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that-foul-legacy-lover · 1 year

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Blessed Heir of the Abyss (Abyssal Prince Childe x Reader)

Synopsis: After centuries of conflict, Teyvat and the Abyss are attempting to make peace with one another. To solidify new alliances and let go of past grudges, the Abyssal Prince Tartaglia will choose a spouse from the people above to rule over the Abyss with him.

That spouse happens to be you, an ordinary, Visionless citizen of Liyue.

Prologue: His Royal Highness

Warnings: Mentions of panicking, Zhongli being protective, Childe doesn’t care about you in the beginning, Hu Tao cries, an Abyss Herald calls you “it” at one point, SLOW BURN

~ * ~ Once upon a time, a shining kingdom was constructed under the earth. Lit by starlight and shrouded in darkness, it became known as the Abyss, and was ruled by whoever the monsters favored. In an effort to end the eternal conflict, the Heir shall travel to the land above to witness the sea, and join hands with the sun. Liyue is beautiful today. You’ve never seen such a blue sky, nor such a brilliant sun- it beckons you outside for errands and chores, things you normally loathe to do but now you step outside with a smile, squinting happily up at the light. It’s the weekend- shopping day- and you’re looking for sunsettias and spices at the market. In the distance you can see Zhongli, a friend and family, and he lifts a hand in greeting before falling in step beside you. An ageless soul, the funeral parlor consultant always has a new story to amaze you with, and today is no exception as he weaves the tale of Azhdaha the Geovishap Lord as you walk the streets. Hu Tao’s waiting at the market, her perpetual grin only widening as she darts over and snags your hand, swinging it back and forth with a bubbling laugh. It draws a chuckle from you as well, and Zhongli smiles fondly at your antics with the young director. She practically drags you down the street, leaving Zhongli in the dust as she talks a mile a minute- rumors and gossip, gossip and rumors, there’s seemingly nothing that she doesn’t know or hasn’t heard of. “Sooo? Are you coming tonight?” She looks at you with an impish twinkle in her eye and you simply shrug. “Aw, come on! It’s not everyday I get to have a poetry battle with Xingqiu! Yanfei is the judge!” Hu Tao giggles in mischievous delight and eventually you can’t keep your own smile from blooming across your face, the parlor director’s joy contagious. Zhongli’s caught up to you by now, tapping lightly on Hu Tao’s hand clasped around your wrist with a stern look. “Director Hu, you’re going to injure them, pulling like that.” With a pout she releases you from her bruising grip and skips on ahead, you and Zhongli following close at her heels, a tender look shining in his golden eyes- ah, he adores the parlor director like a daughter, despite how he chastises her, and with one glance you know the sentiment is extended to you as well. You incline your head with a small smile, but it quickly fades when the oppressing sound of silence hits your ears, the streets backed up by people yet making no noise, no small talk about the weather or trade commerce or anything else that might catch their interest. The only sounds are frightened whispers, and you crane your neck in an attempt to see what’s going on, glancing at Hu Tao in confusion. Heavy footsteps, metallic and foreboding, march down the street, and immediately you feel goosebumps rise on the back of your neck as inhumanly tall figures come into view. An Abyssal entourage parts the crowd like a sea, the people of Liyue edging away in fear. The Lady Ningguang stands to the side, looking small and dainty compared to the height of Abyss Heralds and Lectors, and stares resolutely ahead, not daring to spare a single glance towards anyone but the distant horizon as a tense hush settles over the city. Hu Tao encircles your arm in a vice grip, scarlet eyes blown wide and Vision aglow, ready for battle despite her lack of a weapon while Zhongli holds a comforting hand to your back, normally calm demeanor betrayed by his stiff shoulders, as even he cannot feel safe when creatures from the Abyss are near. No one in Teyvat feels safe in the presence of the Abyss, despite the best efforts of the nations to set aside their differences after centuries of war. Even the late Geo Archon had returned, you’ve heard, having faked his death at the last Rite of Descension, and yet still relations remained tense or worse. You’ve heard that people used to go missing wherever the Abyss would begin creeping into Teyvat, and would crawl back out tainted and warped. You shiver, and Zhongli’s palm pushes against your spine in reassurance. From the midst of the monstrous ambassadors a young man emerges, strikingly human in comparison to the Lectors and Heralds who step aside and bow to