#he slithers around via magic reasons

[autisticvampireclub]

Messy sketch I had to get out of snake/naga!Wally giving his sweetheart a big ol squeeze <3

#welcome home #welcome home arg #welcome home fanart #wally darling #snake!wally #art #my art #wally darling x y/n #wally darling x reader #wally darling x you #wally x reader #welcome home x reader #snake!wally doesn’t actually have any like. hard bones in his tail #he slithers around via magic reasons #getting squeezed would be like getting smooshed by squishmallows #which….. I guess that could hurt if you do it too hard? right?? #but he’d be gentle

[maxwell-grant]

Do you like the shadow's supernatural powers from the radio show and like when they are used in adaptations or would you prefer that they are not used?

Yes, and Yes.

I do feel like I should stress, whenever discussing The Shadow's increasing superhero bent and how they've affected his stories for the past 80 or so years, that The Shadow having the ability to "cloud men's minds" was based on a precedent Gibson had already established of The Shadow having a penchant for hypnotic tricks and blending in the darkness and move stealthily, essentially just condensing a bunch of separate, already-bordering-on-supernatural skillsets of his, into something feasible for short-form radio.

Just as they needed to trim and condense the supporting cast into a single character (Margo), it was a necessary development and Gibson's repeteadly stressed over the years that, whatever else he thought about the radio show, that they made the right call with this in particular, and he did carry this over to the comics and even a couple of the pulps themselves (we're obviously not bound by whatever it is that Gibson thought of or wanted for the character, but I do feel like it's worth prefacing this post by stating upfront that the character's own creator, who went through great lengths to uphold believability for the stories, was fine with The Shadow having at least one superpower. The Shadow was never that realistic to begin with)

In the stories, I had The Shadow frequently filter from sight, or blend with darkness and everything of that sort. I put quite a lot of hypnotic stuff in too because he'd been in Tibet, and hypnotism and magical illusions were my specialties. But I didn't overplay them. Well, they liked the idea of The Shadow begin invisible.

As a matter of fact, that very first script that Bierstadt did we were having a problem - The Shadow was to talk to a man in the death row at Sing Sing. We decided we would have the guards hypnotized and he moved in a dim light, and the man heard a voice talking. Bierstadt did a very good job of delineating that.

Well, these people just decided to take the short way, which was very good radio, to simply say that he clouded people's minds. They'd say, "Shadow, where are you?" "I'm here but you can't see me."

Well, that was wonderful because the people listening over the radio couldn't see him either. And don't forget we had a juvenile audience. It was very good formula. So really the radio was very similar to the stories where I had him use real hypnotism on people, except that mine was modified, whereas they made it a standardized thing - Gibson's panel w/Jack Kirby and Jim Steranko, at the 1975 Comic Art Convention

For the radio show, The Shadow being able to turn invisible by hypnotizing others to not see him was not only an excellent work-around for his pulp skillset, but frankly a brilliant way to bridge the gap for a audio medium where we don't get afforded lengthy moody descriptions of him slithering cooly through the darkness. It's made believable not because we're given in-story reasoning as to how The Shadow can do this, but because we can't see him either, and when he's taunting a hapless or frustrated criminal who wants to see him but can't, we're immediately thrust into the viewpoint of said criminal by default.

Which is the big reason the show succeeds (not always, but usually enough to matter) in pulling off one of the great tricks of his pulp craft, the same trick Sherlock Holmes used: We never get to see The Shadow's point of view, and we never get to see what the inside of his head looks like: it can only be expressed to us via the narrator inferring and interpreting to us, and through what he says to others. There should always be some level of distance between The Shadow and "us", and that's why both Margo as well as criminals panicking, because they are just as unable to see him as we are, work to bridge that gap.

When Gibson introduced the radio invisibility into the pulps, he introduced heavy caveats to it such as him requiring to stay completely immobile for it to work and it being not as practical as him just going around with his costume (that was effectively written as if it were urban camouflage), not so much with the comics where he was writing more juvenile stories that played more with fantasy and supervillains, but the point here is that the invisibility works in the radio show for several reasons. :

It was necessary to begin with: By the demands of radio, if he’s going to need to shed so much of his pulp skillset and resources, this work-around is what allowed the radio Lamont Cranston to still be The Shadow, still do Shadow things and have Shadow stories, even when on a budget and severe time constraints. The invisibility was necessary

It was not just a shortcut for something that he could achieve without superpowers. It was a shortcut, yes, but again, a necessary one, and because The Shadow’s entire character shifted to accomodate for the show, the stories in turn were structured around the invisibility. 

It didn’t come without it’s drawbacks or stakes. The Shadow was, if anything, greatly weakened by his return into radio, as his multiple skillsets and resources were traded for a single superpower, that would overwhelm most criminals right until it couldn’t and another solution would be found. He went from a resourceful chessmaster to an invisible detective with further exploitable weaknesses.

It worked WITH the medium to sell The Shadow as a convincing character: Despite the greatly reduced mystique, listeners bought The Shadow as a powerful master of his surroundings due to the combination of his invisibility + commanding voice, and this made him the perfect hero for radio: One that cannot be seen, only heard. 

The last one I think is the most important, because that’s one thing about The Shadow I have to stress, as I have before: He doesn’t need to be realistic. He needs to be convincing. He needs to be convincing as the master of the medium he’s in. 

Readers accepted anything the pulp Shadow did, because the prose, Gibson’s magic expertise, the characterization and so forth could walk us through, with nothing necessary outside of words, all the steps that The Shadow had to take in order to achieve his superhuman efforts, including the steps where he faltered and slipped and showed us that he was very much a man, just clever and powerful and resourceful enough to pass off as a convincing force of nature. The radio show got it’s readers to accept the invisible avenger because the format made it so we had to take all the characters at their word for what was happening, and we were just as helpless to see him as everyone else was, so even the basic explanation for how he was able to become invisible was enough.

Outside of those mediums, where The Shadow needs to be seen more so than read about or heard, it’s a different story, and that’s how we get the tiresome onslaught of Jedi battles with Shiwan Khan as the character has to play catch-up with how pop culture superheroes are expected to be like.

I’ve done a lot of asking around Shadow fan circles on the subject of whether The Shadow should or shouldn’t exhibit powers at all, and by and large the consensus between most fans seems to be that he shouldn’t have them or, at least, in a much more diminished fashion. And out of all the arguments I’ve combed through on the matter I’m gonna list the ones I do agree with or find the most convincing:

It imbalances the power equation necessary for these stories to function too much if he is supernaturally powered, and his criminal opponents are not, which runs the risk of the stories having no stakes because we know The Shadow can bully around all enemies with superpowers, or you have to keep introducing too many mystically-empowered supervillains to match The Shadow, both of which have run their course to exhaustion in comics.

Him having superpowers or using superpowers make almost EVERYTHING he does significantly less impressive by default. He’s no longer an all-knowing psychological mastermind, he’s a telepath. He doesn’t need to go through the effort of getting to know people, allies and enemies alike, with his impressive interpersonal intelligence and reading skills and agent network, if he’s a psychic who gets everything he needs to know with just a thought. His foresight and moral judgement in case-by-case handling of criminals and those who truly are beyond redemption are no longer that impactful, if he’s got precognitive abilities that let him cheat and know exactly who is it okay to kill. He has no need for sleight-of-hand and in-depth espionage skills comprising an entire backstory, if he can mind magic his way through everything after taking a trip to Tibet. 

Aren't additional superpowers kind of overkill? He's already one man with a massive network of agents and allies from all walks of life, with access to millionaire resources to fund them and his crimefighting efforts. He's got gadgets and technology ahead of his time, multiple vehicles on ground and air and sea, multiple lairs (secret and public) full of further resources. He's extensively trained on dozens of disciplines and skillsets, he's a top-notch magician, escape artist, martial artist, linguist, marksman, detective, lock-picker/safe-cracker, pilot, animal trainer, beaver communicator, athlete, chemist, businessman and etc, and his skills with ventriloquism, mesmerism, mastery of disguise, espionage, tracking and trailing, hypnosis, and even contortion / manipulation of his face/body, as well as his knowledge and interpersonal intelligence for dealing with allies and psychological manipulation of enemies, already teeter constantly between borderline-superpower and actual-superpower. He looks way worse off having all of this at his disposal, and not being able to handle criminals (or worse threats) without mind-magic. I swear I’m actually leaving stuff out of this, wait till I finally get that The Shadow Respect Thread put together to see the sheer level of bullshit this guy can do.

He shouldn’t be given superpowers out the wazoo just because Batman cornered the market on non-superpowered crimefighting, The Shadow isn’t interchangeable with Batman to the extent that he needs superpowers to not overlap. 

But, I’m not against The Shadow having superpowers or getting new interesting superpowers if that’s something creators feel like doing. The problem here isn’t The Shadow having superpowers: it’s those superpowers coming into play at the expense of all the other things he can and already should be doing, and at the expense of his own characterization as a clever, strategic, cunning crimefighter who’s got so many odd skills (most of which limited and grounded to an extent that makes it they can’t be narrative shortcuts, or render his entire supporting cast worthless) that he might as well be superhuman, even when he is clearly not, when he gets tired, debilitated, beaten, stuck in problems he has to get out of by sheer luck or by the agents. 

I feel like that’s the other final bit I’d have to say on it: If he is to have superpowers, they should be slotted into his existing skillset instead of superceding, and made to work just as they would any of his other weird skills. The gold standard for this in my view is Matt Wagner’s Shadow, who combines the pulp skillset as the first and foremost along with the radio hypnosis and some other weird abilities that don’t supercede the first two. The Shadow’s powers should have limits, even when they don’t have explanations. 

As weird as he is, he is still a human. He is a man of cunning BEFORE he’s a man of action, that’s what the other heroes are usually doing, that’s what his villains don’t count on. He needs to be someone who thinks, and thinks always, and thinks his way out of a problem before he brings out the guns and theatrics and, yes, even the magic. He needs to be someone who can be taken out by a lucky thug, safety hazards or just plain bad luck. 

Victory doesn’t mean anything to someone who can’t lose and has nothing to lose. 

#replies tag #the shadow #shadow magazine #shadow comics #shadow radio #walter gibson #matt wagner #the shadow year one #wilfredo torres #pulp heroes

[bloodycassian]

Tender - Azriel x reader - Pregnancy fic. Fem! reader. LONG!!! 

Prompt -  Hi! I just read most of your imagines, and i loved them!  You have me as your faithful follower, I don't comment much because English is not my first language. Could you write one where az manages to perceive that reader is pregnant right in the middle of the war?

You woke to yelling. Not screaming. Not fear or pain, but battle cries that you'd grown to love. They made your blood sing in harmony with the Illyrian voices. It made your heart hammer in your chest, and your muscles tense - ready to fight. Azriel groaned beside you, curling around your waist like a vise. You managed to break free from his muscled arms. Pale light shining through the tent tinted his shadows a light gray. They wrapped around you, drawing a chill down your spine. The war cries grew louder. "Get up. It's time." You shook him, pulling on your light armor. He covered his face with his hands, and did not leave the cot. He groaned again when you pulled the blanket off his mostly naked body. He was never a morning person.  Cassian rushed in when you were putting the last of your gear on, and Az froze. His grip on his pants went white knuckled. Cassian's face was pale, and before he could say anything Azriel was hurriedly pulling on the rest of his clothes. Your stomach dropped at the sight of the Warlord. "It's a diversion." You said, voice hollow. Cassian's slight nod was enough to make the breath leave you. "It's going to be fine." Azriel grunted, pulling his tunic over his head. "We just need to move the troops. Get Rhys here." He waved a hand at his brother dismissively.  Cassian grabbed Az's wrist.  He forced the male to look at him, to see his worried eyes. You tensed, ready to defend your mate even against Cassian's might. "Rhys is on the battlefield already. We're on our own." His voice was low, and the warning in his eyes was enough to make the hair on your arms raise. Azriel pulled away from him, slowly.  He began strapping his weapons belts on, pushed his hair back and sighed. "Where do you need us?"   The air was cold, and the howls of battle echoed across the hills. Azriel's shadows curled around your legs, comforting. Then they slithered their way across the valley where the battle was beginning.  + You could barely raise your sword by the end of it. The mud had been the most challenging part of the entire fight. The enemy horses had done a good job of making obstacles when they fell in the mud, lame with broken ankles and necks. You wished to put them out of their misery, but there was no time. The forces seemed to come in waves. Like a test against your small unit.  Few were lost from your side. The dewey grass steamed in the morning light, carrying up the reek of enemy blood with it. You wiped your face, trying to get the taste of dirt and blood out of your mouth. Sharp stinging pain seared your ribs under your arm. You hissed. Then, you felt the warmth of your own blood. You swore, and looked for a medic that wasn't tending to wounded on the ground.  Some Illyrian bodies were being lifted away, high into the air for burial at their homes. You dared not take a healer away from more critically injured soldiers. You nodded grimly to the ones that you passed. They were covered in blood, and yet still gave you fierce grins when you went by. They respected you. More than any other Illyrian Female before you. It was sad, but you hoped to forge a new path for other females of Illyria. You held an arm under your side and limped your way out of the mud. The packed mess inside your boots made moving your feet hard. You couldn't wait to shower.  You spotted Cassian far down the field, and watched as he raised his sword high over his head. Your stomach twisted in pity for the suffering animal under him. You looked away before you could see the lifeblood drain from the horse's neck. He sent a blessing to the Mother for the animal, and continued on to the next suffering soul that would meet its end via his blade.  + You hadn't seen her in a long while. Too long for a friend, but she gave you that same look she always did when she saw you hobbling up to her for help. Jeva was your favorite healer, and one you knew could keep a secret. She was round, and her voice was light and comforting. She smelled of nutmeg and berries. Something you had appreciated about her since you had met. "What is it this time?" She waved you inside, holding the tent flap open for you while you dumped your battle stained gear on the wood hutch beside the entrance.  The tent was light and airy, filled with small plants of different varieties and cluttered with boxes and books everywhere. Her desk and bed were shoved to the corner, and a long wood table took up the majority of her area. As if she had known you were coming, she already had potions of different types laid out on the end of the table. "Probably nothing." You said, pulling off your armor as gingerly as you could manage. The soft light flickered and changed to a harsh beam when she laid you down on her exam table. "I'm not supposed to be healing anymore you know. I'm retired." She clicked her tongue at you, earning a pained grin. It was hard for you to bother a healer for any amount of time for something that you were sure was so small. But something about it stung too much for it to be just a scrape. And you knew Cassian would lecture you about it being infected if he saw through your mask to the pain. Az would force you to see one anyway as soon as he learned of it.  "You know I wouldnt be here unless I had to be, Jeva." You said through your teeth as she cut away your muddied undershirt.  "Oh, I know. That's why I have my best potions ready." She laughed, then paused. Your shirt lay limp on the table. Her eyebrows knitted together at the sight of your open wound. "Is it bad?" You asked, craning to try to look for yourself. She held you down.  "Metal. Fragments are still in here, likely why it hasn't healed yet." You relaxed at that, grateful that it wasn't worse. "Thank the Mother. Az would have yelled all night." You rolled your eyes, and sighed as she started working on you. The first part was always the worst. The stinging hot potion that made the nerves around the wound numb.  "One-" She began her countdown, then poured. You growled at her, gripping the end of the stained table hard enough to crack. "Easy..." She warned, and smoothed down your hair. She knew how to take care of her patients, that was certain. You relaxed as the stinging eased. The dull ache that it left behind turned into a bad memory.  "I'm going to extract the blade then we can close you up. Simple and easy." She picked up her tools and began tugging away at your side. You could have fallen asleep with the relief the numbing potion brought. And with her humming in the air around you, it was a struggle not to. The time seemed to pass quickly, but when the clank of the metal tools jolted you from your dozing, the tent was lit in orange from the sunset outside. "Relax, we're going to close it up now. Once the potion wears off you will still be sensitive." She placed her hands over you, and the familiar warm vibrations of her healing magic set in. Then it stopped abruptly. You cracked open an eye, then narrowed your brows at her. "What is it?" You said gently, then again when she didnt reply. She stared at you, mouth agape. Her eyes locked to yours, even when you sat up to demand she tell you what the problem was. "Am I dying?!" you took her hand gently, in case she was going to push you away.  Then she started laughing, her hand gripping yours back. The warmth glowed in your palm, the light radiating out from it was starkly contrasting the tent walls bedecked in orange. The light she emitted shot through you, and you felt the wound tingle, and seal. You stared at her in shock. That amount of healing power was incredible. Especially for field medics.  "Youre not dying, no..." She waved a hand, fanning herself. Her eyes were glassy with tears. She sniffed and clutched your hand tighter. "Quite the opposite, darling." She pulled you in for a warm hug.  + You spent the rest of the evening with Jeva. Until she got a hurried message about student healers needing help on the battlefield. You stayed in her tent as long as you could manage with the ringing in your ears. You stared and stared at the mirror across from you, showing you the bloodied warrior that you wanted to be. That you wanted to stay.  The warrior that carried the Shadowsinger's child.  The thought made tears sting your eyes. You refused to let them fall. You had been ignoring his tugs down the bond for well over an hour. You knew he was concerned, but you couldn't bring yourself to shout back down. The only thing that echoed in your mind were Jeva's words "You're pregnant..."  Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant.  You nearly punched her when she told you she wasn't joking. The only reason you even believed her was because of that powerful zap of healing she sent to you. That she sent to scan your body and make sure the fetus was okay before you even knew about it. You could barely hear half the words she said as she told you your options.  You roiled with the thought now. The Mugwart she left on the table was daunting. You desperately wanted her back. Jeva would be able to deliberate with you. You knew she would tell you to do whatever makes you happy. You knew that. But you wondered how ethical the choice that made you happy was. Bringing a child into a world of war seemed cruel. Even if it made you happy. You distantly noticed Azriel as you passed him, walking to the forest edge just passed your tent. Worry laced the bond between you. You tried not to show anything back. But you knew he felt the tension, the void there. "Where the hell have you been?!" Azriel's eyes were furious when you passed him, his wings flared out slightly. You couldnt even look at him with anger back. Your emotions ran wild. You were frozen, and as numb as the potion Jeva had given you when she began removing the blade.  "Do you know how worried I have been?! I sent Cassian to-" He tried to grab for your hand to stop you, but you flicked him away. He stopped for a moment, stunned. Then returned with more energy than before. That yawning abyss in your bond was growing darker with shame, worry and anxiety. His shadows roiled around him as he caught up. "You dont get to-" "Azriel..." You stopped in the edge of the clearing. The small meadow was silent in the darkness, not even the monsters of Prythian dared roar tonight. Your mind did all the roaring you could handle, anyway. You tried to focus on the swaying grass, on the soft smell of wet bark and pine hanging in the air.  "Dont try to excuse this I need to know you're okay and-" He stormed in front of you, ready to burst with rage. His fear always made him angry. And for good reason after losing so many close to him.  A tear ran down your cheek, your face burned hot with hundreds of feelings at once. Fear, pain, shock, joy, hope.... elation. You wanted his children. You wanted to help raise his child. You wanted to see Azriel be a father. You knew he would be the best damn Illyrian father there had ever been.  The thought hit you like a well placed punch.  He saw your paleness, your tears and stopped his yelling. You fell to your knees, the mud splattering all around you. You wanted to lay down. Lay down and think about the implications of carrying his child. Would it be good for the baby to be born at all? Just because you wanted it didnt mean it needed to happen. You knew that Jeva would give you a potion to extract it without hesitation if it was what you wished. "I'm-" You choked out, fighting the panic that flooded you. Your mind roiled with the conflict of your mind and heart. It turned you into a muddied, dark ocean on the bond. A turmoil that he couldn't see past. If you were an ocean, he was your lighthouse on the cliffside. Signaling you home.   His eyes darted to your body, to your hands and how they wrung together in front of you. "I'm sorry. I just-" He sighed and took one of your hands. "I'm sorry." He kissed the back of it and brought his forehead to yours. He normally needed a lot longer to cool down after a fight, but seeing you in tears shocked him out of his pride. "I shouldn't have said that... I know you can take care of yourself." his voice was low, and he ran a hand comfortingly down your back. A hysteric laugh bubbled from your throat. It sounded like a sob. You didn't know exactly which it was. He sat back and pulled you into his lap, despite the grass being dewey and damp. He rocked you there for a few seconds before you had to tell him. Before he could be too close if he didnt want you anymore. The doubt crept into your head, and the nerves ate at you. Your heart raced, you could feel it in your neck. "Azriel..stop." You pushed away from him, to catch his beautiful dark eyes. They were painted in a silver hue by the moon above. You took in his face, the curve of his cheeks and lips for possibly the last time. You had to consider the worst possible outcome. You braced yourself for the rejection, for the pain of his reaction. You knew it had to come out. You knew you had to say it now or you never would. Your stomach flipped over and over.  You opened your mouth, a soft sob wracking out of you before you began. He froze. Went utterly still, his shadows even stopping for a second before whirling faster than before. Your eyes went wide. His nose flared, eyes narrowed. He held you closer, sniffing at your neck. He pulled back and his eyes were even wider than before. His mouth fell open when you nodded. "I'm-" "Youre-" his face went through a whirlwind of different emotion. Then, he broke out into a small laugh. He couldn't stop. You felt the tears running down your cheeks and didnt bother to wipe them away. "Honey... I'm sorry." He stopped laughing suddenly. "What do you want to do?" His eyes were masked, his expression the most serious you'd ever seen him. His aura on your bond seemed to go completely gray and still, as if he didn't want you to see him. He masked everything. In preparation for whatever you decide. The gesture made your heart squeeze in appreciation. You stammered, resting your forehead on his. "I dont know." You muttered, voice cracking. Then, he was wrapping his arms around you in a smothering hug. When he pulled away, he cradled your face in his hands. The hands that had seen so much cruelty in his life. The possibilities of the same thing happening to your child made your heart race. "I'm here for whatever decision you make." He brushed your cheek with a thumb. You nodded and let him hold you like that for a while. Quietly rocking back and forth with you in his lap. + You were near falling asleep when the war cries rang out again. Illyrians howling for their leaders to join them. Another onslaught of death coming their way. The calls were distant, but Azriel tensed the second he heard them. Your blood went cold. He buried his face to your chest, as if he wished he could hide there. "I'm not going." He said when you tried pushing him away. "I wont leave you." He promised, locking his muscled forearms around you. The echoes of battle cries faded. He stroked your hair, and traced his fingers along your back. Then he swore. "Let me take care of this." He said, voice edged with anger. Nerves pricked at your stomach, but you stood, wobbling on your feet slightly. He took off into the night sky painted in silvers and blues by the full moon. Then came racing back down right behind Rhys. the high lord took one breath and then he was hugging his brother. Azriel shoved him off, and they shot into the night sky. Well, Azriel did. He dragged Rhys with him. Grunts of pain and fleshy sounds of punching rang out.  You followed them high into the air where they had their conversation. Your wings led you around them with ease. "Stop fighting and use your words, boys." You warned. You recognized Azriels growl and smiled to yourself as they broke apart. Rhys adjusted his tunic and cleared his throat. "I need you there. Cassian is handling the Western front, the others need a leader."  Azriel began protesting against the high lord. "I cant with my mate-" "I know it feels impossible right now but-" "I will not, Rhys-" You set your jaw. If they wanted to fight over if you needed protection or not, you would take the option off the table all together. "I'll go." you said, voice strong since hearing Jeva announce what grew inside you. Pregnant, pregnant, pregnant. You shoved the thoughts away as far as you could. They both turned to you, horror striking Azriels features. "Absolutely not. No." Heat and rage flared down the bond. It made you want to defy everything he said. You locked eyes with him and glared. Rhys glanced between you with tense shoulders. He cleared his throat. "It would be a good compromise, Azriel. You can go together to the Eastern front. Think about it." He placed a hand on his brother's shoulder and gave him a grim smile.  "I wont say a word." He said, summoning the darkness around him then winnowing away. Azriel's cold eyes made him look like a statue. "Let's go." He said, and started circling lower. Back to the meadow.  "I'm going, you cant stop me from following you." You said, expecting a fight. He said nothing. You were met with that silence that drove others crazy tryin to find out what he wanted from them. The bond seemed to snap taut, then go into a relaxed state. He was hiding. You knew it, but would rather have silence and peace than him trying to fight you again.  He walked you back to the tent, and exhaustion took you under before you could remember him laying down with you. You hoped it it was exhaustion, and not whatever the baby was doing to you. Despite your best efforts, you couldn't resist the urge to cradle your belly while you slept. There was no bump, but it felt like the most natural thing to do now that you were aware of the being inside you. You slept hard, and awoke to the breakfast bell chiming. The sounds of slow footsteps marching through the mud kept you awake. Azriel was gone, but the candle on the table was lit. A note lay there waiting for you. His messy scrawl made you smile, the familiarity of his writing reminded you of the notes he would leave you when he had to leave early for meetings with Rhys. "Back by nightfall, lover. A guard is at the tent, ask her to bring you anything you need. -A" You peeked outside the tent to see Jeva there, her long fur coat shimmering in the morning light. Her breath clouded in front of her when she gave you a soft smile. "Good morning." She pulled a muffin from her coat. "Your favorite." She winked, and you pulled her inside. She had a fire roaring by the time you finished your food. "How are you not freezing?" She complained, blowing into her hands to keep them warm. You brushed the crumbs from your shirt and really took into account the changes you'd noticed lately. How hungry you'd been, how tired after the easiest days.  "Do you know... How um..." You gestured to your stomach. She gave a small smile and nodded. "Only a month or so." She said quietly. You stared at your stomach, as if waiting for something to answer you. To give some sort of affirmation that Jeva was right. She continued warming herself by the fire, and soon the tent was filled with her warm chestnut smell. Cassian entered the tent when you were starting to doze off again. The wool blanket on your lap reminded you of a time when you first met Az. Your heart squeezed at the memory of those long nights shared together by a fire. Taking your turns on watch duty. You shook yourself from the memory. Cassian froze. His face scrunched up at the sight of you. The scent, you realised. You swore to yourself, and Jeva only nodded when he looked to her. "Youre pregnant?" He asked breathlessly, and you could smell the fear and excitement coming from him. In fact, you could smell the smoked meat on his breath. And the cold air that clung to him from outside. It was refreshing, like a cool drink on a hot day amid the dry heat inside the tent. "I'm sorry, I shouldnt have.." He ran a hand through his hair, trying to remain focused.  "Its okay, Cass. What's going on? Az left me this note." You handed it to him. His lips moved as he read it. He went white as bone. Your stomach dropped.  + Azriel had gone in the night to take out the entire eastern flank with a small group of Illyrians. You felt your world skittering away as Cassian told you. Your vision went blurry, and tears fell, dripping on your hands that clenched the wool blanket.  "He's on his way here now. He had to answer to Rhys first."  Cassian waited for you to say anything. But your lips just couldnt form the words. The hurt, anger... the betrayal you felt for him going to battle without you. And defying a direct order from his high lord like a fool. "I suggest you leave before Azriel comes back. It may get messy." Jeva spoke for you, and you were grateful. You gave Cassian a nod of thanks before he turned and left. The cold wind that blew in from the door gave you goosebumps.  "Take it easy, you dont want to be too stressed." Jeva handed you a mug of tea and gave you a small squeeze. You could smell Azriel before he entered. Jeva shot him a glare, but said nothing. "I'll be in my tent if you need me." She promised, gave you a look that said 'find me after' and left. Azriel took off his armor plates one by one. A bit too slowly to be considered normal. Stalling. You said nothing. You let the tension roil out of you, let it hit him down the bond. Like a wave getting ready to break. He rolled his shoulders, stretched his wings.  The mask he wore cracked when he saw your fists balled in the blanket. "I couldnt risk you... or the babe." He tried to hide the fear that shone through. The fear of his mate or child being hurt in battle. He wouldnt be able to stand it. The fight was needed, anyway. He needed to get out his instincts to protect protect protect.  You said nothing. You let that looming wave grow larger. He sighed, and sat at the end of the cot beside you. "I'm sorry. I needed....I needed to get my head straight. I should have told you. I'm sorry." That wave crashed, not on him though. Internally, guilt and fear melting in on yourself. "I cant lose you, we... We cant." You said through your teeth, trying to hold back the tears that begged to spill over. He tried his best to hold back his surprise. "We?" He asked, a small smile playing on his full lips.  You gave him a grim smile. "If you're...ready to be a father. I like imagining you, with my child."  "Our child." He said with a bubbling laugh. You laughed with him, and it turned to hysterics.  He wiped tears from the corner of your eyes. "We're going to have a baby?" He cradled your face, looking into your eyes. You took one of his hands, and placed it on your flat belly. "Yes. We are." You said, voice quivering.  He wrapped you into a hug, and you cried together in the cot. 

