Black screen
Solid colored screen
Sky BG
Of Components
The mood-setting power of abstraction also extends to scenes with characters, especially CGs.
As again, abstraction draws focus to what you choose to emphasize: the characters.
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(FLOWERS -Le volume sur ete-)
They are gay. Thank you for coming to my VNConf talk.
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You can similarly abstract characters.
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(Lachesis or Atropos)
Consider representing irrelevant characters (e.g., NPCs) as silhouettes. The reader can fill in the details within the shapes themselves.
Silhouettes are especially great for crowd scenes where you want to draw focus to the main characters.
This will be a recurring theme:
What do you really need to draw?
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II. Cut-ins
One common not-quite full screen piece of art you'll see in many visual novels is the cut-in.
The cut-in typically consists of the:
Item/focus
Frame
And is often for topics such as objects or small animals, which may exist in the scene but may not be within the same frame of reference as the background and sprites.
The separate framing informs the players that the item is "separately framed."
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(Who is the Red Queen?)
For example, this small bird is not huge and would not be the size of a character's head even had a sprite been on screen.
The Foreground-Backdrop Heuristic
Cut-ins make strong use of what I refer to as the "foreground-backdrop heuristic."
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(Shikkoku no Sharnoth)
A general backdrop informs the reader of a broad location or scene (especially if characters are present). Then a more specific foreground (the cut-in) informs the reader of the specifics.
As the foreground cut-in is in a different frame, the pairing of the two helps create a mental model of the space in the reader's mind.
Cut-ins can be used for:
Backgrounds (mix and match foregrounds with a backdrop)
Reduced CGs
Presenting existing assets in a different frame of reference
CG variants
Try tackling your visual presentation in a layered, comic book-esque fashion with cut-ins!
Just be careful about clutter.
Whether you want to go for the layered cut-in style, the 3d stage cinematic style, or a combination of the two, make sure you have a vision before you jump in.
SD CGs
I had to make an obligatory mention of SD "super deformed" CGs in this talk, so here it is in the write up as well.
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(Grisaia: Phantom Trigger Vol. 1)
SD, chibi. However you call these, they're great for playful scenes that might require more art than your classic sprite-background combination.
What SD CGs do best is that they:
Fulfill the role of a CG
Are easier to draw than fully rendered non-chibi art
Can be distributed to different artists to reduce artist workloads due to style difference
Just keep in mind that a simplified CG is still a CG and thus may lack reusability.
Consider what scenes really need a CG.
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III. Reduce
Now, consider asking yourself: "Does what a player does not see need to exist?" (mostly applicable for games with opaque UI)
Yet, what you need to draw is what you need to draw. How can you reduce the work in what you need to draw?
One option is:
Palette Limitation
You've heard of gray scale games, but don't forget about other ways of limiting your palette to reduce workload.
Dramatic, mood setting color power
Less rendering work
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(Sona-Nyl of the Violet Shadows)
A similar idea can be applied to NPCs for a more detailed take on silhouettes.
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IV. Reuse
Lastly, please remember to be economical and reuse assets as necessary. One of the great joys of cut-in BGs, for example, is reusability.
I had to give an obligatory mention to CG variants in my talk, such as:
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(Fatal Twelve)
However, overall, you never know when you'll want to use various components of your art elsewhere such as intermixing CG and sprite art.
Please keep your working layers if possible.
Other reuse examples:
UI (especially in episodic games)
Gameplay (e.g., Kogado's rhythm game)
Consider asking your programmer to work on a framework to reuse, reducing repeated code work.
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Conclusions
All in all, you can make your game.
And it doesn't need to be hellish on your budget or timeline.
If you take anything away from this talk, let it be to:
Prioritize reusable assets
Maintain aesthetic; avoid clutter
Display important scenes
Do not scope up; aim for a set goal
A scene can be presented in many stylish ways, some of which will suit your workflow better than others.
So, go on. Make your game!