him, surveying the gathered citizens with boredom. He’s certainly handsome, with copper-colored hair and fine clothing, but his brilliant blue eyes are so lightless and dim that it feels like you’re outside in the dead of night, not a moon or star in the sky. For a split second, his eyes lock onto yours, and you dig your nails into your palm. It’s like you’re staring at a corpse. An elegant hand extends from his richly-made cloak and points, at random, into the crowd. “That one.” Your blood turns to ice and your body goes rigid as Hu Tao lets out a horrified shriek, because he’s pointing at you. “No!” Zhongli steps forward, rage alight in his eyes and glaring furiously at the strange man, shoving you and Hu Tao behind him. His gaze snaps to Ningguang, “Lady Tianquan, what is the meaning of this?” But she doesn’t speak, merely averting her gaze towards the ground, shame finally showing through the cracks in her facade. A Herald approaches, surveying your shell-shocked figure with distaste but nodding anyway. “It’ll do,” With a single, swift motion the Abyss Herald snatches your wrist and pulls you away from Hu Tao, nearly dislocating your shoulder in the process when you struggle desperately against his grip. He brings you to stand beside the ginger-haired man, sharp claws leaving tears in the sleeves of your shirt. With a dry throat you gulp down your fear, trying to steady your shaking voice, “What do you want?” The mysterious man looks at you, eyes flat and lifeless, “You’re my spouse.” The world goes silent around you. “...What?” “My spouse. It’s part of the agreement,” he says, turning away. “Agreement…?” You twist your head to Ningguang, and she closes her eyes, as if to confirm what he said. You blink, mouth open in shock, and stumble backwards a few steps. Your vision begins to blur and swim, tension tightening in your chest and turning everything into vague smears of color as the concept of safety begins to slip through your fingers like sand. “No. I won’t allow it,” Zhongli’s deep voice cuts through your daze like a knife and brings you back to reality. He’s nearly snarling at the strangers, looking more enraged than you’ve ever seen him with his polearm already in hand. Hu Tao’s slightly behind him, torn between seeming annoyed or confused and settling on a middle ground of both, hands on her hips. A low, snakelike hiss rises in one of the Lector’s throats, “Show more respect to Prince Tartaglia, lest you desire to break the contract between Liyue and the Abyss.” Zhongli grits his teeth hard enough to crack, and you swear the tips of his hair glow bright gold, then he exhales slowly and crosses his arms, fury simmering just beneath the surface, “And why was this not discussed with the Harbor beforehand?” The Lector simply levels Zhongli with a chilly stare. “It’s His Royal Highness’s right.” And with that you’re pushed into a walk, the Abyss surrounding you as you trip over your own feet, ripping you away from your peaceful life, away from your little house with its sunlit rooms and vases on the windowsill, away from the city you were born and raised in. Away from friends and family; the people you love. You cast a silent, pleading glance towards the man- the Prince Tartaglia, begging for him to let you go. But he simply stares back at you, azure blue eyes blank and unfeeling, and involuntarily you shiver. He feels nothing towards you- not happiness, curiosity, disgust, hatred- nothing, and somehow that’s more frightening than if he did despise you. The Prince feels nothing towards you, because you’re just a pawn in a celestial game. Zhongli and Hu Tao can only watch in despair, paying no mind to the people in the streets beginning to resume their daily activities, simply grateful that it wasn’t them who was chosen. Ningguang steps closer, regret laced in her voice. “My Lord, I’m sorry-” “Don’t,” Zhongli says sharply, eyes flaring with hardened grief. “An apology means nothing.” And he’s right, for only he has seen what the Abyss does to people, corroding their sense of being and mind until they give in and become one with the starlit waves. “Zhongli…” Hu Tao looks up, scarlet eyes swimming with tears. “They’ll… they’ll be okay, right? I mean,” she lets out a humorless laugh, “I might be a funeral parlor director, but…” she shakes her head to clear it and scrubs her cheeks. “Director, I do not lie. For your own sake, perhaps that question should remain unanswered,” Zhongli lets out a sigh, giving the young director’s hat a few pats as she mourns the loss of her best friend. His own unease settles, hanging in the air like a sickly haze, the answer to Hu Tao’s question ringing clear despite his refusal. I don’t know.

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angeltreasure · 5 months

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Please pray for the soul of my aunt. She passed away a few weeks ago and I only now found out.