#acotar #acotar fic #reader x azriel #azriel x reader #azriel

[goodomensblog]

A Touch Like Sunlight

Crowley finds out about THE CONVERSATION Gabriel had with Aziraphale. You know exactly which one.

A Touch Like Sunlight

“Perhaps Gabriel had a point,” Aziraphale mutters, “about the gut, at least.”

Aziraphale’s standing in front of a mirror when he says it, fingers meticulously twisting gleaming buttons into fabric.

Crowley thinks he must have misheard. 

“Sorry - he what?”

Glancing up, Aziraphale catches sight of Crowley in the mirror.

“Crowley! You’re early,” the angel says, looking pleased, and does up the remaining buttons with an eager flourish. “I’m excited to try this new restaurant. It’s in a conservatory, yes? What a novel idea!”

“M’yeah - Clos Maggiore - got a nice big garden,” Crowley answers, distracted. “But what was that you were saying? About...Gabriel.” Crowley grimaces, his lips curling around the name.

“Oh it was nothing, dear.” When Aziraphale waves, it is dismissive. “It’s just - archangels. You know how they can be.”

Turning away from the mirror, Aziraphale’s hands flit about his front, and Crowley watches him give the bottom of his vest a little tug.

“A tad bit preoccupied with perfection, is all,” Aziraphale mutters, and reaches for his coat.

“Perfection?” Crowley stares after Aziraphale, feeling as though he’s somehow missed the critical point which connects the two points of conversation “And what’s that got to do with you and guts?”

Aziraphale stops, closing his eyes. 

“My gut, Crowley. It’s-” he says, touching a hand to his stomach. “Well it’s not. You know, perfect.” 

The angel’s lips twist up in a thin, sad mimicry of a smile.

“What?” Crowley’s glasses have slipped a bit down his nose, and he stares at the angel, flabbergasted.

“Oh for - Gabriel told me to lose weight, alright?”

Crowley blinks. 

The demon Crowley, if you’ll believe it, once owned a laptop. A very nice one, at that. (How else was he supposed to start hour long debates via the youtube comment section?) He’d spilled a latte on said laptop, and before he could miracle the hot liquid away, the poor computer had buzzed once before the screen flickered, flashed blue, and then went permanently dark.

As he stands in the angel’s bookshop, trying vainly to process the words which have just spilled out of the angel’s mouth, Crowley feels suddenly quite a lot like a water - er, latte-logged laptop. 

“It was before the apocalypse - or, I suppose, the not-apocalypse. So it’s in the past, of course. And I don’t really think about it - well, not really. But I do wonder if my, er, shape is - oh, it doesn’t matter-” Aziraphale frets, distractedly adjusting his coat.

By now, Crowley has finally managed to process the content of the angel’s declaration - and the knowledge of what Gabriel had said, of the words the archangel had undoubtedly cruelly wielded against his angel - 

It makes the demon burn.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says.

He doesn’t mean for it to come out like it does - quiet and dangerous; the whispered promise a dagger makes when pulled loose of its sheath.

The angel goes still. Blue eyes - glowing with the untapped holy aura which waits, untouched within his deceptively human shell - are unnaturally bright in the dim shop.

“...Crowley?” 

Distracted with the rage coiling like a serpent in his gut, Crowley does not have the presence of mind to dissect the angel’s reaction. If he did, he might have grasped the reason for the angel’s hesitation.

The reason is this: 

In six thousand years, Crowley had rarely used his voice to imply anything really and truly dangerous. And Crowley had certainly never said Aziraphale’s name in such a tone. Sure - perhaps occasionally in exasperation. But not like this. Never like this.

Much later, when Crowley is calm, he will reflect on the exchange - and with profound relief, realize that of the complicated set of emotions which crossed the angel’s face, not a single one of them was fear.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley hisses, “You’re telling me that Gabriel, that-,” and he rocks back on his feet, his hand clenching at his side. “-that bastard, said that? To you.”

It’s Aziraphale’s turn to blink. “If you recall, he also planned to have me killed,” the angel says spreading his hands. “Crowley, I don’t understand why you’re fixating on-”

“No you see, that - that,” Crowley interrupts, lifting a shaking finger, “that’s precisely the fucking point.” 

And then he’s moving, leather shoes pacing smartly over the shop’s scuffed floor.

Because it is the point, Crowley thinks, dragging a hand through his hair. 

Gabriel tried to kill Aziraphale.

Gabriel tried to kill Aziraphale.

Aziraphale - who delights in simple magic tricks, in Sunday brunches, in feeding the ducks, and dancing the Gavotte; who looks forward to chatting with their new human friends when they call up every few weeks, just to catch up.

Aziraphale, who Gabriel looked at and saw frivolity, uselessness, emotion and weakness, all wrapped in an imperfect body.

Gabriel had dared look upon Aziraphale and had the gall, the audacity to miss everything that mattered.

Gabriel had never understood Aziraphale. So he’d hurt, demeaned, and belittled him. And when Aziraphale remained, still outside of his grasp - too far outside of his influence, Gabriel had resorted to destruction.

And does a being like that, ever truly stop seeking control? Crowley can’t help the thought, which slithers in, slipping around the edges of his rage.

His and Aziraphale’s body-swapping stunt bought them time, Crowley knows.

But eternity rewards the patient.

And Heaven had played the long game before. 

Will Gabriel ever truly leave Aziraphale alone?

It’s a sobering thought. One that has Crowley’s molten rage cooling into something hard, sharp, and pointed.

Crowley’s steps slow - then stop. 

“Crowley-” Aziraphale tries, but Crowley isn’t listening.

One of the bookshop’s upper windows is slightly ajar, and a stream of pale sunlight pours into the shop, lighting a narrow path to the floor. 

Awash in light, Crowley looks up, thinking.

He’s never killed before. Not like that anyway.

But for Aziraphale’s sake - for his safety...

“Will I have to kill Gabriel?” Crowley muses, blinking up at the light.

The moment the words leave his mouth, the room surges with a white, humming energy - and then Aziraphale is on him, shoving Crowley back.

Crowley doesn’t lift a hand - even as he’s thrust against the nearest shelf. 

Hard spines dig into his back as he stares into Aziraphale’s clear blue eyes. Within them, holy light churns, waiting to be called forth.

Aziraphale’s wings have manifested, and they flare out as the angel presses a staying hand against the demon. Fingers splayed across Crowley’s chest, Aziraphale half turns, angling his body to face the open shop. His free hand is raised, palm open and ready. And as the heavy silence sinks over them, Aziraphale stills, tensing.

Crowley doesn’t need to breathe, but sometimes he forgets - and so after a minute has passed, the demon draws in a slow, careful breath.

“Angel,” Crowley says, brushing a hand over the fingers so effortlessly pressing him into the shelf. 

And then those over-bright eyes are on Crowley, and he is not afraid. Not when Aziraphale blinks and the air hums. Not when Aziraphale’s wings shudder and stretch, and Aziraphale presses into him. 

The wings lift and fold, and Crowley is ensconced in a shelter of white.

Aziraphale’s breath is soft and shuddering, and the fingers digging into Crowley’s chest tremble as the angel leans into him. “We’re lucky. He wasn’t listening - or if he was, he didn’t hear. Crowley, what were you thinking? Including an archangels name in a statement like that?”

It was a dangerous mistake - Crowley knows. One he won’t make again.

“Honestly Crowley, all this over one stupid comment?” 

Crowley shakes his head, suddenly adamant that Aziraphale understand. 

“No. No. Gab- he doesn’t value you, angel. Doesn’t value your person. Your life,” he says, swallowing. “And hearing what he’s said to you, angel. Well okay, yeah, it did piss me off - but it made me realize. It’s personal for him,” Crowley says, squeezing Aziraphale’s hand. “He wasn’t concerned with maintaining order - he wanted to kill you, angel. You.”

“Yes, Crowley. I know.”

The admission is soft and certain, and it is painful - agonizing to hear his angel admit in that gentle voice that he knows the angels he’s worked with for centuries were eager to be rid of him.

Groaning, Crowley reaches for Aziraphale. His hands brush the angel’s face, caressing his cheeks, over his ears, and then Crowley’s fingers are weaving through, tangling in his hair. 

Dragging the angel closer still, he leans into him, pressing their foreheads together. 

“They’ve never deserved you, angel.”

Aziraphale shudders and there’s a hitch in his voice. “Crowley.”

Crowley shakes his head, nose brushing Aziraphale’s. “No. Fuck them. You’re perfect. From your toes to your stomach-” and here he reaches down, brushing a reverent touch over the angel’s soft belly. 

He feels Aziraphale shiver beneath him as his touch traces up, over his chest, then along the curve of the angel’s neck. 

“-to your face, your head-” and Crowley cradles Aziraphale’s face, caressing his cheeks with his thumbs, “and everything within. Your wants, your selflessness, your selfishness, and even your love of stupid fake magic. It’s perfect. Every damn bit of it,” he hisses, defiant. 

The wings around them are trembling, and Aziraphale, pressing his lips against Crowley’s cheek, whispers. “Crowley, you’re-”

“Don’t say I’m lying, angel. And yeah sure, demons lie and whatever. But I’ve never lied to you.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley closes his eyes at the touch of another soft kiss against his skin. “I know that.” Another kiss. 

And then, he starts again, “Crowley, you’re so good to me.” Another kiss, followed by a soft breath and then - “No that’s - what I mean is - Crowley, you are so good.” Aziraphale kisses him again, this time at the corner of his lips and says, “Don’t be angry.”

Crowley winces - not out of anger - but because his insides feel soft and fluttery and warm - and Aziraphale’s touch is gentle - nearly unbearably so. So much that Crowley distantly wonders if he might die from it.

“M’not,” he manages.

Aziraphale leans back to look him fully in the face.

“You’re not,” he marvels.

How can he be? If Aziraphale is a terrible angel, then Crowley is a worse demon. 

He’s chosen his side now. No use defending old titles.

The thought of sides, however, does make some of the warmth bleed from him because - “I think we need a plan, Aziraphale - to deal with Gabr - you know, him. Or any of the others who might decide to cause us trouble.”

Aziraphale is watching him, his lips pressed in a concerned line. “A plan?”

Crowley swallows and nods. “For if they come for us. We couldn’t take them in a fight. Not all at once. But if we had to - even just getting rid of Gabr - him would give us some breathing room. You know the rest of them would back off.”

Frown lines etch the skin between Aziraphale’s brows.

“If we had to, we could split up. You could play decoy and lead the others away. Distract them long enough for me to face Gabriel. Against just him, I might be able to-”

Aziraphale’s wings snap back. The cold air of the shop rushes in - and Crowley winces at the light.

Aziraphale has him by the jacket, and the angel’s gaze is cold and blue and Crowley can’t look away. 

“You will not.”

And it is more than a request. More than a demand. The air whines as the fabric of existence strains to reshape itself - to placate, to please -

“Angel,” Crowley whispers, wrapping his fingers around one of the angel’s hands. 

The air settles.

And then Aziraphale’s brows are lifting, his expression pained and breaking.

“Crowley, he would destroy you.”

“I wouldn’t let him,” Crowley says, and believes it.

“Crowley, please,” Aziraphale says. 

And really, that’s all it takes.

“Alright, angel,” Crowley says, pulling him close, “Consider that plan scrapped.”

Aziraphale’s wings disappear, folding into another plane of existence as Aziraphale wraps around Cowley in a relieved embrace.

“We surely have some time, right?” Aziraphale says against Crowley’s shoulder.

“Yeah. You’re probably right,” Crowley agrees, and savors the feeling of Aziraphale’s rigid figure softening, relaxing against him. “We have time,” Crowley says, and looking over Aziraphale’s shoulder, closes his eyes.

It’s not a lie, he tells himself. They might very well have time.

“And you won’t fight him? Not even to protect me.” Aziraphale’s voice is soft, pleading.

It is at ten fifteen in the morning, on a beautiful Sunday in April that Crowley, after six thousand years, tells the angel his very first real lie.

“No, angel. I won’t fight the archangel.”

“I’m serious,” Aziraphale says, stern.

“Me too, angel.”

Something in Aziraphale’s expression relaxes, and he smiles, small.

It doesn’t feel good - lying. Crowley never particularly liked lying, generally speaking. But here, now, it’s infinitely worse.

He tries to rationalize it - because he won’t, of course, fight the archangel unless he’s got a plan. And a good one, at that. Unless - and here’s the heart of the lie - Aziraphale is in danger. Crowley would fight an army of archangels if they threatened Aziraphale harm.

And his angel was a bastard for thinking he could guilt Crowley into promising otherwise - perfect in every way, mind you - but a bastard all the same.

And so Crowley leans back, cupping the angel’s face, and smiles. 

“So how about brunch? I wanted to take you to that new place, remember? With the garden.”

“Right! Brunch!” Aziraphale says, bouncing up on his toes - as if they hadn’t just been discussing the murder of archangels. “Do you think they have crepes?”

“Angel,” Crowley says, giving him a look. “I suggested it precisely because they serve crepes.”

And then Aziraphale is grinning and it looks so bright and lovely on the angel’s face that Crowley decides they won’t talk about Heaven or Hell or bloody archangels - for the day. Or for weeks. Months. Years. Decades. Whatever it takes to keep that smile there, unobstructed. 

The archangel Gabriel is a problem.

And his hatred of Aziraphale is dangerous, no doubt.

But Crowley will deal with it, in much the same way as he dealt with the other, albeit smaller dangers that cropped up throughout the past six thousand years.

He’ll just need to be more clever this time, that’s all. 

“Shall we, angel?” he says, and holds out a hand.

“Please,” Aziraphale says, and takes his hand with a small, pleased grin.

Their fingers twist together, and when Crowley squeezes, Aziraphale’s fingers squeeze back. 

For now, all is well.

Someday, it might not be.

But, well, he’ll come up with a plan - something particularly clever, to deal with that.

For now, Crowley listens to Aziraphale chat as they walk - the angel is talking about Anathema, Newt, Madame Tracy, and Adam and their latest telephone conversations. Running his thumb across the back of Aziraphale’s hand, Crowley savors the touch.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

READ PART 2 HERE

And some of you replied asking to be tagged and/or just keymashed, which I took to mean the same thing, so here’s tagging:

@eternallystarlight @orocatto @im-totally-famous-i-swear @thatonewholikesalotofthings @ladyhawknell @titaniablue62 @mattheweverwood @trendergrunge @harleyinblack @improfem @groot-omens @envelopedbyoblivion @roymblog @heychicka-bumbum @enby-crowley @garbage-bee @upperstories @notreallylapa @mia-bean @d0zack @digirhys @mistakesandmisspellings @moonyandpadfootwashere @wildheart49 @amy-the-nightingale @monochromatic-starlight @bigdutchone @vinylisthebestwaytolistentomusic @that-pan-kids-spam @darnwaffles @rainbowgeek @thegirlwhowroteinclass @mecharosecosplay @homeybee @kawaiiusagichansan @igosploosh @fernyquotes @nitrostreak @qfantasydragon @justjezza3 @murphychacho @yeah-umm-okay @weirdfandomboi @riptail-shredfang @massdragonchick @warcats-cat @rohrohji @thingsthatoncemeantnothing @actualpieceofwhitebread-2 @sleepy-dragons 

hoboy that was more than I thought it would be. Hope you all enjoyed part 1 of the fic!

#my writing #good omens #good omens fic #good omens fanfic #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #ineffable partners #ineffable boyfriends #otp: ineffable #fanfic #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #crowley #anthony j crowley #aziraphale

[roselevesque]

Naturally, I love these

12, 18, 20, 21

Thank you for asking! Putting under "Read More" since it got long and maybe fans of the other fandom aren`t interested in solely Hannibal answers. And I'm guessing I'll answer for Hannigram again. In that case:

12. If you had to take them and plunk them into another fandom, what fandom would that be? Why?

I'm assuming this is a crossover question? ( English is not my first language, so sorry if I misunderstand )

Definitely Death Note. Besides the fact that another one of my OTPs with a similar enough basis resides there ( Hello, Lawlight ) I can actually see the shows' worlds merging well. Hannibal doesn't have real supernatural elements in it, not like Death Note, but it's brimming in surrealism in such a way that a transition to a fandom with extraordinary elements still rooted in modern reality wouldn't be an issue. Both shows deal with murder cases and it's not difficult to make a connection from there and in a multitude of ways.