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Interested in my works? Find me on itch:
And check out my newsletter:
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VNConf 2023 Talk Write-up:
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romqnticstylez · 1 year ago
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rsoei THIS OR THAT MY TURN
hmmmmmmmmmmm um some of this si gomna be the same as urs okay so
irst rhis or that ALEX OR HENRY
thus ir that andrew garfield or leonardo dicaproo
titanic or oror orrrrrr um tfatws
tfatws or pjo series
pjo or hoo
og trio or leo jason piper trio
piper or annabethg
leo or percy HEHEHE EVIL LAUGH
chai or coffe
hindi or wneglish
if u coudk kill soneine and like u woudlnnot have consequences etc u knwo u would qalk free but only ine person who woudl it be
prev wasnot this orthat questib but do i care no
if u were acat wgat breed wouldu wabt DONT SAY ORANFE
laufeyorts
umumumumum the idiotsor rge marauders
wolfstar or jegulus
jegulus or flowerppot
flowerpot or marylily
dorlene or marylily
morequestionslateer
omg hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
hMMMM ok idr anything since i never finsiehd the books and all. you know. ubt im gonna say alex bc he reminds me of leo
OK well wlell wel they r both soooooooooooo 👀👀👀👀 however. only one of them is cool. so andrew 😻😻😻babygril
titanic imSORRY a sayr ofrgive me plspslpsl
ok pjo no hesitaiton. forgive me for my sins a. also sary
THATS SO HARD STOPP um ok lers see UHAISJDASKJD BRO FUCK YOU 😡😡😡😡😡 this is so hadr ughhghhklklg pjo is just. PJOOO and we got GORVERROROOR but no lost trio. and hoo has the lost trio..........but no grover...FUckukfc ok okosaodk im imsdun m it has nico and wiwlwllw too bro so muchslad pain and suffering ok im OGING TO SAY hoo..............................................................................because mark of athena and house of hades and the seven and percabeth is togehter ??? BUT PJO NO I CANT CHOOSE OSJSDAKSJLK BRO WY WOULD U ASK ME THIS 😡😡
umuumumum og trio. becuase. tlt forever<3 I SITLL LVOE U PIPER JASON LEO
annabehtj but piper is still my wife its ok
HOW DARE YOU 👊👊👊👊👊🔪🔪🔪🔪 lets see hmmmmmmmmmmmmm leo is Literally Me but percy is also Literally Me..........................i am ocnea garal.....but i am also builindg silly goofy things garal.....................sceience garal...?..................aftermuch thought. i will choose................................................percy. BECAUSE U KLILELD HIM SO MANY TIMES HE DESRESVES TO BE CHOSEN AT LEAST ONCE wait i was gonna say someting else too umm ok fuck i forgot lol oops I WILL BRING LEO BACK WITH THE POWER OF ACATS Its ok
chai i am ANTI COFFEE sometimes. i dontliek
english 1021i3021391% hidni is alwys cHANGING its fcjkcgnin i DONT KNOW so many weird words. english ez. or maybe im biasde why is it so much easier to speak the first language u ever learend
hmmmm ok ok lets see i dont really have beef w anyone except my games teacher but hm. i could kill someone whos actively killig the earth or someting but idk whos doing the most damage hmmm ok ykw im killin g the games teacher SHE MADE MY BEST FRINED CRY and she has been. anti meowing at her for like ayear. so. bye woman
so real of u
ASKDJKASLJD ok o kolets see i dont acutally know the breeds of animasl very weell um exposed but ok anyways im going to take a uquiz hang on ok ok so at first i got norwegian forest cat but it was NOT me tbh butthen !! i got abyssinian and omg. yes. it's me. the desc is so real tbhbtbh ALSO hwen i searched it up the google image cat was orange lol so def fits
ts alwys but laufey so cool
THE IDIOTS we r ebtter no offesne maraudersgaiz
wolfstar bc i lovekjily<3
si flowerpot jily ???/????/? if yes then flowerpot heueh
flowerpot
dorleene bc jily yes and also their fanart is so. yes
okokok GODOBYE mewo mewo
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