I am so sorry for your loss! I will pray for her.

Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord,

and let perpetual light shine upon them.

May they rest in peace. Amen.

#prayer request #asks

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perpetual-help · 11 days

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Can you please pray for Tricia? She died years back after losing her job.

Of course. Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord, and let Your perpetual light shine upon her. May the souls of the faithfully departed, through the mercy of God, rest in everlasting peace. Amen. 🙏❤️

#prayer request

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randomwriteronline · 18 days

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The sound of waves is the only thing keeping the silence from clamping its sharp jaws upon them, chewing them to bits. The water sloshing softly against the cave's small underwater opening continues its perpetual motion blissfully oblivious to the thoughts that weigh heavy on eleven minds.

The words of their previous conversation dangle in the air like knives held by rotting ropes.

Maybe, if none of them speak, everything will dissipate.

Maybe everything will go and just undo itself.

Maybe everything will be normal again.

Quiet.

"I can't," Hewkii croaks.

Takanuva's fingers keep ghosting over his pained wrists, expression vacant, breathing imperceptibly, almost shell-shocked; his ankles are similarly wounded. Jaller and Nuparu flank him, working to at least somewhat fix the dents in the once constricted joints to give their friend a little physical relief, but they're distracted.

"I can't," Hewkii repeats, and his face disappears in his hands. "I can't fight him."

"None of us want to," Onua's voice rumbles kindly.

Lewa is trying to wrap around all five of his remaining siblings simultaneously after having pulled Kongu in close in an attempt to stop himself from shaking too hard. The former captain of the Gukko Force has not complained about it.

"I can't," Hewkii insists: "I can't, I can't..."

"None of us want to," Gali assures him softly.

"He's my brother," the Toa of Stone sobs. One of Hahli's fins carefully lays on his back. "He leaped in to save Hafu from the Tahnok, and he helped us escape when we were sieged, and he promised he would make me feel better when I was sick from the Comets and defeated the Nui-Jaga with Takanuva, and he - he - I can't, I can't..."

"None of us want to." Tahu says.

"You don't understand," red eyes rise to meet theirs, shining with an almost liquid sheen: "I am his little brother. He looked me in the eyes and promised he would protect me with his life. I can't fight him. Even if I tried, even if I wanted to more than anything, even if I could manage to disown him, I could never fight him. I wouldn't manage to lay a finger on him. He's... He's still Pohatu. He's still Pohatu, so I can't. I can't, I can't, I can't, I can't, I can't..."

His voice quiets, quiets, quiets, until his heartbroken rambles are drowned by the calm waves as he trembles balled up on himself.

Takanuva continues to stare vacantly at the ground.

They both look so vulnerable, like this.

So lost.

"It's not him," Jaller says. His tone lacks confidence. He turns to Tahu: "It's not really him, isn't it? It's a mimic of sorts."

Tahu does not answer.

Gali picks up the words his closed up throat can't let out with a slow, mournful shake of her head: "Mimics cannot copy memories."

"Then he's mindcontrolled," Kongu's voice is muffled by the armor of his Air brother. His position isn't the most comfortable, but he does not move to face the other Toa. "Like us under the krana, or when Takadox eyestares and braincleanses catchpreys or foolallies. Makuta is evercrafty - I'd be nonesurprised if he could do that."

Lewa's hold on him tightens only a little. Talking eludes him, but his message is clear: He wasn't. He couldn't be. I know how it feels, how it looks in someone's mind, how it reflects in their bodies; I did not see that in him.

"He still has plenty of kraata," Hahli intervenes mildly, without conviction, "He could have..."

"His mask was unmarred," Onua cuts her off - although her voice was already trailing into silence again, already fully doubting her own hopeful hypothesis.

"Antidermis, then," Nuparu offers. He is still working on Takanuva's ankle, or at least trying to. Effectively, all he's done for the past few minutes is stare at it, at the deep bruises the stone constrictions have left to make sure he could not escape even if he'd come to before the tide did (which is what happened, as Hewkii recalled hearing the now eerily silent Toa of Light's screams for help before he even found the cave's entrance). "We saw with the Zamor spheres. He's gaseous. He could have slipped in at some point. Maybe after the first time you fought. Worked his way into his head slowly."

Silence.