L already brings help from the FBI in canon, let's say Will and Hannibal are among them, but do not join the trail scheme, instead come directly to L. Will and Hannibal would undoubtedly recognise something dark in Light from the get go ( albeit for different reasons ) and I can see Hannibal being his manipulative self and finding Light a funny "test subject". Staying safe himself though, of course.

You can also have a Post-Fall scenario, where someone from Wammy ( L or Near or anyone really ) is tasked with tracking down the newly emerged "Murder Husbands". You could have Light along for the ride too depending on how you write the AU.

As two why Death Note. As I said, the main characters have a similar enough basis, but diverge from each other in interesting ways. Light and Hannibal are the fancy half, hiding monsters behind innocent person suits. They have a refined air around them and are secretly serial killers while joining the team meant to catch them. Yet Light is definitely much more of an...optimist? ( If that's the right word ) than Hannibal. Each of them has a God complex, the line in the sand between them is how it manifests. Light cares much more about "bettering" the world according to his messed up vision than Hannibal ever did. Hannibal delights in the killing itself also and Dr. "Guns lack intimacy" Lecter wouldn't be a big fan of remote murder via magical notebook, in my opinion.

L and Will are the agent of the law chasing the criminal down in these duos. They have outstanding intellects, nonconventional methods and a relaxed/rugged appearance compared to their counterparts. These characters have a dark side to them. Whereas Will's arc revolves around coming to terms with said side and embracing it, L lives under no illusion that he is anything less than an asshole. He manipulates, cases are games for him and that is just fine for him. Will tries to cling to his morality as much as he can and he gives into temptation in the heat of the moment usually. He's, on top of this, the more sensible of the two and I'm not sure whether L would find him interesting due to his insight or would be annoyed by him.

Man, I went on a rant there...

18. Did you once/ever dislike one/both of them?

Dislike? Never. Have endless frustration? Plenty. But that's what happens when you can only communicate in metaphors and continue to dig your own demise constantly ( looking at you especially Hannibal ). In all seriousness, however, Beverly's death was a moment when I barely restrained myself from shouting F-you to Hannibal. Should that count? Otherwise, and even then, I can't say I disliked either of them precisely.

20. What made you decide to ship them?

Well, I came on this show's board partially because of Hannigram. ( was looking for queer rep and I wanted to experiment with some horror which doesn't tend to be my preferred genre ). I had already seen some scenes on tumblr, thus I had a feeling for their dynamic and I liked what I saw, but the moment that sold it was the breakfast scene in the first episode, specifically the "mongoose under my house when the snakes slither by" line. I can't exactly explain it. Their chemistry simply screamed to me in that instance that they were going to be interesting. And they are. They really are.

21. Favorite genre for them? (Angst, fluff, etc.)

Angst and Hurt/Comfort with emphasis on the hurt lmao. This fandom also has great crack, which makes sense since the show itself can feel like a fever dream at times. So, yep, angst, hurt/comfort, crack. Did I mention angst?

#hannigram #lawlight #hannibal lecter #will graham #l lawliet #light yagami #nbc hannibal #dn #death note #otp: ache & hunger #otp: the asshole and the frog #answer #answered

[jksangelic]

peaches & piercings (m)

↳ rating: M

↳ genre: punk!jimin, e2l, college au, very explicit smut, one-shot, jimin is a whole asshole

↳ pairing: cheerleader!reader x punk!jimin

↳ warnings: explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, sub/dom themes, casual sex, be t r ay a l, alcohol (and weed? idk) consumption, oral sex (male receiving), squirting, thigh-fucking, kind of exhibitionism?, jimin is pierced (that’s all i’ll say), just expect the worst from me tbh

↳ summary: jimin, dipped in hair-dye and pierced in so many places that you just couldn’t keep track, doesn’t think you’re his “type”. you call bullshit.

↳ note: i reallyreallyreally hated this fic. loved the idea, hated how i wrote it. i’ve had this bad boy sitting in my archives for months and months and months and couldn’t gather the courage to post it until NOW! partially because this is an apology fic for my inactivity and more so because i just think i’ve read it too many times that at this point, i’m just being nit-picky and need to move on.

a special thanks to the lovely @14statelier whomst unwillingly received dong pics for the sake of this fic. i’m so glad i found someone as sweet as you to beta for me + become an even better galpal! love u always xx

also thanks to my gal @jungshookz, i’m pretty sure (78% positive) i sent her my idea via snapchat and was probably inspired by her in some way, per usual.

OKAY i’m done you can read now hehehe

↳ words: 11.6k

↳ parts: one | two (complete)

“Jungkook, if you’re not going to throw it then get your grabby hands off my waist,” you warn, eyeing him as he stands behind you and delays in one-manning you into an extension or ogling your ass in your skirt.

           “You’re just so wobbly today, I’m waiting for you to chill out a bit,” he lies with a smirk. You smack his hand but exhale deeply as you firmly grasp his wrists and count.

           “1, 2!” With mutual timing, Jungkook dips down with you before heaving your body above, squatting to catch your heels mid-air, and pumping back up into an extended position. He’s right, you wobble a bit, calling out, “Bail!” and feeling his hands disappear beneath to re-catch your thighs and bring you down safely on your toes. You curse silently under your breath but pat Jungkook’s shoulder as a symbolic “thank you”.

“It’s too fucking early for this, I’m tired,” you say, only making excuses for yourself.

“Well, liven up. The doors are going to open soon and no freshmen want to join a failure of a cheer team.”

“Hey, stop bickering,” the captain, Suzy, orders, “Y/N, you’re fine to just handle the flyers, I’ll stunt with Jungkook.” You squish her into an exhausted hug.

“This is why you’re captain,” you coo.

With that, some of the staff open the gym doors, welcoming an intimidatingly large group of people in with smiles. You fake one yourself, ready to get this over with as soon as possible so you can go back to your dorm and sleep. Within ten minutes, you had a group of girls and a handful of brawny guys already watching Suzy and Jungkook’s exhibition, a mixture of oohs and ahs being rewarded. You handed each of them a thin, poorly-made flyer with pixelated clipart of a girl doing a toe-touch before they scrambled.

After a while, most of the initial commotion dies down and you people-watch each clueless face, thinking how adorable they are, so young and so lost, as if it weren’t you only a few months ago. You’re only a sophomore, but in your head that gives you enough authority to judge the freshmen.

You snap out of your daze upon boots clicking in the distance, soon revealing a man seemingly darting through the crowds to exit across the other side. You would’ve ignored him if it wasn’t for his peachy-tinted hair, long and slicked back atop and close-shaven near his neck, his thin but fit stature dressed in all-black, and the glint of metal, that you soon realized was a septum piercing, in his nose. He has a dark sleeve consuming his right arm and you wonder what eighteen or nineteen year old has a fully-developed sleeve.

Although his eyes were covered with chunky black sunglasses (in the gym, at that), the rest of his appearance sent your pierced-and-tatted-hot-boy alarm berserk. Suddenly awake, you wait for him to head closer to your booth before hopping next to him.

“Hi there, freshie. Care to take a tryout flyer for this year’s cheer team?” you ask with a pitch that’s much higher than your own, kindly handing him one of the shitty-looking papers. He mutters something under his breath that you don’t catch but speaks before you can ask him to clarify.

“Not a freshman. Do I look like someone who cheers? I’m just looking for the counseling center to turn in my transfer papers.

“Also, can you, like, give me some personal space?” he continues in a mock valley-girl tone.

You jump back, completely caught off guard with his sudden hostility and attempting to regain your composure by clearing your throat. Someone must’ve shoved a stick up his ass this morning.

“Oh, uh, sorry. Once you leave the gym, you head right, pass two sets of restrooms, head left, and it’s behind the big statue where the foyer is.” Your voice sounds much better.

His eyebrows rocket upwards over his glasses, completely frazzled by the number of directions you gave him, “Shit, okay. That’s a lot.”

“Here, I’ll just walk you,” you say, not giving him any time for him to probably decline. You don’t even question if he’s following you or not, the obvious clunkclunkclunk of his boots giving it away.

Unsurprisingly, the man doesn’t try to talk to you on the way to the counseling center. At most, he walks side-by-side, at least three meters between you for good measure. And even though it’s pretty clear he doesn’t want to talk, you ring him out a little more anyway.

“So, you’re not a freshman. Underclassman or upperclassman? And you’re a transfer? From where?”

Pass two sets of restrooms and head left.

“Senior. From Busan.” He doesn’t even show a hint of feeling. Emotion. Does this guy even breathe?

Straight until the statue in the foyer.

“Great. Well, it was nice to meet you, senior from Busan. I’m Y/N. If you ever need help or anything, feel free to ask me,” you deadpan, swiveling on your feet to salute him.

He leans on one hip, taking a hand with an incredible amount of rings on it and pushing his sunglasses over his hair like a headband. You certainly weren’t expecting a reveal of the kindest puppy dog eyes you’ve ever seen in your entire life. He almost looks permanently sleepy—eyes drooping flat on the lid. Your trance distracted you from his brief once-over, unpredictably impressed by your looks, if he had to admit it.

“It’s Jimin. Jimin, senior from Busan. See you around, cheerleader,” he says with a sly tilt of his lips before swinging the door open and slithering into the office. Past all the glitter and bright colors that poured out of that hideous uniform of yours, Jimin found you really cute.

Jimin waits patiently for the front desk to call him up, lounging in one of the hard, black plastic chairs that never failed to give his ass cramps. Though he didn’t seem like it to new faces around the campus, he was ecstatic to be starting college again in a whole new atmosphere. He even got to room with another male originally from Korea, Min Yoongi, in a small condo not too far a walk from the area.

He could even prospect cuties like you during his year, undoubtedly positive he could busy himself judging by the attention he’s attracted so far. All it would take is a hungry stare, a lick of his lips, an all-knowing smirk. It was easier here than it was back home, if not child’s play. He could have you in three hours flat. But then he thinks of you choosing the obnoxious cliché of college cheerleader and cringes at the idea of associating himself with such… American-ness. He could at least go for some sort of indifferent, grunge hipster that might actually have some thought to her. Yeah, more his style.

The woman at the front finally calls for him, so he arranges his papers and shoos away any daydream of hooking up with the girl in a tight skirt and ankle socks.

Taking the long route back to the gym, your imagination sputters through all the possible reasons why you should hate that guy, bad-guy radar ringing and shrieking and threatening to punch you square in the eye if you even think about it. Eventually, it comes to the conclusion that he was just new, he was probably having a rough moving-in, and you shouldn’t judge a transfer by their hair. Book by its binding? You don’t really remember how the saying goes in this situation.

“Hey, good job on snaking yourself out of flyer duty. What, did you bang Asian Hot Topic on your way?” Jungkook snickers.

“And did Cait break up with you because you can’t dom for shit? Hand me my jacket.”

He guffaws, practically throwing the clothing at your face, “We didn’t break up, asswipe. How am I supposed to act when she suddenly calls me ‘daddy’ without previous warning? I’m not ready to be a father.”

“Kook, you’re dumb as shit. Maybe I should bang Asian Hot Topic and give you pointers of how a real dom works their magic.”

Jungkook crosses his arms in denial, “Pfft, you don’t even know him. He could be a receiver for all you know.”

One, two, three seconds. You both chortle at the impracticality.

You take one final look in the body mirror, adjusting the slinky grey dress and hanging an oversized burnt-orange corduroy jacket over your shoulders for that final touch of unnecessary, but fashionably-adept, garnish to your outfit cupcake. Not having enough time to do your hair, you sweep it over to one side and leave it as is.

“You look fine and you’re ten minutes late so get out already,” your roommate, Sara, whines. She practically pushes you out, slamming and locking the door for emphasis.

Waving off your discombobulated roommate, you start your trek to the humanities building (which is so far away) with a skip in your step. A new school year meant new people, new classes, more lunchtimes with subpar food and occasional parties that could potentially lead to you getting arrested. Who knows!

A new school year, however, didn’t mean that you would know your way to your new class apparently. Bummer.

It’s only by your fourth circle and a glance at your phone that you panic, fifteen minutes somehow passing in the midst of your scrambling. Pace quickening, you pull out your paper with sloppily written notes of what class room number was at which time, simultaneously half-jogging past classrooms and—

“Oof!”

You land straight on your ass.

“Ow, watch where you’re going stu—oh, it’s you.”

You look up groggily, pain stinging through your legs from the brunt of your fall and lazily making eye contact with a pair of puppy dog eyes. Jimin stands above you, rubbing his chin where, you suppose, your forehead made rough contact with and indiscreetly staring at your bright blue panties where your dress failed to cover.

Hopping up and dusting yourself off, you pick up your fallen bag and paper before glaring at him, “Sorry, I got lost and wasn’t paying attention.”

He scoffs, “Aren’t you the cheerleader? You’re supposed to be, like, the girl scout of the school, right? You shouldn’t be lost.”

You roll your eyes, “Yeah, well. I am,” you mutter to yourself, “I don’t even think there’s a 207 in this building…”

“Oh, 207? Intro to psych, right? That’s where I’m going too,” he admits, eyes blown wide. Welp, certainly not the highlight of your morning.

“Great. By the looks of the current time, we’re both lost and,” you wave around the empty corridor, “there’s no one who’s going to help us.”

“I’m not lost. I just woke up late,” he answers nonchalantly, a warm glow to his face like he couldn’t give two damns about his class.

“W-What? Then let’s go! Where is it?”

Jimin twirls and walks a different direction, mumbling, “I’m not your escort, rich girl.”

You prattle at his comment but follow him anyway. When you find the correct lecture hall, you groan at the fact that you already passed it several times. He opens the door quietly, not even bothering to hold it for you as you scramble to catch it. A couple of the back rows look back at you two, annoyed by the minor inconvenience.

“Well. Welcome to my 10AM psychology class at,” the professor booms through the hall and peeks at his wristwatch, “10:36. Go ahead and take these two free seats.”

Jimin shrugs and walks towards the front of the room, a quiet and embarrassed you tiptoeing behind him. Being this late and having to sit next to this ass wasn’t how you wanted your first day to go at all.

For the remainder of the 24 minutes until the first break, you skim over the contents that you missed in the syllabus and want to ram your head into the closest wall. Participation and attendance by themselves are 30% of your grade, homework and assignments (thank god) being a measly 20%, and the final plus tests and quizzes a hunking remainder of 50%. What even was this system?

During your ten minute break, you silently scroll through your phone notifications, setting it down irritatingly when the hall refused to grant you enough service to respond to any of them.

“Don’t have LTE, princess? Might as well watch paint dry without your phone to entertain you,” Jimin snickers beside you. You scowl menacingly at him and he giggles more.

“I don’t know what your problem is, but back off, Jimin. Sorry I don’t, like, play the electric guitar in my free time or whatever.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, still smiling and blowing bubbles with his gum, popping them quite obnoxiously, and quite intentionally.

“What, do you think I play the electric guitar? Are you stereotyping me as some sort of garage band drop-out punk?” he jesters.

“And do you take me for some sort of pink fuzzy consumerist? You don’t know me. Buzz off.”

Jimin had definitely tucked you into his mental folder of “tough gals”; his aloof tactic of flirting not seeming to penetrate that pretty skull of yours. He could just take the path of least resistance and approach you normally, but where was the fun in that? You were too interesting a specimen to just use-and-discard.

Jimin suddenly thinks you look attractive with furrowed brows and pouted lips. It was most definitely working for you, so he lets it slide for now. When class ends, you all but bolt before Jimin can even look your way, sure he’d find another surface flaw to pick at.

You suddenly think of what all of the adults in your life have said during your upbringing: people that went out of their way to bully you were either jealous or had an embarrassingly crushing “thing” for you. Jimin, on the other hand, was just annoying.

Of course, to your dismay, class isn’t the only time you ever saw him. You weren’t totally stupid. The campus didn’t stretch for miles and you were bound to see him sometime and have to deal with the efforts of avoiding the man at all costs but fuck were you praying to whoever controls your Sim above that they would grant you some mercy.

“Just tell him to fuck off if he’s so far up your ass,” Jungkook argues, crushing his juice box in one gulp and biting his massive cafeteria burrito.

“You don’t get it, Kook. I have. So many times, in so many different instances. Did I tell you about the time I thought he was helping me get a textbook from a tall shelf but he ended up taking that last one for himself?” You angrily rip a bite from your limp sandwich. You really did hate Turkey Thursdays.

“Eh, first come, first serve. Maybe he didn’t know you were trying to grab that one.”

“My ass, Jungkook. He claimed that if I really wanted it, I would ‘do something in fair exchange’ for it. I’m not looking to going into prostitution anytime soon.”

“Respect sex workers,” Jungkook criticizes.

“Oh, no, totally. Sex work just isn’t my forte.” Kook shrugs.

“Okay,” you continue, “how about the time I went to IKEA to buy that ceiling lamp and was obviously struggling to one-trip everything from my car? The dumbfuck passed by and asked if I needed help, so I was like, ‘Yeah! Sure, it would definitely make up for the time you asked for sex in lieu of my psych book,’ but instead of helping me carry anything he took my coffee, drank some, and left.” Jungkook starts a rebuttal but you cut him off short, “Then he showed up to my work the other day, god knows how he even saw me in there, and started taking a video of me when I wasn’t paying attention!”

“What the hell,” your friend sports a face of disgust, “like, he’s stalking you?”

You scratch the back of your neck, “Well, not exactly? I think he was just maybe—see, A$AP Rocky may or may have not been playing on the speakers, and I didn’t know anyone was in the shop! So. I don’t know. I started—”

“Started rapping with a rolled up poster as your microphone,” he deadpans. Finishing your horrid sandwich, you crumple the saran wrap and chuck it at his eye, satisfied when we wails exaggeratingly.

“Maybe that’s just his way of flirting with you, he’ll get bored eventually.”

“I think he just hates my guts and thinks of me as an equal to the gum under his thick, goth boots,” you mumble.

“Does it matter? So what if Danny Phantom doesn’t like you?”

“He’s causing a problem though. Besides, everyone cares if someone doesn’t like them. It’s bullshit if they tell you otherwise; bullshit or a lack of sympathy.”

“So what are you going to do about it? Because I’m totally your friend and all but I don’t necessarily want to hear about your boy problems all the time.” You harrumph at his negligence and slump back into your seat.

There really wasn’t anything you could do about it; it wasn’t bad enough to the point of distressing tyranny. You simply couldn’t befriend the guy, it was obvious he didn’t want that. You would just have to pray to all things good that he would eventually lose interest, stop harassing you out of kindness, or have a change of heart and treat you like the saint you were.

If only it were that easy.

Sylly-week kicked ass, to say the least. Even two days prior the hectic week from hell, your body aches from partying while your wallet cries from all the textbooks and supplies you paid for.

Sara slept beside you, forehead stuck to the desk with her laptop stuck on some sort of half-assed document and you couldn’t fathom a better picture to represent college.

Although it was already around 11, you hop out of bed and throw on your windbreaker from cheer and some spandex, shuffling into a pair of your sneakers and bolting out of your room with your bag. The amount of sodium and sugar you consumed from Cup-O-Noodles and off-brand cookie dough bites made you feel disgusting, and you know running a quick mile at the gym would get your blood pumping enough to make you: 1) feel better about yourself and 2) put your ass to sleep.

The walk is short, the air still a little heavy with heat but cool enough for you to be comfortable in a long-sleeve. Some tired students exit the library, really the only other people you see at this hour. You would’ve thought it creepy if the campus wasn’t so well-lit and played background music through the announcement speakers. If you died or got kidnapped, at least it was to some groovy jazz.

You swipe your card across the sensor beside the athletic building door, waiting for that subtle beep before the gears clank and allow you to heave the door open. Immediately, the smell of sweat poorly masked with air freshener fill your nostrils and your adrenaline builds. You’re no body builder, but a run certainly sounded nice right about now.

You practically skip through the halls, rounding a corner to enter the weight room before you stop in your tracks to see someone in the room across. You squint suspiciously, peachy hair striking a very strong familiarity to…

“Jimin?” you whisper to yourself. You shouldn’t be surprised that he’s at the gym, but you are because he isn’t. He’s in the dance studio. Before you bolt, your eyes glue to his sensual movements, legs gliding across the floor and body free-flowing alongside the bass-filled music. No previous bias could deny that he looks like an angel in his room, dancing smooth as meringue and practically skating across the floor despite those clunky black boots of his; and powerful, hitting every note and beat with intention and vigor. You’ve never seen anyone dance like this.

After a few seconds, you render that you’re spying on him and continue walking, nervously scuffing your sneakers down the linoleum and immediately, and unfortunately, catching his attention.

He first sees you in the mirror. Ignores you. Then realizes it’s you and turns into the most ungraceful bag-of-bones as he scurries to pause the music and chases you down the hall.

“Hey!” he yells, grabbing your elbow.

“Don’t touch me,” you strike back, jerking your elbow out of his grasp and staring him down.

He looks apologetic, genuinely worried for a second before he breathes deep and tries again, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to grab you like that. Um, why are you here?”

“Um, because I can be? I was going to go to the gym, dickwad.”

It takes all of his patience not to insult you, “Okay. You’re right. Were you… were you watching me?”

You give him a sickeningly-sweet smile, “Don’t flatter yourself. I was just passing by.”

He nods solemnly, straightening his tank as if it wasn’t already wrinkled and damp with sweat, “Okay. Okay, cool.” He starts to turn before he keeps going in a 360.

“Can you keep this between me and you? That I was here? That I was here and I was—”

“Dancing?” you ask quizzically, “Why does it matter?”

His eyebrows stitch together in frustration, “Y/N, do I look like I’m a dancer?” He gestures to his piercings and his sleeve, waving his hands about in so many different places that your lewd curiosity wonders what he looks like naked—for the sake of knowing how many piercings and tattoos he has though, obviously.

“I think you look like a dancer. Just not a contemporary dancer. Did you take ballet?” you half-tease, crossing your arms and beaming slyly at him.

Jimin huffs, impatient, “Will you just keep it locked somewhere in that airhead of yours?”

“What’s in it for me, Jiminie,” you pout, “what do I get as reward for keeping your secret?”

He falters a moment, licking his plump lips and walking dangerously close, “You want a reward? I don’t take you as that kind of girl, Y/N.”