"We did leave him." Tahu murmurs. His soft voice sounds so awfully loud in the quiet when he corrects himself: "I did leave him, when I thought we would have had no time to go after him."

Hewkii's sobs continue to melt in the waves.

Takanuva remains perfectly immoble.

It would make it so much easier if it wasn't Pohatu.

It would explain everything so well, so painlessly. It would make all of it a lie, a ploy, yet another unnecessarily cruel scheme Teridax has orchestrated in the nick of time, another plot to beat them down: replacing their brother, so comfortably warm, with a cold imperfect hateful replica.

It would let them hold out hope that the real Pohatu is out there, maybe dead, hopefully alive, and that he is struggling but resisting just like they are; and with that conviction they would be able to leave this hiding place and fight off his doppelganger.

It would make every single word he said a dastardly attempt at destroying their spirit. Falsehoods constructed to hurt with a semblance of truth that cannot be real.

It would make his anger less genuine, his devotion less agonizing, his bitterness less cancerous.

But it is Pohatu.

It always was.

They know it.

None of them want to fight him.

None of them want to hurt him.

Kopaka stands with great difficulty, rising slowly to his feet.

"I'll bring him back."

"Don't start this," Gali snaps angrier than she wants to be, pleading eyes churning like whirlpools dragging ships to the bottom of the sea: "Please, Mata Nui protect us, do not start this."

"I will."

"Don't," Lewa calls for him with a thin voice, the first thing he's managed to say in hours: "Don't go."

"It is my own fault any of this was allowed to happen. I will fix it."

"Your own fault?" Tahu speaks. Fire builds up in his throat as his volume rises: "Your own fault?"

"If I hadn't conveyed the situation so badly, he would be here now."

"Then it's his own fault for not letting you explain!" his Fire brother roars, jumping upright, armor glowing hot with anger, sizzling, steaming, singing the muscles beneath it.

His younger siblings pull themselves back.

His sister snarls his name in a warning tone.

His Air brother wraps tighter around Kongu.

Onua watches.

The Toa of Fire continues his rampage, stepping all the way up to Kopaka's mask until their chests almost touch, and the difference in temperature between their rapidly cooling and heating bodies almost causes strings of steam to erupt from them: "Or for not dying in the storm, or for deciding to remain with the Makuta, or for trusting them because they welcomed him, or for falling for whatever Teridax did to him because he was alone and vulnerable, or for figuring out something was amiss! Or maybe it's their fault for not doing the same!" and his hand points at the other three Mata before going back to his heartlight: "It's my fault for not telling any of them! It's our fault for deciding to keep this to ourselves! It's our fault, all six of us, for not being able to work as a team! Or maybe it's Helryx's fault for not telling everything to all of us herself, Hydraxon's fault for raising us as he did, the Order's fault for being so secretive, Artakha's fault for making us, Mata Nui's fault for needing us to be made in the first place! Maybe it's even the Great Beings' fault somehow!"

His Ice brother stares him down, brows furrowed, mouth scowling, and for a split second everybody is back on Mata Nui on those first days of their second life and they're going to bring out their swords and try to cleave each other in half.

But Tahu slightly deflates as he breathes hard and tilts his head to better meet the other's eyes when he averts them.

"It's either nobody's fault or everybody's fault," he says with a growl in his voice but no aggression: "There are too many steps that led to where we are now to pin the blame on only one person."

Kopaka does not reply.

He clenches his hand hard; then releases it.

"I won't hurt him."

"I know that. But he is going to hurt you, because he wants to. And you won't manage to defend yourself, because none of us can."

It's the truth.

They all know it's the truth.

Because despite everything that being is still Pohatu, and they love him more than he may hate them.

Even the waves are quiet now.

They're all at a stall.

Softly, very softly, it's Takanuva who breaks the silence.

"When the darkness was taking over me, and I was mad with anger," he says slowly, hands still ghosting over his bruises, "Kopaka stopped me - he spoke to me, forced me to calm down and return to my senses. And Lewa once confided that, when he was almost made delirious by the krana's voices, it was Kopaka who managed to soothe him and send them away."

He raises his shining eyes to his two older brothers.

Maskless and still painfully numbed as he is, he looks so tired.

So small, despite his height.

Jaller gently wraps a hand around his arm as if to steady him. It seems to work - at least a little, as Takanuva shuffles imperceptibly in his seat.