He must be delirious, eyeing him so and shoving him away, “Ew, no. I just meant, like, be nice to me from now on. And help me with psychology. That class is nothing but a memory test.”

He blinks dumbly from your rejection; who ever rejected him? He waves it off.

“Okay. I can be compliant. I won’t treat you like the rich bitch you are, and I tutor you on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Deal?”

“I’m not a rich bitch. I have student loans like the rest of the student population, thank you very much. Deal.”

You smile at each other devilishly, ready to part ways before bursting out with an instant, “Wait!”

Jimin looks over his shoulder curiously. Damn, you could really see how toned his shoulders were in that shirt.

“There’re dance majors here, is that what you transferred for?”

He turns all the way, leaning sideways against the wall and sighing, “Honestly, yes. But my family thinks I’m transferring to finish my business degree and that I would have better opportunities here. I really did it because there’s some great studios in the area but—” he catches himself rambling, “I don’t know how they would feel about my grand decision.”

You shrug, “You’re a great dancer, Jimin. Honestly, you could open your own studio here if you wanted to. You do have great opportunities.”

His sleepy eyes stare you down, a half-smile drawing itself out before he can take it back. “Give me your phone,” he orders.

You don’t know why but you do.

He dials into it with his overly-accessorized fingers, giving you a moment to get a closer look at his septum and the abundance of ear-piercings he sports before he hands it back. You’re pretty sure one of them is Gucci and you bite back a chuckle. Rich bitch.

“That’s my number. Text me when you’re free on study days.”

And with that, he re-enters his room and resumes the music.

The first time Park Jimin meets with you at a Starbucks on a Tuesday, like he instructed, you thought you somehow managed to get yourself stuck in the Twilight Zone.

“Hey, it’s Y/N. My last class ends at 3 on both days and there’s already a quiz this Friday. Help.”

 You sent the text without emojis. He didn’t deserve any.

You had barely got to Instagram before he texted you back. With multiple messages.

 “u text like a gramma”

“but ok”

“starbucks at 330? i’ll buy”

 You giggled to yourself at his joke, sending a single “(:” and putting your phone to sleep.

 To your disbelief, he really did buy you a cheese danish and a tall, iced, caramel macchiato. You sip it gingerly while he pulls his things out of his bag: a couple mechanical pencils (the industrial, expensive ones), a 1-inch binder organized by subject with dividers, and notecards. You grab them and hold them up like it’s evidence from a leading murder case.

“Notecards? You are way too organized and functional.”

He snags your pastry before you can grab it and takes a huge bite, “Yeah, but ih’s gonna het you a bedder ghrade.”

Whining, you get it back after his second bite, somehow only half remaining.

“Okay. Let’s get started. It should only be a vocab check because that’s really all he’s asked us to study so far. We’ll start with my wonderful notecards,” he waves them in the air for effect, “and see which ones you do and don’t know.”

You nod, waiting for the chaos to begin. Who were you to tell him that you haven’t actually studied any of the vocab yet? He holds the first one up. Abductive reasoning.

“Uhh… is that like, something detectives use on kidnapping cases?”

“Wh-What? No. Well—are you thinking of ‘abductions’? Abductive reasoning is being able to use the two states of induction and deduction alongside your intuition to reach a conclusion,” he pauses and tilts his head a little, “ I guess the best analogy is giving out a verdict on a criminal case. Without being 100% sure, they use the evidence to tie together as many different points as they can to come to a conclusion. So, I mean, you got it wrong, but you can easily remember the definition with that.”

You’ll take what you get (majority of his reasoning went through one ear and out the other, anyway), wiggling your eyebrows in justified approval. Jimin laughs at you, eyes squinting to slits and shaking his head. He takes notice that you aren’t wearing much makeup today, your cheeks and the bridge of your nose a tad red with irritation and a bit dry where the sun burnt and eyes daintier without so much eyeliner on them. You threw on a tank and some workout shorts and look like the epitome of… comfortable, in your head. Jimin thinks you look effortless.

“Park?” you wave your hand in front of him.

He catches himself staring and jumps out of his seat, chair screeching across the tile.

“Sorry,” he coughs, “I’m going to take a whiz.” Stupid. He practically trips over himself to get to the restroom.

You watch him hurry to the back. He probably had much better things to do than help you study in the middle of the afternoon. A couple of younger girls watch him as he passes, giggling like a pack of fangirls and combing their hair out of their faces. If they only knew.

Did he even have a girlfriend? Most likely not, right? He only just transferred here and despite his well-endowed looks, he was still intimidating. Like a giant “don’t touch, I bite” sign constantly hung around his neck.

He comes back shortly, and before you can deduct that you would rather save the embarrassment than to quench your curiosity, you ask, “Are you dating anyone?”

“Because you get a lot of followers,” you reason, shamelessly pointing out the girls who ogle his tattooed biceps. They giggle again when he looks their way. God, so many giggles.

He rubs the back of his neck nervously and that intrigues you, “No, I’m not dating anyone. I think if it weren’t for my… accessories? And the fact that I’m foreign, girls wouldn’t like me as much.” You find tiny comfort that he’s single but squish the thought away.

“How ‘bout you? Dating that guy on your team?” he retorts.

“Who, Jungkook?” you snort, “No. He has a girlfriend and he’s all brawn over brain. I’m not dating anyone, actually. I don’t like guys that are so competitive to win females strictly for the points, and there’s a lot of that here. S’gross; we’re not animals.”

“We kinda are,” he argues, but smiles understandingly.

“Okay, but not in the way where your possible significant other has to perform an instinctual mating dance?”

He juts up an eyebrow, “Really? Because I could easily arrange that.”

For the first time, you both laugh. At the same thing. Who knew that Jimin could dance of all things? And pay for your food? And actually be a nice guy who’s really smart? Thinking about it, today has gone so polar-opposite of what you expected that you contemplate if this is Jimin’s identical twin that just happens to have the same piercings and ink that bully-Jimin has.

Twilight Zone.

“Okay, let’s continue,” he says, resuming the queue of notecards.

“Define abulia.”

“Hello? Earth to Y/N?” Jimin waved a hand in your face.

“Hm? Sorry, say it again.”

Jimin packed up his supplies, then grabs yours and tucks them into your bag, “I said, ‘Are we going to your place right now?’ You said you picked up Black Panther on DVD so I want to watch it.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Cats and shit.”

You both stand up and stretch, the rest of the students in the lecture hall slowly filing out. Midterms were already approaching, which meant that you and Jimin had known each other for quite some time now. His tutoring was ditched weeks ago after you were finally comfortable with the material and able to comprehend what the professor was saying without Jimin to interpret. At first, meeting up stopped completely. You two would talk occasionally during class break and that’s all, and after a while, you just figured your deal was completed and Jimin finished his case and you both separated onto your different ways.

But then Jimin had asked if you wanted coffee at the same Starbucks you had first studied at, but for no specific reason. Just to hang out. So, you did.

Hanging out once or twice for coffee turned into twice getting lunch turned into four or five times lazing about your dorm, and now, you were just completely, wholesomely, friends. It was hard not to be on edge at the contrast of current Jimin to hell-on-earth Jimin, but you took what you could get.

“Is something on your mind? You’ve been spacing out for a long time,” he prods, taking your bag himself and throwing it over the same shoulder his own bag was on. The

walk to your dorm building was short but you could feel your feet dragging from sudden exhaustion.

“I think I’m just tired? I’m fine. Ready to Black Panther it up and all that jazz,” you chuckle. He takes the hint and resorts to quietly humming to your room rather than talking. That’s one thing you liked about him, he always knew when your mind just needed simple white noise.

Unlocking the door and jostling it out of its stickiness, you make a running jump to faceplant onto your bed. The mattress dips next to you when Jimin sits.

“I know you like cheer and all, but I think you need to take a break,” he says.

“Easier said than done. And I have mandatory captain conditioning in 3 hours,” you groan, propping your head on the palm of your hand to watch Jimin as he eats a stale bag of chips that he found on your nightstand. His face contorts in repulsion and throws the bag away.

“Okay, well, you’re not going. Tell them you’re sick. Let’s watch some DC movies and eat popcorn and have, like, a girl sleepover but I’m not a girl and I don’t want to spend the night,” he says, counting each point on his fingers.

“First of all, you lunatic, it’s Marvel not DC. Second, I don’t have popcorn. I can’t just skip conditioning because if I gain one pound Jungkook will sense it with his nose or something and attack me.”

“What,” he says in disbelief, grabbing your waist with one hand and squeezing a little, “you’re fine. You’re not going today and that’s final.” It’s not very often he touches you and as much as you try not to show it, you feel your face heat and mouth gape open and closed, ready to combust. You don’t particularly know why; guys touch you all the time (not in that way, thank you very much) but when it was Jimin, it was like you had been raised feral and failed to receive any means of human interaction.

He notices, taking his hand away as quick as he placed it and looking at the floor. Despite your lack of proper reaction, you would be lying if you said you didn’t feel a little twinge of disappointment. God, you’re so confusing to yourself.

“How about you? Your vampire ass won’t dance in sunlight so you must be tired too. How long do you normally dance for when you’re in the studio?”

“Well,” he lays flat on his back and stares at your popcorn ceiling (your dorm building was extremely outdated), “I try to workout at the actual gym in the morning before I get ready for class, and then I dance from 11 to whenever I feel is enough during the weeknights. That is, if no one’s there.”

“Why do you even follow this whole path of disliking mainstream trends and ‘rebelling against the world’? Isn’t that tiring? Aside from dance, do you, like, make your own skateboards and go to secret underground bars or something?” you tease. He rolls his head towards you in annoyance and mouths a “ha ha”.

“No, I just. I don’t know. I don’t like people telling me what to do or where to go or how to look,” he showcases his tatted arm. “This is all mine. I don’t want to be another puppet controlled my whole life to consume and work off a never-ending debt just so I can only live comfortably when I’m old but too old to actually live.”

“Wow, bro. That’s deep,” you pretend to smoke a pretzel stick. He continues anyway.

“Recently I made some friends that are in one of my labs. They’re from Korea too. If I’m not studying or working or hanging out with you, I’m probably with them. Partying or something,” he says, stealing away your “cigarette” and crunching on it loudly.

“Woah, you work? How do you find the time to do that?”

“Kinda. Nothing official, I just tutor people sometimes. Charge them by the hour and make some decent pocket change for food or whatever.”

You contemplate. How come he’s never charged you for your tutoring before? You ask him, studying his side profile and admiring his jawline when he talks. Flexing then easing; taut then relaxed.

“Because we had a deal. We agreed that I would help you in psych as long as you kept my secret, in which you did, so I figured that was good enough. Besides, you’re too cute to charge. I look like a bad boy but I’m not evil.” You giggle, resembling a middle-school fangirl and exaggerating a flattered stature.

Jimin laughs again, light and refreshing staccato notes that you could honestly listen to all day. It was therapeutic in its own crackhead way.

You’ve been unintentionally staring at him more and more often, Jimin finally taking notice within the last few minutes. He knew how to read a girl; how revealing they make themselves to impress him or how their eyes dim in any sort of suggestion that his hands should somehow find place on their body. But with you, he has no idea what that stare means. For the most part, you carry yourself so independently to the point of being standoffish and Jimin just can’t figure you out. He sought the day you would give in and beg for a night with him just like most of the other girls in his classes did, and when you didn’t, he wanted to know why. Not out of inflated ego or need to get into your pants—okay maybe because of that initially—but even more so that he just needed to dissect you. Know how to get you going, what kind of person you really are, which was completely different from what he originally imagined.

You were talking amidst his thoughts, not paying attention to the strings of sentences that fell out of your lips and before he knew it, he held himself directly above you, hands on each side of your head and staring right down into your disordered doe eyes.

“What makes you so different?” he asks aloud, more to himself than you. Puzzled and not under the impression that it was a rhetorical question, you shake your head.

“I don’t u-understand. What are you doing, Ji—”

He tucks a loose strand of yours out of your face, causing you to hiccup. “I feel like when I think I know you, I’m actually far from it.”

You don’t particularly know what you’re supposed to say to that.

“You didn’t ever need to get to know me. You just needed to make sure I kept your secret,” you play along. Knowing it wasn’t really the whole case, your own statement stings a little. If it weren’t to save his own ass, would he even be here right now?

Like he read your mind, he answers, “Why would I be here? I haven’t needed to help you in weeks. I’m with you all the time because I want to be. Because I—”

“Because you…?” you trail on, heart beating so hard you swear he can hear it. You wanted him to say it, maybe that’s what was keeping you from confirming your feelings. You needed validation; that this wasn’t just you or that this was some one-sided longing because you doubted someone like him could ever like someone like you.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks instead, so hesitant and delicate and worrisome all in one question and you ponder if this is the same boy you first met at orientation.

“Please.”

He dips down slowly, eyes half-closed in anticipation of what your face looks like so close, pausing an inch away when you shut your own. You feel his warmth near your mouth, waiting for that first touch, any contact, until it seems like it’s been far too long. When you peek, you see nothing but his perfect… cheekbone? He stares, jaw stuck open and eyes fluttering, at the intruder in the door before swinging himself off the bed and coughing awkwardly.

“Oh, Sara. I didn’t know you were coming home so early today,” you squeak out. You sit up yourself, brushing off nonexistent dust from the bed and watching Jimin gather his things in a rush and squeezing past a concerned Sara in the doorway. He doesn’t even turn back, ears stinging red and peeping a quick, havetogotextyoulater. Great, the asshole left you to face your roommate alone.

“Was that Jimin? Park Jimin? The fucking transfer student?”

“Oh my god, Sara, what’re you freaking out about?”

Dropping her stuff in the middle of the room, she shrieks annoyingly and grabs your shoulders, “Are you seriously fucking with the Park Jimin? Y/N. Nuh-uh. No way. Do you know what you’re getting yourself into?”

“Chill out! We’re just friends. He tutors me sometimes.” Not quite a lie.

She eyes you and deadpans, “Yeah, I didn’t know tutoring also included a one-on-one session of how to have sexual intercourse.”

“You’re so dramatic,” you remove her hands, which were digging crescents into your skin, and pretend to arrange your bed, “we haven’t even kissed. You just walked in at an inconvenient time.”

Sara sighs, rubbing her temples and sitting on your bed, “Look, babe. Just be careful. I’ve been to parties with him and have heard some awful things. Shit you expect from a movie where the girl gets fucked over because the guy doesn’t know how to keep his dick in his pants. I just want the best for you, okay? He’s not as sweet as you might think he is.”

He isn’t sweet at all, you said internally. But still, your heart clenches at her words. Sure, he acts like a dick, and you shouldn’t be surprised if he really does get around as much as Sara suspects; but there was just some sort of denial that lingered. If he really was such a player, why would he have stuck around with you for as long as he has, as platonic as it has been until now?

“I… I didn’t know that. I’ll be careful,” you assure her.

All it took was a squinty-eyed smile and a tiny caress to the small of your back on the way into the lecture hall for you to completely melt into his hands. You were simply putty, magically molding into some gross, odd-smelling ball of love just because of the almost-incident yesterday. You can practically feel the radiating disappointment from Sara if she knew how easily you gave yourself up for him.

His face reoccurs in your daydreams for days, all the way up until the weekend comes up from behind and smacks you on the ass.

“Focus,” Jungkook taps you through you skirt again. Oh, or maybe it was Jungkook.

The stadium speakers blared with announcements and you’re brought back to the world of clashing helmets, captain’s orders and Jungkook’s strong hands residing on your waist for partner stunts.

You didn’t need to be reminded, you were much more stable than you were weeks ago. He throws you in the air during the signaling note of the band and catches your right foot with ease above him, keeping you stable as you pull a heel stretch and present a pretty smile. The crowd roars along, inspiring the team and singing along with the cheers.

By the end of the game, you’re exhausted, tearing down paper signs from the concrete walls and shuffling your poms into your bag in a hurry.

“Hey, are you going to the feed after? Everyone’s going, I could give you a ride,” Jungkook offers, but you shake your head.

“I’m pretty beat. I’ll go next time.” He shrugs, finding more interest in catching up to someone who is interested than trying to convince you otherwise. By the time your clean-up is done, most of the fans are gone, the stadium a comparable difference of quiet than how it was only twenty minutes ago.

“You’re sure taking forever,” a sudden voice pipes up. Outside the gate stands Jimin, all-black tank and jeans, per usual. “You looked great out there.”

You smile, suddenly awake and jogging towards him, “What’re you doing here? I thought you didn’t like football.” During all your rushing do you realize that you relax around Park, time always seeming to slow down in his presence and you dissolve into his effect.

“I don’t. Such an American moneymaker. They’re all cons.” He takes your bag like he always does, leaning against the gate and looking excited, “Mind if we stop by my place? I have something to show you. It’s not far, probably only a 5 minute walk from here.”

You nod before he even mentions how long it takes to get there, heart palpitating at the thought that he’s inviting you over. You’re sure you smelled from cheer and you probably looked like the opposing team warmed up suicide runs over your sweaty body, but you nod.

“Were you here the whole time? Or just towards the end?” you ask, slightly insecure towards the fact that he could’ve been watching you cheer.

“Was here since halftime. Got Yoongs to watch with me at the gate where I was before for the most part. He left halfway through fourth quarter though, said he got tired from seeing others exert themselves so much,” he chuckles at the thought, eyes squinting and crooked tooth visible from the side. Your heart swooned, you were even starting to notice the little things. How he acted. His habits. What he did and didn’t like.

You were in fucking deep.

“I did get to see you cheer though,” he answers your unspoken inquiry, “you looked pretty, Y/N. It’s like watching a whole ‘nother person compared to how you act outside of uniform.” You’re still stuck on the word “pretty” and nod along like you’re listening.

“You should see how people look at you,” he draws on, “like they’re entranced. Even when you were just relaxing on the sideline, not doing anything, you stand out.”

“Oh my god, Jimin, where is this even coming from? One more compliment and the world might explode from the paradox you’re creating.”

He shoves your shoulder lightly, laughing at your tomato-red face, “What do you mean? I can’t compliment you?”

“No that’s not—I just mean. You know. You used to hate me and now you shower me with praise like I’m the best person in the world. It’s just crazy how much our relationship has changed. And… And yesterday—”

“Yo, can’t believe you really stayed for the rest of the game,” a raspy voice outbursts. You just realize that Jimin stopped you in front of a house, presumably his house, as a mint-haired ball sits on the porch. He inhales from his cigarette and exhales through his nose before throwing it underneath his boot.

“Hey, Yoongs. This is Y/N. Y/N, Min Yoongi, my roommate. Has a bad smoking habit and have only recently gotten him to smoke outside.” Jimin snickers, offering a hand to lift Yoongi off the step and welcome him into some bro-hug.

“You smoke too, bastard. Just did it ‘cause I knew you were bringing someone home tonight,” Yoongi retaliates, eyeing your figure. Shivers run down your spine at the comment.

Jimin coughs unexpectedly, then anxiously laughs as he pulls your arm behind him and into the house, “We’ll be in the living room. Go sleep or something.” Yoongi only clicks his tongue in response.

“Sorry,” he says once your inside, “he can be a little too personal sometimes. He’s really nice once you get to know him.” You shake your head, giving him a comforting smile that eases the tension in his shoulders.

He settles you on the couch, host-like politeness apparent when he asks if you want anything to drink, tells you where the bathroom is, and hands you the tv remote before disappearing to find his laptop. His home was cozy, minimalist furniture often in gray, black, and an occasional blue spread throughout the rooms. You weren’t sure if the boys were attempting to be modern or if college tuition only allowed them this sort of set-up, but nonetheless, it was way nicer than you expected.

“Back,” Jimin plops onto the couch right next to you, Apple laptop unlocked to a default background. He looks to you briefly before setting up some page on Google, “Have you signed up for your classes for next quarter yet?”

He looks different, your eyes scanning over his face to figure out just what it is, “Basically, just gotta confirm and pay and whatnot. Have you, Jimin?”

It’s his septum, you discover, that he’s taken out. He looks handsome either way. Propping the laptop suddenly on your lap, he beams, “Yeah, go ahead and take a look.”

You scroll through the page, humming to yourself, “Mhm… Mhm… Accounting, business 101, contemporary repertory… God, you’re going to hate sociology with Doyard, she’s a complete psycho!” You trail, giggling at his misfortune. Once you’re done, you meet his discontent face.

It takes a few takes from his face to the screen, back to his face, until oh shit!

“Wait does ‘contemporary repertory’ mean something important?” you squeal in rushed excitement. “Is that a dance thing? Are you taking a dance class here?” Before he can even explain, you shut the laptop and safely place it on the coffee table before tackling the man, withdrawing an oof from his lips.

“Easy, girl. Please don’t break me before I even get to show up on the first day.”

“Jimin, this is amazing. You’re finally doing something you want to do, during regular hours, at that!” You nuzzle into his warm chest, “I’m so happy for you, Jimin. I hope you have fun.” His heart clenches at that; how could you be so fucking caring about him? He knew you’d be surprised, but not genuinely happy for him. His hand glides over the skin between your midriff and skirt, an inkling of a gasp floating out of your throat.

“Sorry,” he whispers, moving his hand higher and locking eyes with yours. Time is always slow with him but now, it’s like it was screaming at you to take the opportunity. Unwinding one of your arms from around his neck, you smooth his hair up so you can see those prepossessing eyes.

“You can touch me,” you confirm just as softly. His features harden and you hope you didn’t read the situation wrong.

“I… I never got to kiss you that night.”

“Then you can kiss me now, if you’d like,” you say, pleading in your voice and it’s all he needs to hear before he burns his lips into yours. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve wanted this,” he pants between suckles to your bottom lip. He kisses like he dances: powerful and in perfect control with his body, molding it to yours and massaging the skin he just apologized for touching only seconds ago.

You cup his face and look down at him with sultry prowess, “I want you, Jimin. I’ve always thought about this, hoping you would just make a move, idiot.” You dive back into him, his moans prominent when you lick and nip at his lip. He lowers his grip to your ass, squeezing and pushing his hips into your own.

“Well, I’ve always thought about fucking you in this cursed uniform,” he growls, forcing a giggle out of you. Grinding down into him for effect, your mouth travels to his ear so you can state a small confirmation.

“I’m flexible, babe. I’m all yours.”

He hums his praise, latching his mouth onto your neck, laving and peppering blues into your skin before he carries you off the couch. You wrap your legs around him instinctively, “Where are you taking me?”

Heading into a hallway and taking a sharp left, he kicks his door open, “I don’t know about you, hot stuff, but Yoongs doesn’t need to see you getting dicked down in our living room,” he jests. When he lays you back onto the foot of his bed, you briefly scan his room and find it hard to believe that it’s relatively clean, the posters on his walls the only thing that seemed cluttered. This guy was your high school self’s wet dream. Scanning him promiscuously, you chuckle.

“I can be into it,” you drawl playfully.

Earning an unimpressed scoff, he fingers the hem of his shirt, “You’re mine,” he sheds it in a swift pull and throws it to the side cockily. Marveling at each detailed divot and curve of muscle, you can’t help but bite your lip in frustrated anticipation. “Unless, you don’t want me,” he finishes with a tilt of his head. He knew what he was doing, simulating innocence to draw you out of your transfixed stupor to hear those three words string from your mouth. You reach out to touch his abs, tracing over linework of ink and watching him shiver from your touch. Knowing exactly what he wants to hear, you gaze into oblique eyes and mouth the words, “I do want you”.

Goading him on, you lay back and extend your legs above you, shuffling your spandex tantalizingly slow over your skin. Jimin whistles at your show, staring at the white g-string you sported under your skirt and wandering his hands over the supple skin you expose.

“Jesus, you fucking tease. Leave the skirt.” Tittering at his request, you dig your heels into his back to propel him down towards you, his ringed hands keeping himself afloat and a winning smile winking down at you. Bless your heart you didn’t faint right then and there.

He kisses you like a man starved, lips burning hot with desire and aching to be bit—so you give him that. Sinking your teeth gently into the flesh, he punishes such action with a slap to the underneath of your thigh, then holding it close to the side of his abdomen and rolling over with you on top. Practically suffocating from lack of air, you dislodge yourself, quite reluctantly, from his mouth and soothe his complaints with brief kisses to his thick neck.

“Why didn’t we do this—ah, before?” he pants. Sucking a particularly tender spot of his jugular, he moans out and bucks into your hips. You continue your way down, leaving no inch of skin untouched until you reach where his skin ends and the nuisance of clothing began.

“You don’t make things very easy for me. Can I suck you off?”

“Fuck, don’t ask. Just do it. Turn around, though, I’ll finger you at the same time,” he offers, propping himself up on his elbows as you readjust yourself with your head towards his bulge and your ass facing him, knees keeping you up on one side of his torso. “Perfect,” he commends.

Unbuckling his ridiculously tight jeans, you hook your thumbs under the denim and whisper a quick, “Up,” to pull them off when his hips lift off the mattress. Your pride inflates at the sight of his bulge resting in the crook of his thigh, adorned by simple black boxers that hugged him in all the right spots. All but drooling at the member, you place a loving kiss where you know his head resides, mouthing at it gingerly and soaking the material with your saliva.

He ruts into your face as he watches such indecency, “You know, I should probably tell you something,” he says rather seriously, shuffling your skirt up above your ass and mischievously prodding at your sex with his thumb.

“Hmm,” you mumble, sliding his boxers down enough to suck at the pink tip that oozed of precum and spreading the liquid around with your tongue. The bitterness that came with it was all welcomed, slightly sweeter than others you’ve ever tasted and you appreciated it much more when a man this good-looking was laid out before you.

He groans, “Ever heard of a Jacob’s Ladder? Fuck, right there, underneath a bit…” You suck and nip at the skin of his frenulum, knowing he was bound to like small dosages of pain mixed with his pleasure—a guess all too correct when he cries out in ecstasy and gives your ass a light spank.

“A Jacob’s what?”

“Just—just look at it. If you don’t like it then I can just take them out,” he sighs, all too impatient to give you a rundown of whatever a Jacob’s hoo-ha entailed. You perk a brow at his vocabulary, halting your mouth and sliding his boxers the rest of the way down.

If you weren’t riled up before, you were hot, ready, and willing to beg on your knees to be stuffed with Jimin and his… accessories. You understand the term “ladder” now, three rungs of metal pierced on the underside of his shaft and glinting up at you with intimidation. You hope Jimin can’t see the now overflowing amount of arousal oozing out of your pussy, squeezing thighs together in a useless attempt of hiding yourself.

“Fuck, didn’t that hurt?” you question, hovering fingers over the balls of silver that protruded on each side in complete awe.

“Of course it did, honey. It’s all worth it, though. It’ll make you feel good too. Need me to take them out?” You shake your head a little too vigorously, earning a chuckle and his middle finger to slide in between your folds unexpectedly. Yiping at the sudden entrance, you cast a glare over his shoulder with his only response being the curve of his digit.

“C-Can I lick it? Can it get infected if you don’t use a condom?” you bombard him with questions, entirely unfamiliar with the subject and entirely enamored by it.

“It’s all healed up, baby. You can do whatever your little heart desires with it. And I would oh so much prefer going bare,” he confirms, and your heart flips at his pet name for you. That, and the thought of his thick, pierced cock penetrating you condom-less.

You wrap your lips around him once more, unafraid to take more and more of his length until you feel the cold metal—your stopping point. Call it your lack of experience, but you prefer not to catch your teeth on those piercings today. You make up for it by sliding a hand back under his scrunched boxers, fondling his balls as you bob diligently. He curses and struggles to keep his body still, digging another digit between your legs to slow your own ministrations. When it works and you moan around his cock, Jimin can’t help but want to play a little game.

“Should I give you a challenge, babe? It’s super simple. Whoever makes the other cum first gets to request something. Anything. Deal?”

“Deahl,” you muffle, swirling your tongue lavishly around his crown. Everything with Jimin was much more… intriguing. Even your first time having sex was turned into some lusty escapade of unexpected metallic embellishments and cheeky gambles. It made you feel something in your veins, wanting more and more of whatever poison Jimin was.

Taking a breath, you lick broadly over his entire shaft and scarcely taste the titanium—more than anything, it was just cold. Jimin shudders at the feeling, punishing you with a third and final finger and pushing downdowndown into a spot all too sensitive for you to focus.

Try as you might, your now pathetic attempts of sucking him off is all forgotten in your own haze of chasing your orgasm. Instead, you rest your head on his hip and writhe against his hand, fucking back onto it while he simultaneously prods your g-spot over and over again until you see stars.

“Giving up already? You were doing so well for a while, you could’ve won,” he lilts.

“Jimin, please make me cum. Oh god,” you wail, legs straining for just that final push…

“Is this what you want?” He slides his thumb across, swiping whatever he could collect and using it to knead at your neglected clit. It’s all you need, pleasure washing over you in tandem of near oversensitivity, a near scream tearing through your lungs that only comes out in ragged whines against his leg.

“Beautiful, sweetheart. Fuck, you’re ruining my sheets over here,” he criticizes, removing his hand with an obscene squelch and moving around in the bed.

The torpor you caught yourself in didn’t render what he was saying, just letting him move you about so your head rests on his pillows while he places himself between your legs.

“Jiminie,” you babble, “fuck me.” He strokes your hair away from your face and smiles, that cute puppy smile that turns his eyes into crescents. The rest of him, though, is purely sinful. Hair sweaty and pieced to perfection as his body taunted you with toned muscles.

“I don’t think you’re ready, honey,” he answers, “even though you’re dripping in your own cum.” He leans back and stares at your pussy without embarrassment, pulling your knees together and watching the juices flow even more. “I should put it to use.”

You peer up at him, curious as to whatever the hell he’s dreaming of over there and inexplicably stunned when you see his dick between your legs. “J-Jimin, what are you doing?”

“Shh, just keep them closed tight,” he orders, fucking himself between the lips of your heat and the warm skin of your thighs. You can’t help but ravish the sight of him as he slicks himself up, eyeing you down as his hips roll into you agonizingly slow. His piercings graze against your nub occasionally, warmth once again growing in your stomach.

“Fuck, you’re so soft and so wet. Who did this to you, hm?” You moan maniacally, angling your hips as to catch him and push inside, but he only laughs degradingly and intentionally misses.

“You think I’m going to fuck you if you can’t even answer this simple question?” he sneers. “Answer like a good girl, then I’ll fuck you into oblivion.”

You scramble for words, initially incoherent and struggling. “Jimin! Shit, Jimin. You made me this way. Ah, you m-make me so wet, so please put it in, put it in and—ha, aah!”

He shoves his length in like it’s all he knew what to do, your ankles to his shoulders so he can drink up your moans with his reddened lips. He was right—the piercings didn’t feel like any dick you’ve received before, it was so much better. This was pornographic, it was so good. He all but pistols into you, his cock grazing places previously untouched. Indulging in his heaven sent strokes, you cry and groan at each relentless thrust.

“Hush, baby, Yoongi’s going to hear your pretty self,” he warns, but you don’t give a shit. If anything, you moan louder with a know-all glint in your eye, testing Jimin’s patience. “Brat,” he spits.

He pounds into you repeatedly, completely removing himself before filling you up again and again and again. Between the pressure to your g-spot and the added stimulation from his Jacob’s Ladder—your stomach heaves, an unfamiliar feeling washing over your abdomen contrary to anything you’ve ever experienced.

“Oh, Jimin, wait!” you sob, halting his hips from another brutal shove a little too late. The second he pulls out, your second orgasm (and first ever untouched orgasm) of the night reigns over, briefly showering his lower stomach in your own wet arousal.

“Holy shit, that’s so fucking hot. Did you just… squirt on me?” he growls, not taking the time to hear your answer as he lifts you into his lap, legs wrapped around his muscular back and arms gripping around his shoulders for dear life.

He sinks back into you deliciously, filling you to the brim with your added weight and rutting up into you to chase his own release. Everything is soaked and sticky, Jimin’s ragged breathing and groans so close to your ear that you’re sure it’ll be engrained into your memory forever, his thrusts so deep inside you wail once more.

Consequently, the banging on the wall next to you comes as no surprise, Yoongi’s angry, “Shut the fuck up!” clear as day. Jimin waves it off.

“Don’t listen baby. Moan louder for me. Tell me where you want my cum.”

The slaps of skin become louder; it wouldn’t be long before Jimin came. “Inside, Jiminie, please. Cum inside me, pump me full,” you squeal, lust sparking inside you knowing that his roommate could hear you getting fucked senseless.

One, two, three more aching pounds before he spills into you, his pretty moans music to your ears. You flop back as soon as he takes himself out, suddenly aching all over from how much he stretched your legs and groaning at the pain.

You slap his eager hand away when he fingers his cum back into your abused lips, “That hurts, idiot.” He smiles and sucks your intermingled cum off his fingers with a pop.

“We taste good together,” he husks. Fuck. “By the way. You came first. Stay the night?”

You oblige with or without the pressure of the bet, dog-tired from your beating and not even fathoming the trek back to your own room. Jimin takes charge in your state of haziness, washing you off in his shower, replacing your uniform with a t-shirt of his own and laying you beside him on his mattress (sheets replaced and refreshed).

“You have piercings in your dick,” you state in the middle of the quiet.

Jimin snorts at the outburst, looping an arm around your side and melding his body to yours, “Yeah, is it weird?”

“… Robot dick,” you whisper, words cracking at the face of your laughter.

“Oh my god.”

“So, when you’re going through metal detectors at airports and whatever, do you have to tell them that the metal’s in your penis? Do they have to check?” Titters are awarded with light jabs to your side, which are then led to screams and kicks to his legs.

Yoongi bursts through Jimin’s door, brows stitched together in heated anger parallel to the flames of hell, “I swear to fucking god, if you two don’t quiet down I’ll mount your heads on my wall, it’ll make a great decoration.”

“What the hell, what if we were naked? Don’t just go busting through—”

“Yeah because you obviously care if I know you two are fucking. ‘Don’t listen, baby! Tell me where you want my cum, baby!’” Yoongi mocks. Pillows are flying and insults are thrown as you watch them bicker sleepily, all fading into white noise as you begin to drift off.

Sleep itself feels like a blink, so exhausted that you don’t dream. Waking in the same position that you were last conscious in, the only difference in picture is the fact that: A) the sun is shining through Jimin’s skylight and B) Jimin is no longer in bed with you.

But before you can even question where he’s run off to, his sly self sneaks back into the bedroom, shirtless and face clean from washing up just now. You don’t even hide the fact that you look down to check out his tight briefs, metal detector in your brain trying to scope it out.

“You’re awake. Sorry if I was loud,” he smiles, crawling on top of you as you stretch out like a mangled cat. You shake your head, combing his hair back with your nails as he dips down into your chest. “I like when you wear my shirts.”

“That’s pretty stereotypical,” you whisper out, voice low and raspy from your slumber. This isn’t fair, you think, he got to brush his teeth already.

He sits up and gives you A Look, making you giggle and giving you the leverage to feel up his abs as he flexes haughtily.

“I can get used to this,” you purr.

“I bet you could,” he mumbles into your neck, nipping at the places he already marked last night. He doesn’t push, just relishes in your warmth and fondles you carefully as you continue to wake up and it makes you shiver.

“I wish you would’ve done this a long time ago,” you sigh.

“You hated me.”

“You didn’t make it easy for me to like you,” you retort, gasping when he bites your collarbone, “Now—Now I like you.”

He stops abruptly and pulls away, landing on his side with an elbow and tilting his head towards you, “Well, I hope you don’t start liking me too much.”

You squint, “W-Why? Don’t tell me this was just a one night stand or anything.”

“No! I mean, not just one night or whatever. I just—this is just casual, right?”

You all but bite your tongue to keep from lashing out, “What do you mean ‘casual’? You didn’t say anything about ‘casual’.”

“Oh, Y/N, c’mon. Did you really think we should date? Look at us, baby. We’re just not… each other’s types, you know?”

It’s about time you get up, shoving aside his warm blankets and grabbing your soiled uniform from the floor, “No, Jimin. I don’t know. I thought you were being genuine with me.”

“Hey, no, don’t leave,” he grabs your arm before you leave his bedroom, “Okay, there was some miscommunication. I’m not trying to be mean. Can I just… I don’t know, think about it? I’m just not used to this.”

Looking into his eyes for some sort of confirmation, your tensions subside. “I’m not a toy. If you don’t want to be with me, just say it.” The hurt he feels in your tone breaks his heart, for once. Would he really be willing to try something he knows won’t work?

For you, maybe.

“I do like you, Y/N. Just give me some time.” He pulls your arm once more, hoping you’ll stay. But you draw the line and pry his hand off politely.

“Of course I’ll give you time. I’ll see you later, okay?” He nods understandingly. He can’t feel butthurt when he’s the one putting you on ice, he knows that. So Jimin watches you leave in his shirt, mind clouded more so than when you arrived.

a/n: yay! you made it through the first part! if you liked it, feel free to let me know or ask any questions to the characters! xx, selene

#ficswithluv #btsguild #btssmutclub #bts #bangtan sonyeondan #bangtan smut #bts smut #jimin #park jimin #jimin smut #jimin imagines #kpop smut #kpop imagines #punk!jimin #jimin is pierced #jimin fic #bts fic #one shot #reader insert #jimin x reader

[starlling-writes]

Bewitching Monsters - Cursed Book

Series Rating: 18+ Chapter Contains: minor swearing, tentacle sex Pairing: f/tentacle BeMo Masterlist   ☆  Writing Masterlist

**Alt Pronouns are used in this chapter. Please refer to the following guide. 

Lybras asked me to help vir to sort a large shipment of books. A mansion out west was declared abandoned, so the local court went about repossessing everything on the land. Despite only have being sent a fraction of the collection so far, ve had a small archive’s worth of new books.

“Glad I brought caffeine and snacks,” I chortled when I saw all the stacks.

“Handle only what you feel to,” ve dismissed. “I already expect to spend weeks on this.”

“So you get to keep all these books?”

Ve glanced up from vis notes to glare a warning at me. “Depends on what we find. But yes; most will be staying here.” Typical dragon hoarding a trove. Ve gestured to a stack and said, “Start there. Be careful though. Some of the books are spelled.”

“Spelled?” There were a number of reasons to spell a book. If it were to keep unwanted readers at bay, though, the trouble would be the level of security they had. I was reluctant to find that answer. “How so?”

“They didn’t elaborate,” ve grumbled. Figures. Why would the court make our job easier?

For hours it was just mundane filing. It was easy yet numbing to fall into a rhythm. Which was why I jumped and yelped when Lybras suddenly yelled. I looked over and saw vis hand encompassed in flames. White, magical flames.

I cursed and ran to vis side. I cast the counter spell but instead of putting it out, it made the fire jump to me. Cursing, I fell on my ass as I panicked. This wasn’t basic magical fire. Trick fire then? Maybe. I didn’t have too much time to think about it as it was quickly spreading up my sleeves—I really liked this sweater too. I squeezed my eyes shut focused. It wasn’t a standard spell so my usual counter spells wouldn’t work. It leapt to me when I tried dispelling it, so it had to have some type of reflection element in it. Dammit! Who the hell cast such a complicated fire spell on a book?

Suddenly the fire was gone. Well, technically it was no longer eating away at my sweater and now attacking a poor potted plant Lybras was holding a safe distance away.

“The hell?”

“The fire jumps to the last living thing to touch the book. Your foot hit it when you came to my aid.”

“It burns the last—how the fuck did they even manage to send it here?” I grumbled as I picked at my burnt sleeves. I guess I should be glad my skin wasn’t burned.

“I’ll add it to the dues.”

I crossed my arms and looked around, scrutinizing the remaining books. “I’m going to hunt down more of the spelled tomes. The fewer outfits that end up ruined, the better.”

Ve grumbled, not caring either way. I took off one of my rings and a chord bracelet so I could craft a makeshift pendulum. A quick enchantment later and I could easily sort out the mundane from the magical.

I claimed three of the reading tables and labeled them Magical Untested, Magical Benign, and Magical Dangerous respectively. With a simple cantrip, I floated the fiery book onto the danger table. One hour and thousands of books later, I had found all the spelled books. There were more than I expected, but I was ready for the task.

I drew up some talismans to test for any other bio-reactive books. One turned the paper to stone, another into a leaf, and a third set he paper on fire via lightning. Two books ate the talismans—though one was actually a young mimic. Lybras contacted the Humility Society while I persuaded the little devil into making a bed out of scrap paper and napping.

As for the harmless books, there were a lot that were simply password protected—from what I could gauge. A blank book would fill with lies if you gave it a drop of your blood. One would play out vivid daydreams when you opened it. It was tempting to test it thoroughly. However, getting hot and bothered would be so inappropriate right now.

Thankfully, most of the books ended up being nonthreatening.

But then there were the mysterious last two books.

They had a magical presence, but I couldn’t get any other reads from them. The talismans didn’t react; reveal cantrips were ineffective. I dared to touch the covers and spines, but still no reaction. The only thing left to do was open them.

I cautiously opened the first book. The pages were near black with how much was scrawled on them. After a minute of staring at a number of pages, I was certain I didn’t know this language. If it even was a language. I’d have to invest in a charm to translate writings soon.

“Hey Lybras,” I said as I walked over and showed vir the pages. “Can you read this?”

Ve scrutinized it for a moment. “No. Just mark as undetermined.” Ve flipped the page.

That was when things got weird.

The book… bit us. The writing began to glow as the pages fluttered and the book tossed itself out of my hands. We stared stupefied at it, waiting for what would happen next—because all of that had to have done something.

“Maybe something good will happen?” I hedged, trying to stay positive. Ve was unamused. The book stilled, and I was about to make another remark when black tendrils bubbled out of it.

We weren’t given a chance to run before it ensnared us. We both swore and struggled but to no avail. No place was safe from their touch. A glance at Lybras and I saw them covering vir from tail to horns. I almost envied vis larger size and greater body area for these lewd cirri to trail across. When I tried to shift positions, they constricted tighter around me. Little prickles bit into my skin. Did these things have teeth? If they did, they weren’t strong enough to break my skin since they only left oily ooze in their wake and no blood.

They weren’t constricting us to death, just groping and restraining. It wasn’t unpleasant, actually. I even started to think it was similar to being tied up by Mosaiko.

With that thought, my feelings towards the moment shifted.

This was still not ideal. I didn’t know what these tendrils intended to do and I wasn’t thrilled that Lybras was here to witness me… not hating them. We had a nice, professional relationship and this wasn’t my first pick on how to shift it to a personal level.

A tendril snaked around to the back of my neck and attached itself like a leech. Then I heard a voice—an amalgamation of voices—echo in my head.

Desire for desire. Will you accept?

“Did… did you hear that too?”

“Yes,” Lybras answered.

As least I wasn’t hallucinating. But what did it mean?

Desire of knowledge for desire of carnality, it responded. It was discomforting that it seemed to be able to read my mind. Will you accept?

“I don’t know if we should really trust this book.” I was skeptical that agreeing with it would be worth it. “For all we know, it’s gonna eat us.”

“I don’t think it’s anything that severe.”

“Elaborate book voice!” I demanded. “Will accepting your offer kill us?”

There are no desires for death. To fulfill the desires—nothing more nothing less. Knowledge for carnality, will you accept?

“We won’t get a straight answer,” ve sighed. “We’ll have to accept or refuse.”

I hated vague spells. My curiosity was running wild but I was still skeptical of all this. I fidgeted. The tendrils bit into me more, and that just made a little devil urge me to agree. I wouldn’t die; and knowledge and carnality didn’t sound so bad.

I conceded. “Well I’m up it if you are.”

Lybras took more time to make up vis mind. “I agree.”

Nothing happened.

“You have to say it,” ve said.

“Of course—the vague spell needs a specific answer.” I rolled my eyes then threw a glare at the book before saying, “I agree.”

In a flash like lightning, my vision danced and mind felt floaty. I felt like I had taken a few shots of vodka. My mind twisted and reformed. My memories and thoughts flipped pass like pages blowing in the wind. Even the skeletons.

My focus jolted back to the archive. Lybras was shuddering and short of breath and… erect. I knew I shouldn’t stare but damn. Ve was impressive. And I was intrigued to see vis unique anatomy—around the base of vis  shaft was a clear set of labia.

One of the tendrils wrapped itself around the head of vis member and swallowed it within. The dark, oozing tendril split into two; one stayed wrapped around Lybras’s dick, while the other quivered and reshaped into an exact replica of it.

What? I had second to think before it slithered its way to me. Oh damn. I knew where this was going—where it was going. At this point I had no more reservations. The moment I saw that slick tendril aiming for me I wanted it inside me. I didn’t fight as the tendrils already wrapping me spread my legs; didn’t struggle as a couple tore my panties away.