"And when... Against the Bohrok-kal, the Vahi..." he speaks quietly, gaze locked onto Tahu's: "I could see. Through Gali, I could see. They were all trying to reach out to you, but the only voice that stirred you was Kopaka's."

He hushes again.

There is no need to make his argument explicit: it's not hard to read through the lines he draws with an unsteady hand.

The Toa Mata of Fire sighs deeply, eyes closed before he looks to the ground in a grim kind of agreement; his siblings make no sound, but do the same.

The Toa Mahri remain as they are, curled on the ground like Matoran - eager to do something for them, to be of help, any help, but unable to provide it, just like Matoran. Their size, weapons, masks and elemental powers feel useless, pointless, their steadfast heroism vain as their determination crumbles beneath an indescribable fear.

They hate their paralysis. They hate it, and they want to break out of it, they need to break out of it.

But to do so is to stand before their brother who smiled at them so fondly like they were his whole world once, when they were small and so much weaker, and they know they cannot do that.

Takanuva inhales a shaky breath.

He feels like he has done nothing but being saved, even now.

His wrists and ankles flare up with pain as something deep and uncomfortable twists and turns in his chest, like a dozen leeches squirming within it.

Pohatu still loves him.

What Hewkii said... How he tried to bargain with Makuta to let him live... Pohatu still loves him.

Maybe he just had a moment of weakness. Maybe he was so shaken that Teridax managed to worm himself in his brain and convince him, and that's why he...

Maybe - maybe, if he can stop panicking, he can finall save someone.

Maybe he can finally, properly help.

His voice trembles a little: "I will come with you."

"No." Kopaka shuts him down immediately. "I cannot ask you to and I do not want you to."

His hand is almost soft as it sits for a moment on Takanuva's head, apologizing silently for his harsh tone; its gentle chill pulsing against the protodermis skull distracts the Toa of Light from his thoughts and insecurity and phantom pains for a while, barely a few seconds, but it's enough to make it all hurt a little less.

He knows he couldn't have helped him anyways.

Not while he's like this.

The Toa of Ice breathes.

He faces his siblings, solemn: "I will bring him back," he promises.

"Those are loaded words," Onua only says softly.

All eyes turn to him.

He does not move yet, for a short time: he times the length of his exhales and inhales, steadying his heartlight and mind before his own thoughts crush them both with their weight.

At last his green gaze rises until it locks onto Kopaka's blue irises.

"I need you to promise us something," he speaks slowly, carefully. "In place of your own vow."

The following silence awaits his request.

"Promise to bring yourself back."

No answer.

His Ice brother's momentary confusion clears in the blink of an eye; his shoulder freeze slightly, his jaw sets itself a little tighter.

Onua begins another sentence, but stops himself. His eyelids fall to allow him the respite of a tunnel's lack of light after a terrible day beneath the blinding sun, so that he may be able to construct himself properly before he falls apart.

"If millenia of hatred and bitterness have taken Pohatu so far from us that we cannot hope to reach him anymore," he finally continues, ever so slow, ever so careful, "We will have to accept as much, as painful as it may be to do so, and mourn him as loudly as we would any fallen sibling. But I do not think any of us could bear to lose two brothers at once."

No other Toa speaks.

The waves keep rocking quietly.

Hewkii has hushed in his sister's hold.

"I will do everything I can," Kopaka promises.

"That is not what I asked of you," Onua replies.

His eyes are so very soft.

So very tired.

"Promise you will come back," he begs him. "With or without Pohatu."

His brother stiffens.

Eighteen eyes stare at him.

Pleading him without words.

Thery can only survive so much grief.

His heartlight pulses as he struggles to breathe deeply.

He walks to Hewkii, kneels before him; it's not quite a hug what he gives him, but it's close enough, just as gentle, and not that cold.

Kopaka sinks into the waters as his armor shifts accordingly.

After he's gone, the waves return to their soft motion.

(the examples of Kopaka being weirdly good at calming troubled minds are taken from this post by @whiteheartlight, which periodically peeks through my memories like a whale through the waves and makes me look out the window thoughtfully)

#bionicle #hewkii #jaller #takanuva #hahli #kongu #tahu #gali #lewa #onua #kopaka #random writing #orpiment au #hello my beautiful children. time to suffer

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blackknight-100 · 3 months

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Hello there anon, and thank you for the prompt! I got so excited with this I accidentally posted your ask without answering it (I'm so sorry😭😭) so I'm afraid I have to use a screenshot. I hope you like reading this!