Instead, my eyes fluttered shut and head fell back as it started prodding into me. Slipping fully in, it felt like it was adjusting to fit me without really stretching me. Shame. Still, it felt wonderful as it thrusted in and out. No wonder there were so many dragon hybrids.

I wiggled my hips, trying to adjust so it would hit a better spot, but instead riled the tendrils up into biting me again. If they were trying to persuade me to stop moving, they were failing. Now I squirmed solely so they’d dig in more.

My mind was a cloudy mess. I sank further and further into the pleasure. So this is what it meant by carnality. I didn’t even care to wonder what the knowledge part had been. The fact we were supposed to be cataloging books was long gone. I even forgot Lybras was there—maybe watching, maybe lost in vis own pleasures.

The tendrils vanished and I dropped to my hands and knees. After taking a few second to calm myself, it registered that, right before everything stopped, Lybras had said ve rescinded vis consent.

We both stole a glance at each other then looked away. Silence rang between us for a good moment.

“You should make a couple memory wipe potions,” Lybras spoke up. “It’d be best we both forgot tonight.”

“Agreed.”

— — —

BeMo Masterlist   ☆  Writing Masterlist

Story:  Previous   —   Next

#monster love #exophilia #writeblr #exophilia fiction #tentacle monster #cursed book #cursed item #writing #bewitching monsters

[krystalreverb]

Something Human (Fic Preview #2)

A sudden, very violent thought struck Hubert at that moment. Oh, no.

“Besides.... we.... haven't exactly been safe about making love, have we? If you fall pregnant before the war is over, you'll be forced onto the sidelines, and I know you don't want that. We can't afford that. We need you as much as we need all of our fighters, and if the higher-ranking nobles find out, there will be a revolution and likely a bid for my head. Dear Gods, what have we done?”

“You're right, Hubert. We should be more careful in the future. It's been riotously fun, but extremely dangerous at such a perilous time for the Empire. We let our feelings get ahead of our better judgment, and that was a stupid idea when we're so close to reaching our goal.” Edelgard relented. “Though... I'm not entirely sure I even can fall pregnant. Those Who Slither in the Dark....”

“We can get you medically evaluated later to confirm whether or not it's even possible for you to bear children, but for the moment, let's proceed as though you have full reproductive functionality, and take all necessary precautions to avoid a political shitshow.” Hubert cut her off. He didn't like talking about that time. That long, regrettable time, so long ago, when she was tortured, experimented on, cut open, sewn back together in wicked ways.... and Hubert could do nothing. Unable to act, at only ten years old, he could not save her, could not even find her, and he considered it his most regrettable personal failure as her retainer. It was a time that would haunt him deep in his core until the day he died.

“As it stands, as a warlock, I have knowledge of a specific potion that will prevent you from falling pregnant this time around. Honestly, I probably should have looked it up the first time we had sex, but I was in too good a mood to think about it. That's on me; that's my own fault. However, it's been less than 72 hours, so the potion should still be effective, given that I can look it up in what's left of the library after we blew half the monastery to high hell.” Hubert mused. Edelgard nodded. “And, that's assuming we have the ingredients on hand, and have enough time to brew the potion.” Hubert finished, and Edelgard's face fell.

“I'll help you look. Two sets of eyes are better than one. Just tell me what entry to look for.” She said. “We should do that as soon as the Professor's seminar is over.”

“My lady, time is of the essence. We should go now. The longer we wait, the more we risk the potion not working. It's meant to prevent pregnancy; it won't work if you've already conceived.” Hubert stressed. “Obviously by now the Professor knows what we've been up to. Linhardt made that perfectly clear. If I explain the situation, perhaps we'll be let off this once. I'll meet you in the library.” Hubert bustled off, cheeks pink with the embarrassment of having to admit his crime to the Professor's face with his own mouth.

Edelgard went to the library, and found it thankfully still relatively intact after the assault five years ago. She probably should have figured, given that Linhardt spent most of his admittedly limited waking hours here, but Edelgard hadn't really needed to come up here for any reason since they started using Garreg Mach as a base. She went around lighting a few torches and opening a few dusty, tattered curtains to let in the sunlight. She went around straightening book piles and dusting off a few chairs and tables so they'd have a clean place to sit. Hubert quickly joined, his cheeks still burning. The Professor had laughed at him for a solid two minutes, then simply nodded and waved their hand dismissively, still snickering under their breath.

“It would be a purple tome about Potions, my lady. Look for any books on herbal medicine as well.”

“It would help if I knew what the title was, Hubert.”

“My lady, do you really believe that if I knew the title, I would be resorting to a vague description of what it looks like?” Hubert deadpanned. “It's been five and a half years since we were in the Academy. I don't remember what any of these books are called. And that's assuming that bastard Seteth didn't find it and get rid of it one day while we weren't looking. Plus half of these books have been destroyed, either through the flames of the assault or damage from the crumbling ramparts. There's no guarantee the book is even here, let alone we'll be able to make the potion correctly and on time. We can only hope at this point.” He didn't sound too confident, but surely they'd come up with something, right?

Edelgard couldn't contest Hubert's logic. She continued her search. Hubert opened each book and flipped through it frantically, tossing each one over his shoulder into a pile that wasn't what he was looking for.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, in the very back of the dustiest far corner of the library, with the rest of the restricted, forbidden, and forgotten books that hadn't yet been discarded by Garreg Mach's staff over the years, Hubert came across the entry he was looking for, in a 4th century ancient tome with dusty pages and a cracked and crumbling leather cover. The spine of the book was clearly... well-loved, falling apart in chunks in Hubert's hands. Advanced Potion-Making, the title glared up at him in gold leaf on the crumbling spine. Hubert opened the front cover; apparently this book had been owned by a student in the past, as the inside cover was signed in fading, ancient ink by someone named... Henry? Henry Poller? The ink was too faded to read clearly, though Hubert could make out a signature above the faded one that read Property of the Half-Blood Prince. And inside, about halfway through the book, was an entry titled Nightwalker Potion. It was a potion meant to prevent a “promiscuous” unwed woman from falling pregnant and “ruining her family's reputation”. Ah, the fourth century. Hubert nodded.

“Here it is. Oh, good, it looks like we should have most of these ingredients either in the kitchens or the marketplace.” Hubert breathed a sigh of relief. “I might even have several of these ingredients in my personal stores. Fortune smiles on us. How long does it take to brew? Oh, thank any deity that may exist, it only takes an hour. I suppose it was designed to be brewed quickly in case of an emergency such as this.” Hubert took up the book in his arms and gestured for Edelgard to follow him.

She would do so, trotting along behind him while he traveled to an underused supply closet deep within the monastery's many hallways. Once the door was opened, it became clear that this was no ordinary supply closet, but a pantry stocked with potion ingredients. Hubert's personal stores. He opened the book to the page he needed and began plucking various things in jars off the shelves, handing them to Edelgard to hold. Soon she had an armful of jars, all unlabeled but containing various strange and frankly icky things that she was glad to only be touching via a glass barrier. Eyeballs of various creatures, a vial of a red liquid that looked suspiciously like blood, fur of unknown origin that seemed to be riddled with dandruff, and what appeared to be small green pustules that were oozing a strange white fluid.

“The greenhouse should have the rest of what we need. Just carry those for now.”

Edelgard continued to carry the jars as they bustled into the greenhouse.

Hubert began muttering to himself as he plucked up plants and tossed the useless ones away. “No, no, no... there's one.... No, no, no, who let the Professor plant vegetables in the flower bed? Somebody ought to keep an eye on them.... I swear, they're absolutely a lunatic....” He muttered, taking the ingredients he needed and leaving behind a pile of pulled-up roots that the greenhouse keeper would have to either discard or re-plant later. Hubert bustled past Edelgard, who was simply watching calmly, arms full of icky jars. She trotted along behind him while he pulled out a small pewter cauldron from an old closet, brushed the dust off of it, and shot a fireball from his hand beneath it to start it heating up while he read the recipe right there in the hallway, dropping to sit cross-legged on the floor to work, levitating the book with magic near his face where he could read it.

“Shouldn't we move to a better location than this?” Edelgard asked. “What if somebody needs to come down this hallway?”

“We're on the third floor of the monastery, nobody ever comes up here besides the Professor, my lady. Besides, time is of the essence, remember. We're extremely fortunate already that the book and ingredients were all here.” Hubert replied. “It takes an hour and we have a very small window of time. There's no time to set up all my equipment anywhere else.”

“This is true. And I said you were in charge. Brew where you will.” Edelgard acquiesced, simply sitting cross-legged on the floor to watch him, putting the jars down next to his feet for ease of access.

Hubert stirred the potion clockwise several times, counting his strokes under his breath, and muttered incantations over the cauldron. It boiled and bubbled and stank in strange colors and iridescence throughout the entire process, and Edelgard couldn't quite ascertain how it was going by the increasingly stressed expression on Hubert's face. Finally, the pinched skin between Hubert's eyebrows softened, and he breathed a sigh of relief, pouring the finished potion (turned an iridescent, pearly emerald green) into a glass vial and handing it to Edelgard. “Now drink that and we pray it works.” Hubert said, and without question, Edelgard popped the cork out of the vial and downed it. She made a face at the taste; certainly none of those ingredients tasted good, and certainly not together. Hubert chuckled. “I should have warned you about the taste, but I wanted to see the look on your face. Mm, foul, isn't it? Potions generally are. The only good-tasting 'potion' out there is likely Amortentia, the supposed 'love potion'.” Hubert made sarcastic air quotes around the sides of his head with his fingers around 'potion' and 'love potion', rolling his eyes, “It's a crock of shit peddled by conmen, which is probably why it actually tastes decent. Apparently it's supposed to taste different to each person who drinks it, but most people report that it basically tastes like whiskey and mint.”

“How do we know if this potion works?” Edelgard asked.

“You'll start menstruating within the next couple of days. It kind of kick-starts the process. Once that happens, you're decidedly not pregnant. It's a safe remedy, all natural ingredients, don't worry. We just can't use it too often or it loses its effectiveness.” He sighed. “Boy, we were fools. That was a close call.” He said blatantly.

#fire emblem #fire emblem three houses #edelbert #hubelgard #hubert #edelgard #hubert X edelgard #i am black eagles trash #hubert is still my garbage son #something human

[gascon-en-exil]

FE16 Golden Deer Liveblogging

Chapters 11-13. Playing through the timeskip, as it’s still all much the same as the Lions route.

I’m practically swimming in Dark Seals, with no one worth using them on other than Ignatz now that Lorenz has made it to dark knight without having to level in any magic class. The game just hates Hubert - only “canon” dark mage, and the only route he’s playable on has less of them than the others.

Lysithea is a gremory now, and she obliterated Edelgard on Chapter 12 before she ever had time to be remotely threatening. She’s like the Lewyn of this game, a caster so overpowered she doesn’t even need a mount.

Chapter 13 is the same map as the Lions’ first one after the timeskip, complete with chasing down thieves and grabbing a ton of loot. I really missed not having Ashe with his personal Locktouch, since I’m not in the habit of carrying chest keys. Claude on his new wyvern (which receives no acknowledgement or explanation) is as amazing as expected and probably could have soloed this map even more effectively than Dimitri thanks to his flier movement alone. He’s also got his Relic Failnaught already, which will hopefully come up in dialogue at some point. Edelgard’s axe Aymr also just shows up after the timeskip, but it’s not a Relic and was made for her presumably by Those Who Slither.

Story/Character observations

Claude is so disconnected from the central drama surrounding Edelgard that the identity of the Flame Emperor isn’t revealed until after you defeat her in Chapter 11.

He’s also continuing to use Byleth with no shame whatsoever. After the timeskip his stated reason for having his former professor on his side is that it will motivate the church to ally with them via Byleth’s connection to Rhea...shortly after outright stating he doesn’t think Rhea should be archbishop anymore if she is found. This is what I mean when I said that I like how the church’s relationship to Faerghus is set up, because the Lions earn their support automatically even if their crown prince is roaming the countryside torturing and killing random soldiers. Claude on the other hand has to offer them some bait.

He also smoothly navigates the situation with Lorenz. Unlike the other routes this one (by necessity) makes it clear that Lorenz’s father is the one leading the pro-Imperial faction of the Alliance while his son is of the opinion that their only recourse was to capitulate.

I’m starting to put together that the reason Dimitri still has both eyes and most of his sanity on Edelgard’s route is that it’s the only one where Cornelia hasn’t moved to betray the Kingdom yet, because that’s already happened on this route as well. I can’t think of a reason for that difference apart from because the plot says so, unless it’s because with Byleth around Edelgard is leaning less on the support of her uncle/Those Who Slither than she would otherwise?

Mostly non-student supports this time around. Shamir and Leonie bond over training and their hatred of bugs, while Alois and Leonie bond over Jeralt (what else) including that one time Jeralt almost killed Alois while drunk...fun stuff. Ignatz is priming himself for a big shock when he learns the true identity of the loli to whom he’s been waxing poetic on the subject of Saint Cethleann. Seteth pulls the pseudo-Catholic guilt routine on Hilda - and it actually seems to work - Manuela sets Lorenz’s depressing teenage poetry to music, Hanneman does a lot of prying into the Deer’s two biggest Crest-related mysteries, and something is up with Claude and Cyril even to the point where it shows up in an odd exchange between them in chapter dialogue. 

#Fire Emblem #FE16 #Fire Emblem Three Houses #Spoilers

[glixbitch]

Laugh! - JSE Fic

Inspiration called so I had to listen! Please forgive me 😉💜

Anti slowly circles the chair, coming to a halt behind it, slightly out of its occupants line of sight. Said occupant is stock still, only the occasional quiver betraying the paralysing fear he feels coursing through his veins. He’s got his eyes fixed on the floor, determinedly averting them from his surroundings, and his captor and, most importantly, the broken version of himself he would see in the mirror he is sitting opposite. He feels the demon’s hands clamping down on his shoulder and suppresses the shiver that attempts to run through him at his touch, ice cold as it is.

“We are having fun, aren’t we, Jamie?” he hears from behind him, and he can just hear the grin on his face, the fucking bast-

One of those icy hands whips forward and grabs his jaw, forcing his face upwards to meet the other’s gaze through the mirror. “Answer me, brother” he simpers, knowing the effect that particular word will have on the mute. He hasn’t seen his real brothers in weeks, though it may as well be an eternity, a fact Anti is well aware of, being the architect of JJ’s misery. A surge of hot, bubbling anger rises within him, and he shakes his head jerkily, yanking his chin from Anti’s slack grip. Said glitch narrows his eyes, and returns his hand to the back of the chair. Feeling a small sense of pride at his show of bravery, JJ returns the stare solidly via the mirror, refusing to contort himself to look directly into the eyes of that monster.

“If that’s how it’s gonna be”, Anti says matter of factly, raising his eyebrows in the mirror. He abruptly glitches out of the room, leaving Jamie to his thoughts, not for the first time. He has a tendency to do this. Short sharp bursts of physical pain, followed by the prolonged psychological torture of solitude, with only his own head for company. If he knew how predictable he was, thought JJ, he’d be furious.

The sudden reprieve gives JJ a brief moment to take stock of his own injuries. He has a broken kneecap, he’s pretty sure, and burn marks peppering his arms and legs. Looking into the mirror, he can see a long gash from his eye to his jaw (the souvenir of a particularly lovely afternoon with Anti), and a black eye blooming from today’s foray.

The sight of his own reflection is unwelcome, reminding him of the state he’s in. It’d be easier to put on brave face if he didn’t have to convince himself in the mirror as well, which is undoubtedly why Anti put it there.

A thump from behind him breaks into JJ’s thoughts, and he looks up, startled. The glitch is back, smirking at his reflection. Hunched over in the stiff, wooden chair, JJ can’t help but think how tall the other looks, powerful, towering over him with that sadistic gleam in his eyes. He’s wearing the usual. All black, shirt and jeans, his hair sticking in all directions. As JJ’s eyes travel down his body, they pass over his left hand, holding his kni- wait, what?

That’s not a knife, JJ realises, squinting to look at the object. Why is Anti holding a pencil?

Completely non-plussed by this development, his eyes move back to Anti’s face, who is smilingly knowingly at him, pleased that he’s noticed his unusual accessory.

Striding round to stand in front of him, he crouches slightly so they’re at equal eye level, and once again, grabs his jaw. His grip is much stronger this time, and JJ keeps still, fearing that any movement would be less defiant and more idiotic when he snaps his own neck. “Hold still”, the glitch coos, speaking in the soft and cheery tone that a kindergarten teacher might use on a troublesome child who can’t put on their own shoes.

One hand holding him firmly in place, the other reaches up and places the sharpened point to his neck, pressing intently as he draws a line across the front with practiced ease.

Gritting his teeth, JJ keeps quiet, waiting until this point is withdrawn to release the breath he’s holding. Anti straightens up, twirling the pencil between his finger. JJ’s eyes follow its rhythmic movements, and widen as the air glitches around it, the point sharpening and extending, the base thickening and elongating until it jolts back into reality as the blade they know all too well.

To JJ’s complete bewilderment, Anti flips the knife to catch it by the blade, and holds it out, handle first, to the mute. The shock must have shown on his face, because Anti chuckles, lip curling as he speaks, “Take it”.

As if in a dream, JJ feels his hand moving upwards, grasping the handle, fingers curling around the base. It’s heavier than he thought it would be, but he quickly adjusts to the weight. In a way, it feels like a natural extension of his arm. Holding the metallic flat of the knife up to his face, he catches a glimpse of his own expression in the reflection. The love, the adoration mirrored in his own eyes is enough to bring him back to reality, and he quickly lowers his arm, looking back up towards Anti, who is watching him with an aggressive kind of pride.

“Go on then,” prompts the demon, folding his arms across his chest.

A questioning look is all JJ can reply with, all he can muster. “You know what to do”, the man sneers, “I’ve even given you a guide”, he says, with a pointed look towards the pencil on JJ’s throat.

Realisation dawning, JJ frantically moves to release the knife, but finds it fixed in his hand. He’s telling his hand to move, but it remains clutching the lethal object. More than that, it begins to move towards his neck of its own accord. A fuzzy, muffled feeling descends over him, making him feel dazed, sharp bursts of panic the only thing penetrating the haze.

“You are mine” a voice hissed, sending a fresh wave of shock over the man. His eyes flick upwards, but Anti is still just smiling, lips together.

Attempting to throw the knife away from him, JJ looks down in horror at his hand, which is not cooperating with what his brain so desperately wants. It continues to move towards his own throat, juttering and stilted, but maintaining a constant trajectory, heading for his jugular.

“It’s okay”, the soothing voice whispered, crackling in his eardrums. “It’s going to be so much fun”. A high pitched giggle reverberates around the room, around his head. It would be fun, wouldn’t it? He’d be like Sean, wearing a bright red necklace as he lies in his hospital bed. That sounds like fu- these aren’t my thoughts!

“You’ve always been mine, Jameson” the voice breathed, static slithering into his eyes, his ears, ensnaring and enrobing every aspect of his soul. He can’t think, he can’t see, everything is muffled by a haze of fog and glitching in and out of reality. When the blade finally makes contact with his neck, he leans into the touch. Slowly, centimetre by centimetre, he begins to move it across the line that Anti had so kindly drawn for him. He’s so kind to me, I want to be like him.

The man himself is watching, a face splitting smile adorning his features. When only a few drops of blood as been spilled, he lifts a hand. “Stop”.

JJ freezes, regaining a small amount of focus back into his gaze, which is trained on Anti now. “I want you to look at them, while you do it”.

Them? thinks JJ who’s them- Oh. A glance upwards to the mirror tells him all he needs to know. He no longer only sees himself reflected in the glass. There’s Chase, eyes wide and brimming with tears as he sees his brother for the first time in weeks. Jackie, who is visibly brimming with rage, being held back by Schneep, who looks to be the only reason why Jackie isn’t hurtling out of the mirror towards him right now. Their good doctor, who is staring at him with a somberness and devastation that the other’s don’t have. They can’t have. Because they haven’t been in JJ’s spot, not like he has. And Marvin, his long hair unkempt and uncared for, bags under his eyes, with his hand rubbing his own throat, unconsciously mirroring his youngest brothers actions. He is bursting with nervous energy, and the air around him shimmers with unrestrained magic.

They don’t speak, they can’t. Whether because of Anti, or because they’re not real, JJ doesn’t know. Blinking, he regards their faces. He sees Marvin’s eyes follow the drop of blood slowly moving down his neck. He turns back to Anti.

“Resume”.

The blade moves again, splitting open his neck in a big red smile. His body spasms and shakes but remains upright, held by the static, which hungrily moves around him, rushing into him even faster through this new entry point.

Anti lets out his own insane cackle, giggling and glitching, causing the static energy in the room to hum even louder, and reaches behind him to put one hand on the mirror.

“Now, puppet” he whispers, glancing back at the frozen egos behind him, before turning to JJ.

“L̻A̞̬̗̥̯͡U̝G͓͔̖Ḩ̟̣̤͉͇̪”

His fist smashes into the mirror, shattering it into a thousand pieces and cracking both JJ and the watching companions down the middle. A strangled sound escapes JJ, the first sound in decades. Was it even a human noise? Born out of insanity, and glee, and sick pleasure, JJ laughs, blood spurting from his wound with each palpitation, meeting the distraught eyes of the people trapped in the mirror as he does. D͏̫̭̝̪͎̘o̖é̠s̬͍͎͎͎͠ ̡͉̥̬̜̫h͓̹̼̖̫͙̦e̢͉̻ ̩l͇͙ǫ͇̤̩̙̱ͅo̵̳͔̼ͅk̥̜͖͈̣̙̲ ̘̻̣͓̼ͅa̸͍̭̳s҉̩̜̖ b̴͓͖̟̫̻ŗ̣o͏͕̻̯̳͉͙k̲̞͖̀e̤̤n̴̬̹̲̩͔͙ ̺̗̦̯̼̖͉a̪͚̬͞s͍̣̼ ͏t͞h͏e͕̩̠̲y̮͖̤̯͉̠ ̹̼͇d̘͔̮̯̭o?̙̝

#jacksepticeye #jameson jackson #antisepticeye #hope you guys enjoy!! #tw gore #under a keep reading bc long #i dont think it worked the first time so sorryyy

[spherekuriboh]

obviously at 5am this morning i was making good decisions.... persona 1 dont starve au

kandori is the maxwell, obviously, for obvious reasons. A Deal With Them. An Awful Deal With Them. God You Are So Stupid.

maki is the (relative) charlie for "caught up in that bullshit" reasons-- kandori did that thing and They made it come back to bite him. she's in The Darkness and really doesnt want anybody to see her like this........ i wanna say that the playable maki (waki) is like...... the wes, but i guess that's not quite consistent. im still thinking about it. either way, Shadow Maki (ha, ha) takes the nightmare throne while nanjo is pontificating and he flips and immediately tries to strangle player character waki over it. i wanna say mai and aki are.... like.... unique mobs? maybe mr slithers....? maybe more.

this of course makes the actual boundary of the world the sea of souls and i imagine there’s (turns my hand in the air) weaksauce philemon-igor placement somewhere. imagine pigmen but they’re philemon. no.

the game’s major bosses are probably seasonal... (chisato, screaming) I’M AN AUTUMN. 

anyway here's my thoughts abt playstyles.

masao can dance to regain sanity but if he's below a certain threshold he (DANCES CRAZY) and penalizes the people around him. he's got low sanity and an average amount of hunger... probably. he might have higher hunger drain to pay for him being tankier and getting a better damage modifier. he can probably do some bullshit with signposts.

waki practices mindfulness and has very good sanity retention at cost of probably? taking more damage from the things around her. she has the compact item and it might? produce a shadow of her the way the codex umbra would? i dunno. this sounds like a bad idea so she mostly keeps it in her pocket.

hidehiko has average (maybe slightly low) health and sanity but low hunger. he pretends to be an all-arounder. hes not and will, at this rate, starve. he does however naturally walk faster than other characters. he might be the guy willing or able to eat rotted food.

nanjo has fuckoff low health and a lowered damage modifier for his high sanity and hunger. he gets a pvp damage bonus and probably comes with like. a vanity workbench of his own, if not a prefabricated science machine. he probably has a sentimental item in his inventory. he also can last the longest in The Darkness before it kills him. probably wont eat things that arent cooked or are spoiling.

naoya... is the all arounder, probably. protag rights. he was holding his psp when he got yanked into the constant and can use it as a source of light and sound..... hm. hes probably got something else going on. the psp might be the Dowsing Rod(tm) to find the... mirror shards or the teleportato stuff or w/e

yuki is pppprobably anoher tank. fjdjsjs attacking humanoid enemies probably damages her too, via (THE GUILT). you definitely unlock her in adventure mode which is probably just stages named after the towers lmao... [KING OF TARTARUS]....

reiji's sanity is in the fucking toilet and that's what i know about reiji. no. hes good at making shit with the prestihatitator... honestly hes probably immune to a lot of insanity aura stuff that's around magic items to make up for... his fuckoff low sanity. resistant to enemy sanity drain and immune to it from objects probably. he's definitely been dealing with Them the longest.

idk enough about ayase or eriko to throw out suggestions..... one of them gets to be good at crockpot recipes for balancing reasons probably.

#distext #oof ouch my tarot #starving tag #im almost done with the main route and then (party popper) snow queen time.

[i-am-arcana-trash]

Forever

So this idea came to me while playing Julien's route (spoilers if you haven't finished)

While sitting in the field before they confront Lucio, Nadia mentions they used to hang out at the palace, including playing at the fountain on her birthday. I decided to role with that. So enjoy, it's got fluff, and a little bit of the main 3 (with a little focus on Asra)

Pronouns: she/her

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Forever

'Hey MC are you almost ready? We'll be late to Nadia's if you don't hurry up.'

'AHHHH, sorry sorry! Just with dinner I felt like dressing up a little.' You step around the corner pulling down the hem of your shirt. While not any fancier than your typical attire, the shirt was a beautiful shade of royal blue. gold threading glimmered in the candlelight of the shop and a fitted pair of white pants

Asra grinned, the dimples in his cheeks becoming more pronounced. Stepping into your bubble he cups your face in his hands, stroking your cheekbones with his thumb. He gently turns your head side to side, almost like he's inspecting you.

'Faust what do you think?' the familiar serpent pokes her head out from under Asra's scarf and tilts her head at you.

'PRETTY FRIEND!'

Asra grins, 'I agree Faust, MC looks stunning'

You two are interrupted by a knock on the door. 'HEY YOU TWO, NADIA WILL BLAME ME AGAIN IF WE'RE LATE. YOU CAN MAKE LOVEY EYES AT EACH OTHER LATER.'

You both burst out laughing at Julien's tone and you stride over to the door, opening it and leaning up on the door frame. Smirking up at Julien. 'Hello Doctor......'

Julien's face flames and his mouth hangs open slightly. You feel Asra standing behind you, leaning into you while you both make 'lovey eyes' at the man in front of you.

He stutters before regaining his composure, running a hand through his hair and he grabs your hands pulling you out of the door frame. You burst into a fit of laughter as you lock up the door and follow Asra and Julien to the waiting carriage.

The ride to the palace is quick, conversation flowing easily between the three of you. Once there, Julien and Asra each offer you a hand from the carriage and you decide to have a little fun. Taking both hands you step from the carriage turning to Julien, he eyes you for a moment before you brush his hair out of his face and tap his nose. You turn to Asra repeating the gesture and the two stare at you in a slight fog.

Satisfied you stride up the steps calling from the top 'You two better hurry up or I get Nadia all to myself!'

Asra recovers from the haze a split second before Julien does and they bound up the stairs. Giggling you run down the large main hallway following the scent of food. You come upon the door and shove it open, starling Nadia in the process.

'oh my, MC are you alright!?' her hand hangs delicately over her heart and you smile. 'oh yes, I'm sorry Nadia, I was racing Julien and Asra.' As if drawn to the sounds of their names the two come up behind you and Julien sweeps you off your feet before Asra comes down on you tickling you senseless. Julien's firm grip holds you in place until the two are satisfied after that little stunt you pulled earlier.

Nadia laughs, before attempting some level of formality 'please sit'.

Dinner at the palace is always good. Perhaps it was the type of rosé Nadia picked, but for some reason this dinner felt....special.

Your breath hitches slightly when you feel a hand intertwine with yours. Asra tilts his head towards you, your breath mingling for a moment before a loud crash from Julien derails your train of thought. You both turn and see he's manages to knock over his glass and somehow also a candelabra against the wall behind him.

He flushes crimson, cradling his head in his hands 'sorry Nadia....got....got caught up telling stories again, I'll pay for that'

Nadia smiles warmly at him and shrugs 'no need, we have plenty of glasses, Lucio breaks them regularly'

Following dinner and dessert Nadia steeples her fingers and smiles at the three of us. 'I'm in the mood to dance, anyone care to join me?' Her burgundy eyes fall on me and I grin, standing to her side offering her my hand. We stride to the ballroom, the floors freshly waxed and buffed, my reflection smiles back at me and Nadia let's go of my hand to sit at an organ to one side of the room. Julien joins her pulling out a vielle and plays along.

You twirl around the room before a firm warm hand clasps yours, pulling you against a familiar chest. Asra grins and leans into your ear 'may I....?' gazing at him through your lashes, a pink blush greets your cheeks and you follow with Asra. Faust slithers out from his collar and wraps herself around your entwined hands. You notice Asra's cheeks flame red for a moment and you eyebrow quips up. 'You okay?' you stop for a moment and caress the side of his face. He leans into it, his own hand coming up to meet yours as the distance between your faces shrink. In a breathy whisper he nods, 'Faust just said something cute, sorry about that'

A moment before your lips meet the organ stops and the graceful click of Nadia's shoes come to your spot. You both step back blushing and Nadia holds a hand out to you.

You grin and take her hand while she guides you through the room. Asra takes up a spot at the piano opposite the organ and plays with Julien.

You notice Nadia always smells divine. A vast array of warm sultry scents greet your nose, some familiar, some otherworldly and exotic. You close your eyes and feel Nadia press her forehead to yours. Feeling the music drift between you, you spin her out and catch her back in your arms as the last notes echo through the ballroom.

You open your eyes to the doctor standing in front of you, his hand out, face flushing red and Nadia playfully shoves him into your arms striding back to the organ. As she and Asra play, Julien lets you take the lead, following your every step. He even let's out a soft moan when you pull his leg around your hip, dipping him towards the ground. When you return to an upright position his eyes are dark and a little thristy looking. Suddenly he jumps back, shaking his jacket off before a familiar head pokes out of his collar.

'FAUST! Are you flirting with Julien again?!' You fake your dramatic faint and reach out, letting her slither onto your shoulder as Julien returns to the vielle, the three playing in unison as you dance solo in the center of the room, Faust hugging your arm as you spin carelessly around the room, giggling with every step. 'FAUST! What a wonderful dance partner you are!'

The three watch you. How carefree you are spinning in the center of the glimmering ballroom. Asra notices your aura, glowing and rippling out from you, pooling to every inch of the floor.

Feeling a firm squeeze on your arm. Faust brings you to a stop and motions with her head to the window. You notice the sun is setting and rush to the trio grabbing their arms and dragging them to the veranda. You rush ahead and lean against the railing watching the red sky turn orange, pink and purple. Julien picks you up setting you on the railing to sit before he swings his long legs over the edge. Asra and Nadia sit as well, a comfortable silence between all of you as darkness settles in.

A cool breeze whisks by and you notice Nadia and Julien shiver. Warming up your hands via your magic you wrap an arm around each, letting the heat radiate into their bodies.

After a few more minutes, you yawn and Nadia follows suit.

'I think it's my bedtime' she sighs out. Turning back to the veranda and walking into the ballroom once more.

Julien follows and Asra grabs your hand, lacing his fingers from yours as you return to the warm castle.

Nadia walks you to the main hallway

'You know you're all welcome to stay, I have plenty of rooms..' she gestures to the maze of doors lining each hall.

Julien chuckles 'its tempting but if I'm not home soon Mazelinka will tan my hide....next time'

Sweeping Nadia into a hug he lifts her feet slightly off the ground 'As always your hospitality has been impeccable' and plants a light kiss on her cheek. He looks to Asra and I sweeping both of us into a bear hug, his cheeks flushing. A contented sigh leaves his lips, planting light kisses on each of our cheeks before releasing. His eyes meet mine for a moment and something flashes through them before he turns to the open door, waving over his shoulder 'thank you again, I'll see you soon'

With the last swish of his coat he's gone. Asra and I turn to meet Nadia's gaze as she takes Asra in her arms, giving him a firm but loving hug. She then turns to me, arms open and pulls me in for a hug as well. Her hands stroking the space between my shoulder blades.

I sigh into it and feel how tired I am. She releases me tipping my chin up to meet her gaze and smiles warmly, planting a gentle kiss to my forehead before turning to Asra.

'Early morning tomorrow?'

'Yes we need to go into the forest for supplies, we have that trip coming up soon and need to prepare'

She nods in understanding, pointing to a carriage in the courtyard. 'Please allow me to see that you get home safe.'

Asra nods and laces his fingers in mine, making me flush red as we walk down the steps. Nadia waves us off before turning down the glimmering castle hallway to her room.

As the carriage rocks down the street, I look to Asra. He meets my gaze before holding my chin, his thumb traces the line of my bottom lip and I feel a thousand butterflies in my chest.

Leaning in he hovers just before my lips, expecting me to make the next move. I raise an eyebrow slightly and run a hand over the bare patch of skin in the front of his shirt, two can play this game. I'm pleased by the blush spreading into his face and rest a hand on his shoulder, stroking the collarbone.

I feel his breath hitch and I win. He wraps an arm around my waist pulling me into his lap, while his lips steal my breath.

Before long the shop sits in front of us and we try to steady our breath, faces red, hair askance. When the carriage driver opens the door Asra helps me down and we wave him off. At the doorway Asra stops, and looks me in the eye, his eyes swimming with an emotion I can't place. Before I can say anything he holds a finger to my lips and brings his lips to my ear.

In a voice barely above a whisper, he murmers 'I love you.....'

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

#the arcana #the arcana julian #the arcana asra #the arcana fanfic #the arcana fanfiction #the arcana nadia #asra x apprentice #julien x apprentice #nadia x apprentice #fluff #sfw

[justadram]

Meta Monday: Dragons

“Dragons are fire made flesh, and fire is power.”--Quaithe to Daenerys in A Clash of Kings

In honor of all things ghastly, this week we’re talking about the fantasy genre beast to end all beasts, the dragon, and examining its role in ASOIAF and medieval history. Good or bad, it’s not entirely clear yet the role dragons will play in Westeros, but one thing is for certain: they feature heavily in modern fantasy and have been the stuff of nightmares for centuries.

Indeed, the presence of dragons in modern fantasy is one of the biggest holdovers from the medieval imagination. Medievals loved a damn dragon tale. You could talk dragons with just about anyone in Western Europe, and they’d know what you were yammering on about. What a dragon looked like, however, differed from place to place. Some of them were snake like creatures that slithered and killed via constriction, some had limbs and wings, some spewed venom, others fire. The Beowulf dragon, for example, is serpent like. The Norse Fáfnir is a slithering, venomous serpent too. While Chrétien de Troyes’ Yvain slays a fire-breathing dragon.

The main types of dragons were the Continental dragon or fire-breathing dragon we all know that inspires modern fantasy writers, the mostly wingless Lindworm of Germanic tradition, the limbless and wingless Germanic sea serpent, and the two-legged and winged wyvrn.

A variety of dragon-like creatures can be found in ASOIAF as well. The wyvern is a dragonish beast from Sothoryos that doesn’t breathe fire, but is still one of the reasons that continent is sparsely populated. The firewyrm, on the other hand, is a wingless fire-breathing underground creature, which tunnels through earth and stone. Additionally, there are two legendary species: sea dragons and ice dragons. The former might still be found in the Sunset Sea; the latter in the Shivering Sea and White Waste.

The ice pressed close around them, and he could feel the cold seeping into his bones, the weight of the Wall above his head. It felt like walking down the gullet of an ice dragon.--Jon Snow, A Storm of Swords.

Depictions of scales, four legs, wings, and fire breathing are the norm in modern fantasy. GRRM’s dragons differ in one key area: they have two legs and use their wings in the same way a bat does--both to fly and as forelegs. Another agreed upon detail from the past and our present is dragon size: they end up big, but they start out small. Daenerys’ dragons start out the size of cats and firewyrm brood are the size of a human arm. Likewise, the dragons in Ragnars saga loðbrókar (hello, Vikings fans) start out small enough to be put in a jar. All end up large enough to do major damage. Many modern fantasy and medieval dragons are also treasure hoarders, who prefer to live underground in caves, a predilection not shared by ASOIAF dragons, who require open spaces to grow and aren’t greedy for anything but food seemingly.

Medieval dragons were also fantastical in that they happened to other people, often far away and in the distant past. Christendom tended to think of dragon-slaying as happening in the distant east. St Elizabeth the Wonderworker slayed a dragon by stomping it to death in Constantinople in the 6th c.; St Margaret was eaten by a dragon in Antioch and burst from its stomach by God’s grace, killing it in 303; St Theodore killed a dragon in Asia Minor before 306; St George slew his famous dragon in Cappadocia or Libya before 303. Many of these accounts were popularized in the west in the 11th and 12th centuries, the same time as  Chrétien de Troyes was popularizing the knight errant, who sometimes slew dragons. These saintly dragon-slayings supposedly happened in the east, because the east was viewed as pagan and dragons were stand-ins for the devil.

Although dragons are presently in Westeros on HBO and soon on their way in the books, they similarly originated elsewhere, far away, long ago. There are competing claims as to the origin of dragons in the world. Valyrians claim they spawned from the volcanoes on the Valyrian peninsula. In Assai, they say ancient people tamed dragons and brought them to Valyria. They also might be from the Shadow Lands. Or Valyrian bloodmages could have created dragons from wyverns.

We shall not pretend to any understanding of the bond between dragon and dragonrider; wiser heads have pondered that mystery for centuries. We do know however, that dragons are not horses, to be ridden by any man who throws a saddle on their back.--The Princess and the Queen, GRRM

The Targaryens, who originally hail from Valyria, are dragon-riders. So, while many people rightfully fear dragons, Targaryen power is built upon the relationship between rider and dragon. There is a positive relationship between the beast and rider. Dragon riding is modern fantasy fare--but not all medieval dragons were considered purely evil. Most famously, the Welsh are represented in their mythology by the red dragon, who will ultimately defeat the Anglo-Saxons or white dragon: not an evil portend, but one of future victory.

Some were also not so far away. In England, dragons happened closer to home with some regularity. Anglo-Saxons settled Knotlow (now in Derbyshire) in 700 and called the hill there Wormhill, the lair of a dragon. The Bisterne Dragon of Hampshire was dispatched by a Sir Maurice Berkeley in the 15th c., saving the village from its milk thieving ways. Celtic legend surrounds Bignor Hill in Sussex. The Lambton Worm in Durham was dispatched by John Lambton upon his return from the crusades. A similar legend exists of the Linton Worm, along the Scottish borders. Etc, etc.

Elsewhere, they also could make trouble closer to home, often during the period of conversion from Germanic paganism to Christianity. St Clement of Metz tamed the Graoully, a foul dragon, in return for the local population’s conversion. St Olaf killed a sea serpent in Valldal, Norway by chucking it into the mountains. Umbria had a few troublesome dragons, including a wyvern in Terni and a dragon in Fornole, respectively dispatched by a knight and a pope. Holy men and women often feature as dragon-slayers, since dragons became symbols of Satan after the Christianization of Europe.

Dragons were by and large something to be dispatched, defeated by the hero either in pagan or Christian tradition. And while Daenerys looks upon her dragons as children, even she has trouble controlling Drogon and locks the other two up, when a man claims Drogon ate his daughter. Not everyone looks kindly upon them: they are to be an instrument of conquest, as they were in the Wars of Conquest against the Seven Kingdoms. To those about to be conquered, they are feared, as much as they were feared as Satanic symbols.

However, for all the long history of dragons being better off dead, they are also creatures steeped in surprising magic. For example, in Germanic tradition, Siegfried is gifted with invulnerable skin after he kills and is bathed in the blood of a dragon. Their magic can be expansive.

This is no doubt true in Westeros as well. We are told that when dragons went extinct in the world of ASOIAF, the winters became longer and the summers shorter. Their magic is tied to the seasons, tied to the very thing which now threatens Westeros, as surely as their flames do. And they may play a key role not in the subjugation of Westeros to Targaryen rule, but in the fight for Westeros, as they face the undead army that approaches from beyond the Wall.

“Necromancy animates these wights, yet they are still only dead flesh. Steel and fire will serve for them. The ones you call the Others are something more.”--Melisandre, A Storm of Swords.

After all, dragonglass, which the smallfolk say is made by dragons, is one of the few things that can kill an Other. The other is dragonsteel, which Jon and Sam believe is Valyrian steel, the outcome of a lost process of forging with magical properties, possibly forged by dragon. All things dragon seem to point to the possible defeat of the Others, which means we might want to keep those dragons around just a little bit longer.

*Meta Monday appears on Mondays when I’m feeling inspired. Feel free to follow me or the tracked tag: Meta Monday.

**If you have a topic you’d like to see addressed by a medievalist, please send me an ask. Past topics are here.

#got meta #asoiaf meta #daenerys targaryen #dragons #medieval history #meta monday

[jedi-valjean]

The Emperor’s Stone-- Chapter 2.1

Taglist: @inkspilledqueen @inkwellprincess @agentorange-writes (If I’ve forgotten you or you want to be added, please let me know!)

Zarakharn, our antagonist is introduced, and the state of the dominion is revealed.

Zarakharn paced the room, talons clacking on the floorstones. At twelve foot four, he was an imposing figure. His eyes gleamed red as he strutted impatiently back and forth.

He flicked his wings impatiently, adjusting the silver spirals that adorned his magnificent nightforest horns: the imperial crowns.

Zarakharn was arrayed in other adornments of fine metal: a ring on each hand (one of which was the imperial signet, and the other a plain, argent ring) and a bracelet on his wrist.

It was this bracelet that had given him so much trouble. The band had belonged to Khriza, second emperor of the Denzaridian dynasty, though the band, like one of the rings, was more ancient than many supposed. Zarakharn had sought it for his own reasons, and that being that the band contained great magic. For Zarakharn was a sorcerer, and a darkly powerful one at that.

Ash had been unknowingly right in his jest to call the stone magic, for it was. Zarakharn had reigned for one hundred years--half a Khrizan’s lifetime--but in body he was as young as he had been when he assumed the throne at sixty. This was because of the stone’s enchantment, and should it be destroyed, Zarakharn would die.

But it was more difficult to destroy the stone than it seemed, a fact that would be evident had you known what the stone had been through on the night it had been stolen.

And here we return to the bracelet, and why it was so much trouble, for that was how it was stolen to begin with.

Zarakharn had been approached via letter by a dragon who had acquired the band. Jumping at the opportunity, Zarakharn had summoned him to the palace immediately and purchased it from him. But then the dragon, one Daktarash, had stolen the stone after the transaction was completed. But he was betrayed; Kharda, the crime lord from whom Daktarash had sought refuge, turned him in, and Zarakharn wasted no time in torturing him brutally for information. What he discovered made him so furious he killed Daktarash on the spot.

Daktarash had been hired by a nameless, faceless dragon who was a member of the Inquisitorius. This he had been able to prove, for until he was interrogated, Daktarash had been more terrified of his mysterious employer’s retribution than Zarakharn’s. Because he had lost the stone he was supposed to give to the inquisitor, and had sought refuge with Kharda for this reason. Upon learning this, Zarakharn flew into a rage and rushed from the cell, leaving Daktarash’s corpse behind for the guards to dispose of.

He knew what Daktarash’s employer was. A Shazarian. The Shazarians were the only enemies that posed Zarakharn any threat, for they too were wizards. He could not allow the stone to fall into their hands. And for this reason he had summoned Kharrin, the Chief Inquisitor, and for that reason he was growing increasingly annoyed.

“Kharrin is late,” he snapped. “If I did not require him, I would kill him for this.”

The black cobra slithering on the floor hissed. Zarakharn could understand him, for he was his only friend. His name was Sartigar, and the hiss had said, Then there is much time and opportunity for me to devise cutting remarks at his expense.

Zarakharn smirked. “Perhaps I shall repeat a few of them to our dilatory Inquisitor.”

Zarakharn stared at his rings, entreating the Rishnaran to please hurry things along, he was very busy and had matters of the greatest importance to attend to. He was soon obliged.