Character Swap - Arjuna and Karna

Phalguna comes to Kuntidesha as it always does, but this year the air is colder, and the soil is wet with rain. The ponds are full and even rivers flow swifter, for Indra turns his eye upon them.

Princess Pritha bears the last few weeks of her womanly toil with ill grace; she is yet sixteen, face perpetually wrinkled in agony. The King of Gods has promised her maidenhood, Pritha thinks she would have given that up to be rid of this soreness.

When her time comes one cloudy eve, her trusted maid kneels by her screaming self, and snips the cord off a divine child.

The babe is soft and beautiful, with her looks and her smile and her curled hair; he yawns in restless sleep like a little dark moon. Pritha’s head is bent in prayer, her still-young heart is numb. She is a princess of two noble Kings, a star in the darkness of Āryavarta. Few women have her fortune, even lesser have her power, and yet she is just another girl, at the mercy of sages and gods, and the thought makes Pritha's head bow lower.

She stands by the raging Aswa as her maid gently sets the basket afloat, for foolish she may be, but cruelty comes only through her orders, and never by her hand, and the sky shatters with thunder and rain. Of all the recipients of Indra’s wrath, there has never been one more tragic.

His father from his heavenly throne names the child Arjuna, swears to guide and lead and bestow divine counsel, but as songs later let us know: he is ever known by his mothers’ names, for he is Rādha and Pritha's son.

Karna is born the last of Kunti’s sons, and the third of Pāndu’s scions. He comes into the world like a shining light, with her face and her smile and her curls in his hair. For the first few weeks, Kunti cannot bear to look at the babe, and nurses him with her eyes to the sky. The sun shines upon them, bright and reprimanding, and Kunti wills Surya to chastise his own brother.

To Mādri she says, and to a concerned Pāndu, that the birth tired her, to the child she murmurs tales of a long-lost brother.

“He looked just like you,” Kunti tells him, as Karna swings in his cradle. It is a rickety thing, old as Yudhisthira, and worn with Bheema’s fervour, but it is a cradle still, and Kunti wonders if her other son ever knew one.

“I think you would have loved him,” Kunti says, wistfully, weaving dreams out of her yearning. “He would have been your big brother.”

The boy in the cradle coos at her, toothless smile lighting up the world, and for a moment his face is dark, and outside it rains, and the babe in her arms is Indra’s child.

“You are terrible,” Arjuna scowls at Duryodhana, even though his father has taken great pains to counsel him otherwise. “He is just having fun.”

Duryodhana turns an interesting shade of purple. “His fun involves beating up my brothers and acting innocent when Pitāmaha asks him about it.”

Arjuna has no reason to defend this new prince, one whom he has never seen nor met, but his mouth betrays him once more. “That is not a good enough reason to kill him. You are merely jealous.”

“Kill whom?” says a voice, and Arjuna nigh jumps out of his skin as a boy swings down from the mango tree.

“Karna,” Duryodhana sighs. “Are you troubling the squirrels again?”

“No,” the boy says, shoving his fist behind his back. He is barely five and... light; his eyes are light and honey-brown, his hair is the light of sunshine on tree-barks, and his face glows like day. “You’re going to kill my brother,” he repeats stubbornly.

Arjuna blinks; his father would not forgive him for this.

Duryodhana sighs once more. “Your brother is beating mine up.”

“I will tell him not to,” Karna promises, and Arjuna is a little sorry for the boy – all wobbling lips and earnest eyes. “I will tell Mother if he does. Please don’t kill him.”

Arjuna expects Duryodhana to say something like ‘Run along, child’ or ‘Do not eavesdrop on your elders’, but the prince has an indulgent, almost fond look on his face.

“Give me that,” he says, pointing at the hand Karna has behind his back. Arjuna thinks it a cruel thing to ask, then the boy reluctantly brings out a bursting handful of areca nuts, and Arjuna has to laugh.

Duryodhana smiles as well, plucks one of the six in his hand. Karna drops two others, and as he bends to retrieve his fallen treasures, Duryodhana ruffles his hair.

“Run along now, little scamp,” the Kaurava prince says.