The guards pushed the doors opened and in flew a thin, middle-aged dragon with sharp, field-grey horns. On his finger he wore the signet of the Inquisitorius. It was Kharrin, and he had really tried not to be late. He would have preferred to get through this meeting as soon as possible. Meeting with the emperor always gave him a headache.

Kharrin landed and bowed at Zarakharn’s feet.

“Rise,” Zarakharn commanded, not bothering to touch Kharrin’s horns. Kharrin did so.

Zarakharn glared at the Inquisitor. Kharrin glared back. They stood like this until Kharrin realized the emperor intended him to speak first.

“Your majesty,” said Kharrin, trying not to clench his teeth. “It is to my great regret that the Inquisitorius has not been able to ascertain the location of your missing. . . crystal stone. Rest assured we are--“

“Call them off,” Zarakharn interrupted.

Kharrin’s eyebrow twitched. “My lord?”

“Call them off,” Zarakharn repeated. “The Inquisitorius is compromised.”

“That is impossible, my liege,” Kharrin growled. “The Inquisitorius cannot be compromised so completely that I cannot trust it to search for an insignificant tri--“

Zarakharn twisted his ring, the plain one on his left middle finger. A sharp headache flashed through Kharrin’s skull like lightning. He winced. Zarakharn spoke before he could regain his composure and continue.

“The thief who stole the crystal stone was hired to do so by an inquisitor,” Zarakharn said. “This inquisitor used his connections in the Inquisitorius to threaten him into upholding his end of the bargain. When this thief lost possession of the stone, he panicked. He turned to Kharda Arfat for refuge.”

“Kharda,” Kharrin growled. “I know him well. A crime lord. He has many spies within the Inquisitorius, which you insist I leave alone. Might not one of--“

“Kharda’s plants would be more useful to you than they are to him, if only you knew how to exploit them,” Zarakharn snapped as Kharrin gritted his teeth against another headache. “And you know I am on very good terms with Kharda. He would not betray his only cousin for something that, for all he knows, is worth far less than anything he already possesses.”

“And, with all due respect, my lord,” said Kharrin, trying not to growl, “is not the same true of you? You have far larger and rarer stones in your treasury. What does this lump of enzarite matter?”

“It matters enough that a member of the Inquisitorius hired someone to steal it,” Zarakharn snarled. “That is enough for you.”

Sartigar brushed his tail against Kharrin’s hind talons, hoping to unnerve him. Kharrin resisted the urge to swat the emperor’s pet with his tail as he gritted his teeth against another headache. “Very well. Where is the thief? I must interrogate him.”

Then you may interrogate the guards’ bellies, Sartigar hissed gleefully.

“He’s dead,” Zarakharn said. “He committed suicide after the interrogation.”

Kharrin gritted his teeth. “Of course.” His eye twitched as Sartigar slithered between his feet.

Zarakharn made no attempt to reign in his companion. “You will find this traitor and bring him to me, alive. Though perhaps the fact that you have not found him already speaks to your competence and capabilities.”

“Kharrin quelled a few irritated sparks. “I can do a great deal more than you imagine.”

“I have yet to see as to that,” Zarakharn sniffed.

“Your father thought my service admirable,” Kharrin retorted. “Enough to promote me at a younger age than was yours when you assumed the throne.” He jammed his claws into his temple and cursed under his breath.

“That is only because he did not die an early death,” Zarakharn snapped. “And since your promotion, you have run on ambition that cannot be satisfied. It has corrupted you into a sniveling tool.”

Kharrin stamped his foot, nearly impaling Sartigar with his talons. Sartigar gasped and shot away from him. Zarakharn grabbed him by the tail with his foot before he could snap around and sink his fangs into Kharrin’s ankle.

Kharrin bowed. “My deepest apologies, your majesty.”

Zarakharn paid no heed, commanding Sartigar to come to him. Sartigar threw Kharrin a look and slithered up Zarakharn’s leg.

“Sire,” Kharrin said after a while, “there’s something else.”

“What is it?” Zarakharn snapped.

“Sar Argandi has reappeared,” said Kharrin.

Zarakharn whirled around, his tail cracking like a whip. “What?” he roared.

“We’ve been doing our best to track him, but he vanishes every time he stri--” Kharrin snarled and gripped his temples.

“Sar Argandi could be connected with the traitorous inquisitor!” Zarakharn shouted. “What have you been doing?”

“We have our best trackers on him,” Kharrin replied shakily. “But I had no idea he could be connected with an insider. How is it possible? Sar Argandi is an enemy of the Inquisitorius! He kills all inquisitors in his path!”

“And this traitorous inquisitor must be an enemy to the Inquisitorius as well,” Zarakharn replied.

“Are you suggesting they are in league?” asked Kharrin, eyes widening.

“Not in league,” said Zarakharn. “Not allies, not conspirators. But connected.”

Kharrin considered this.

“But perhaps I am wrong.”

Kharrin raised an eyebrow.

“Perhaps they are indeed colluding.”

Kharrin sight inwardly with exasperation.

“I expect Sar Argandi will kill many more if you do not apprehend him quickly,” said Zarakharn. “What does the public know of this?”

“A great deal more than the Inquisitorius would prefer,” said Kharrin ruefully. “The terror of Sar nearly rivals the notoriety of the stone.”

“That is well,” said Zarakharn. “Eyewitnesses will be a great asset to you.”

“Rest assured, your majesty, we will apprehend him,” Kharrin growled.

“Rest assured that I am not reassured,” Zarakharn sniffed.

“I will not fail you, my lord,” Kharrin insisted, features hardening. “I will stake my life on it.”

“An empty gesture,” Zarakharn replied, brandishing his tailblade, “considering that it never wasn’t.”

Kharrin’s brow furrowed with anger at the threat. He bowed and flew from the room to his task.

Zarakharn sighed. He couldn’t trust a non-Kenshi to do anything. Which was why he was going to go after the stone himself, because he was the only living one.

The Kenshi were an order broken off from the Shazarians thousands of years ago. War had kept the numbers of both orders scant, but the Shazarians had always outnumbered the Kenshi. Still, with only one Kenshi living, which same Kenshi was the first in a thousand years, they had managed to acquire three of the of the five Bands of Power.

Zarakharn now turned his attention to the stone. He could not determine where it was or apparate to its location, but he could find out who touched it last and where that person was.

He did so now by squeezing a tiny pouch between his claws, releasing a marble which he caught in his hand. He lifted it to his gaze and pressed the white side to his eye.

He saw a dragon curled in a shabby mound of a bed, sleeping on his belly with his wings tucked at his sides. This was, of course, our young Ginzaekh.

Zarakharn’s eyes narrowed. The features of this drakeling seemed almost familiar to him. The contours of his snout, the curves of his ridged horns, the shape of his spined crest. This dragon uncannily resembled one Ginzaekh Arrissa, a Shazarian Zarakharn had killed. This dragon could not be him; even had Zarakharn been mistaken in his death (and I can assure you that he was not) this one was much too young to be he, for this dragon looked some five or six years from adulthood. But if Zarakharn’s suspicious had any foundation, this dragon was undoubtedly the Shazarian’s son.

Zarakharn’s brow furrowed tightly. He had to find out as soon as possible. If correct, this dragon was descended from a long line of powerful sorcerers. If he had the stone, it boded quite ill for Zarakharn indeed if he had already begun to be instructed in magic--and learned the identity of his father’s murderer. Zarakharn was certain the stone was not a good omen in this young dragon’s hands.

He turned the marble to the blue side. It displayed a map of Khriza. The village of Rer glowed blue. The stone was on the other end of Khriza.

He needed to speak to his master about this immediately.

#the emperor's stone #chapters #excerpt #zarakharn #kharrin #sartigar #sar argandi #ginzaekh's father #ginzaekh #daktarash

[jsilva0117]

CS Sleeping Beauty AU: Once Upon a Dream

Summary: Emma knows nothing about her past nor being the princess of Misthaven, and little does she know she has met her betrothed and true love.

Start from the beginning here.

*I am working on this fic without a beta at the moment, so I do apologize for grammatical errors.

Chapter 10

King George paces relentlessly in his throne room. A habit he’s picked up recently ever since reading his son’s letter. His royal guard has been searching the entire kingdom and beyond for him with no luck. He stops at the window to look out. “That boy will regret ever defying me,” King George proclaims to himself.

“Having trouble keeping track of your own son, King George,” an unknown voice speaks.

Startled, King George turns around, wondering who has intruded in on him.

“I guess some people are just not meant for royalty.” Regina is planted firmly on his throne, grinning like a snake.

“Guards,” King George shouts out when Regina cuts him off.

“Don’t bother. I soundproofed this room. I thought we could have a chat.”

“And who might you be? And how did you get in here,” King George raises his voice with clear inpatients for his intruder.

Regina laughs and stands to introduce herself. “oh, calm down your majesty. I’m here to offer you a most appealing opportunity. I’m queen Regina.”

“Regina? Queen Snow’s mother?  You were exiled years ago.”

Regina’s lips curl in anger. “Stepmother.” Her poise returns back quickly. “And that’s an excellent Segway as to why I’m here.” Regina starts to pace the room. “I’m about to reclaim my throne from my step-daughter and her prince charming,” slithering King David’s moniker out with a sarcastic tone. “ This will no doubt cause a war. A war I plan to win, for I have a plan in motion to obtain something most precious to them.”

King George smirks, ready to call her bluff. “You don’t have Princess Emma. Everyone knows she’s in hiding.”

“Oh, but I have the next best thing.” Her smile grows in the most sinister way, sending chills up King George’s back. “See, I know that Princess Emma will come to me because I have the man she loves.”

“And who is that?”

“Why, her betrothed, of course. It seems they have already met and have fallen for one another. Your wish come true your highness.”

“Killian? You have my son!” King George starts to charge at Regina with anger in his eyes, but before he can get the second step in he feels an invisible grip wrap around his throat, cutting off his air supply. It stops him in his tracks as he struggles to breathe.

“You dare to approach me in such a manner!?” Regina’s grip gets tighter, enjoying watching King George fall at her mercy.  “I’ve come to offer you a deal, George. Join me in my quest to take back my throne. With Princess Emma in my procession and your army, Snow and David will have no choice. It’s no secret you have the most powerful army in the realm. With your army and my magic, we can be unstoppable.”

Regina finally releases her grip on the King, letting him crumble to the floor, gasping for precious air. Rubbing this strained neck and coughing he responds, “And what exactly is in this form me?” He slowly makes his way back to standing to face her. “After you’ve gotten your thrown back, what do I get out of this?”

Regina’s lips curl into a wicked grin. “Why, you king George, get your son back.”

King George’s eyes go wild with anger. “What have you done with him”, he yells at Regina but hesitates to put himself any closer to her.

“He’s fine. He’s making himself comfortable in my dungeon as we speak. Help me, and you may have him back. Do nothing and he dies.”

King George hesitates, studying Regina and weighing his options. “I’ll never help you. I know Killian. He’ll find a way out. He’s my son, and he’s the most resourceful man I know, and I’ve grown tired of our little visit. It’s time for you to leave.”

Regina’s expression goes cold with rage. “Well, that would be a mistake, George.” She quickly strides over to him and plunges her hand into King George’s chest and pulls out a glowing, beating heart.

King George gasps and falls to his knees, grabbing his chest, surprised to feel no opening or injury there.

“See King George, with my magic I can take your heart. And when you hold a heart, you control it. Now, let us have a visit with my step-daughter, shall we.”

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> 

 “Snow will you please stop pacing. I know you’re anxious to see our daughter, but there’s no need to wear out the floor”, King David teasingly says to his wife as they both await the arrival, and a long-awaited reunion with their only daughter, whom they have given away so many years ago.

Maleficent had sent a message via bird saying the princess was on her way to them. Snow has not sat down since.

“Snow, Maleficent just sent that bird. They’re still miles away.”

Snow stops to look at him, realizing how anxious she was to see her daughter.  “You’re right”, she sighs out. She walks to her seat to sit next to her husband in the dining hall awaiting their dinner.  “But David, do you think we did the right thing?  I mean, how can we expect her to forgive us for sending her away?”

David takes Snow’s hand into his. “Hey”, he says softly. “We had no choice. Regina would have found a way –“

Snow cuts in. “We could have protected her. We could have found a way. We always do!”

“Maybe, but I think you know we couldn’t take that risk. Sending her away was her best chance,” David responds to Snow’s unease and regret, stroking her cheek, giving her as much comfort as possible. The pain and guilt were eating at him too. He knew what she was going through. “And it’s not us we should be projecting this on. This lies on Regina. She’s responsible for those years lost with Emma. She’s the reason she grew up without her parents.” David’s throat gets tight and his eyes get watery with the rage and heartache swirling inside him. “We can only hope Emma will understand.”

Snow looks at her husband with love and adoration, feeling so lucky she has him. She leans toward him bringing her lips to his, cupping his cheek, a single tear rolling down her face. When she breaks the kiss she rests her forehead on his. “Thank you. I don’t know what I would do without you. I only hope you’re right. That Emma will understand and hopefully forgive us because I’m not sure I can.” More tears stream down Snow’s cheeks and David grabs her for an embrace, hoping to comfort her.

“I know,” he says softly. “Me too.”

The castle’s butler interrupts their moment as he opens the doors to the dining hall. “Your Majesties, King George has arrived and has requested he speak with you.”

David takes a moment to answer, wiping a tear from his eye, trying to regain a king’s poise. “Send him in.”

King George walks in bowing before the King and Queen of Mishaven.  “King George. To what do we owe the pleasure? Please tell me it’s not about Princess Emma’s return. We’ve already told you, we won’t force our daughter to marry your son. We agreed we’d set up the conditions for them to meet and court, but the rest would be up to them.”

King George stands to address them. “I’m afraid that’s not why I’m here. Queen Regina paid me a visit.”

“Regina,” Queen Snow interjects. “What did she want?”

King George hesitates for a moment. “For me to break my alliance with Misthaven and join her to overtake your kingdom.” His voice breaks, conflict present in his features.

“Well, what’d you tell her,” King David commands.

“She sends me with a message.” King George’s tone and voice change slightly, almost as if it didn’t belong to him. “Give up the crown now and avoid a war with my army that will end countless lives. You will then live the rest of your days in her dungeon, while your daughter lies in an eternal sleep.”

David and Snow quickly come to their feet, David drawing his sword. “You’ve aligned with Regina,” David growls.

“Not by choice.” King Georg pauses. “She has my son.”

“Killian,” Snow whispers. “We will stop her and save Killian George. You don’t have to do this. We’ll find a way.”

“His son isn’t the only thing I have,” Regina says as she waltzes in from behind the doors, King George’s heart on hand.

“Regina,” Snow’s voice gets low with fury. Snow takes David’s sword from his hand and charges at Regina with full force. Snow screams as the blade lead her charge.

“Oh please,” Regina sarcastically responds at the sight. Her wrist flicks toward Snow’s weapon, causing it to fly out of her hand and land several feet away.

Stunned, Snow looks at her husband’s sword on the ground, unsure of her next move.

“You think you can come at me with your petty weapons,” A snarl escaping Regina’s lips as she grips the air with her hand, making Snow gasp for air.

“Snow,” David yells from across the room. He starts running toward his Wife.

“Move any closer Charming and I’ll snap her neck.”

David stops in his tracks, feeling helpless, watching his wife gasp for air to no avail.

Regina looks Snow in the eye. “I would love nothing more than to watch you die right here and now, but killing you wouldn’t be enough. I want you to suffer as I have. I want you to know loss.” Rage and grief battle within Regina as a single tear traces down her cheek. Regina’s vengeful stare bores into Snow’s as she watches the life drain out of her. It’s a challenge to let go and not fulfill her revenge right then and there, but Regina releases her grip and Snow falls for the floor coughing and rubbing her neck.

David runs toward his wife to catch her before she can hit the ground. He checks over her, making sure she’s okay. Turning to Regina he shouts, “What do you want Witch!”

Regina looks down at the King and Queen, satisfied with how she’s wielded her power over them.

“Why, I’ve come to accept your surrender of course. I have at my disposal King George’s army. You can’t win. Soon I will have your daughter under my curse.” She kneels down putting her eyes in line with theirs. “I’ve won.”

“You won’t get her,” Snow manages to speak under a raspy voice. “We’ll see to that.”

Regina slowly stands back up, looking down at them. “Well then, I’ll just have to make sure you can’t stop me.” With another wave of her hand, a purple mist casts over Snow and David. Before they can realize what’s happening they both fall to the floor resting in a deep, deep slumber. Regina grins, feeling the buzz of victory in her grasp. She turns to walk out, King George’s heart still in hand.

“What have you done to them,” King George asks as she strides past him.

“Oh don’t worry. I’ve just put them under a sleeping spell. Different than the one I have in store for the princess. Their sleep is temporary. This spell eventually wears off. I just need to make sure no one gets in my way.” And with that Regina steps outside twirling her free, magical hand in the air as if creating her own magical twister. The purple mist gets bigger until she blows on it with her mouth, sending it out into the atmosphere, putting everyone in the Kingdom under the same spell as the King and Queen.

#captainswan au #captain swan ff #Prince!Killian #PRINCESS EMMA #killian jones #emma swan #emma and killian #kmomof4

[gascon-en-exil]

FE16 Blue Lions Liveblogging

Chapters 19-20. Much ado about Claude, except the one question I wanted answered.

At this point in Normal mode gameplay is mostly just shuffling through some final classes for endgame, plus trying to finish up as many support lines as possible so I’ve got less to do in subsequent Lions runs. Some of the maps have siege weapons or tomes that cause issues thanks to my various low RES units (although it’s ridiculous how Dedue’s massive HP can soak up 20+ damage at once from Bolting or magic siege turrets), but aside from that the challenge seems to be winding down. Interesting to note how many lategame maps have stairs in them, which hinder cavalry movement and actually encourage them to dismount. Something that makes most of the maps feel shorter than they otherwise would be is that most of them end when you kill the boss. Not that I miss Radiant Dawn throwing almost half a dozen rout maps in your way right before endgame, but I finished Chapter 19′s story map in something like four turns without even rushing. That was barely enough time to appreciate the surprisingly competent NPC AI.

Annette finally got Abraxas, though the visual is a bit disappointing for the ultimate light spell. At least Mercedes is now a holy knight and can be useful again; next time I’d just say keep her as a bishop. Similarly, I might keep Felix as a swordmaster rather than try to get him into mortal savant, because Astra and the boosted crit are both too nice to give up for some so-so magic damage.

Dimitri’s Silver Maiden paralogue had the bulk of the deadly siege weaponry, even more than the supposed impregnable Fort Merceus that gets invaded in Chapter 20. Admittedly that’s because most of my party fears magic more than ballistae (and fliers can just dismount to avoid effective damage), but still. Hubert retreats for a third time in this paralogue; not that I have anything against the guy necessarily, but I hope you eventually do get to kill him.

Caspar and Linhardt however do not retreat when fought at Merceus, and die in a battle neither of them seem to have a reason to be in. I take it Caspar’s presence in the battle where you kill the Death Knight is related to how he and Mercedes share a paralogue presumably regarding the DK’s origins.

At my current rate I’m not going to max out Renown on any of the saint statues. It looks like you’re expected to use NG+ to finish those.

Story/Character observations

Not much with supports this time around, but I’ve been enjoying some of the more pertinent NPC chatter and party banter in the monastery. Shamir is great for this, first pointing out a few chapters previously how strange it is that the army would turn around after Gronder and head the other direction to liberate Fhirdiad, and now contemplating the abrupt merger of the Kingdom and the Alliance. A monk reveals that members of the church are being persecuted and exiled from the Empire, and a random knight relays the story of the Alliance gaining its independence from the Kingdom. When House Leicester’s ruler died without an heir several centuries ago some of the lords of Fhirdiad attempted to set up a republic there under their control, which incited House Reigan to start a rebellion. A republic...inside of a monarchy...controlled by a group of nobles.... I’m not even going to try to make sense of that one.

As regards House Reigan in the present, Claude is as shrewd as ever, drawing the Empire in to besiege his capital because he correctly anticipates that Dimitri will not only retake his own capital but then immediately rush in to play the Alliance’s hero. At least he (Claude) owns up to his recklessness as well as his self-interest, which sees him abandon the Alliance (along with his Relic, which surprised me as I thought the house leaders’ were personal weapons...I guess only Byleth is special enough to have one of those) and Fódlan entirely. This is one of the only instances of Dimitri and Claude interacting in the entire game, and, having just watched the Claude/Lorenz supports today on YouTube, it’s sad to say that these two have more chemistry in one conversation than Claude does with his quasi-retainer in an entire support line. It’s nothing compared to all the homoerotic longing going on in the Lions, and I’m aware that Claude asking Dimitri to go easy on him the next time they meet is most likely a sly way of suggesting they’re going to do so on the battlefield after Claude raises an army in Almyra and tries to take over all of Fódlan or something, but it’s something for anyone still into Claumitri. 

The understated threat to fix racism by foreign invasion (which I think is what Claude’s long game is revealed to be on the Deer route?) is a classic case of FE setting up a situation where its apparent happy endings don’t turn out so happy after a while, but on a similar note I was surprised to see Arundel killed off in Chapter 19. I know from spoilers that he’s really Thales, the leader of Those Who Slither in the Dark, so even though the Lions route gets flack for never returning to that larger threat to peace in Fódlan it seems like Dimitri took care of the problem without realizing it. Yay?

One question I do have about that group though is whether they really are the people they publicly appear to be or whether those people - Monica, Tomas, Arundel, possibly even Cornelia based on some descriptions of her - were quietly killed by the organization and the replaced by impersonators.

But here’s my big unanswered question for Claude on this route: why was he at Gronder? This is never addressed. There’s no way even he could have predicted that Dimitri would have a change of heart and turn around to liberate Fhirdiad after the battle. Was he attacking the Kingdom forces as part of creating an illusion of a united front for the Alliance, to placate the Empire? It obviously didn’t work because the Empire’s next move was to invade the Alliance. While this headcanon does play into Claude’s affinity for deceit and ability to adapt to change it still doesn’t feel quite right.

Oh, and at the very end of Chapter 20 Dimitri is called back to Garreg Mach via messenger, giving some kind of explanation to the increasingly silly practice of your army returning to the monastery after each major victory. It really doesn’t help with the perception that everywhere in Fódlan is at most a few days’ march away from there.

#Fire Emblem #FE16 #Fire Emblem Three Houses #Spoilers