“Are you going to kill him?” Karna asks, eyes wide and worried.

“No,” Duryodhana assures him, “but remember what we agreed, yes?”

Karna beams at them, one after the other. “I will! See you.”

With that, he is gone.

Duryodhana cracks the nut and hands half of it to Arjuna – sinfully possessive one moment, impossibly generous the next.

Arjuna gapes at him. “Are you really not going to kill Bheem?”

Duryodhana glowers at him. “Go lay an egg,” he says, rudely, and stalks off. Arjuna stares at his retreating back, confused.

But no news comes that day, or the next, or any of the weeks after, and slowly, Arjuna learns to breathe easier.

“Who is that?” Krishna asks.

Karna starts, he has not been paying attention. Krishna is the scion of faraway Dwārika, and not much of an acquaintance in any manner of the term, although the dark haired prince claims he has hardly ever been outside Vrindāvan, and never to the city by the sea.

“Pardon me,” Karna says, contrite, “whom do you speak of?”

“That boy,” says Krishna, and points towards a lone figure lurking by the stables.

“That is Arjuna. His father is Pitāmaha's charioteer.”

“May I speak to him?”

“Excuse me,” Karna hails the older boy, “can you spare a moment?”

Arjuna appears at his side, all muddy fringes and stiff bows. “Greetings, princes.”

“Greetings,” Karna nods. “This is Krishna, my cousin. Krishna, Arjuna.”

Krishna is tall and dark, his young face beams with pleasure. “How do you do, Pārtha?”

Arjuna blinks. “Uh... I am not called that. My mother’s name is Rādha.”

Krishna gives him a secret smile, and waves at someone above his head. Karna, distracted by a squirrel, nearly misses it.

“Duryodhana?” he says, delighted, when he notices the other boy on the balcony. “Come down, come down.”

Krishna shakes his arm. “Perhaps, the four of us can go to the garden?”

Sometime later, the four of them are seated around a bush, shears in hand. The rose shrub is not big enough to make a topiary out of, but Queen Gandhari has arranged tables around it with the hopes of giving the boys a more fruitful pastime to channel their excitement into.

“And what should I do?”

Arjuna is seated beside Krishna, facing the others. Duryodhana picks up his shears and snips a stray leaf. “We have to make this appear smooth and shapely.”

“Why?”

Karna stares at him. “Because Aunt Gandhari says so, of course.”

Krishna pulls his legs up on the bench, lifts a fist to the air. “Let’s dooo it!”

For the next couple of hours they work diligently, or at least pretend to, for Duryodhana starts kicking Karna under the bench, and Karna kicks him back, and it is an entertaining game; Krishna, meanwhile, shows Arjuna how and where to snip – he has clever eyes, and his hands are dexterous.

When they finally leave, one side of the bush poorer than the other, Krishna swings his hands around his new friend’s shoulders and lags behind the two princes. “You were saying Guru Drona does not want to teach you?”

Arjuna flushes. “That is true. It is er... his choice, of course, no disrespect intended.”

Krishna’s eyes twinkle. “Dau and I are going to study with Guru Sāndīpani. Do you wish to come with?”

Arjuna chances a glance at Karna, barely jealous, but there still. “I think I would like that.”

“Can we not do this here?” Arjuna hisses. His father looks over from the garden where he and Rādha Mā are talking to Lord Bhishma, and Arjuna is afraid.

“Come now,” Duryodhana groans. “We are settling it man to man, just as Pitāmaha wanted. What is wrong now?”

Arjuna glances at the Pāndava brothers, aching with the weight of Anga’s crown and the knowledge of the Jatugrīha. “Why am I a part of this conversation?”

Yudhisthira coughs politely, as he is wont to. It gets on Arjuna's nerves like nothing else. “If you will excuse me,” he says, “we must greet our mother.”

The Pāndavas glance up as one, and Arjuna notices Dowager Empress Kunti hurrying down the steps.

“Mother,” Karna and Sahadeva exclaim excitably and there is a flurry of motion as they settle down to accept their blessings. To his surprise, Duryodhana follows, and he is compelled to join in the flock.

“There you are, darling,” Kunti says, pulling him up, then freezes.

Something old and forgotten stirs within Arjuna – a shadow of a memory, a wisp of a dream, a woman still as a flame with a child in her arms. Mother, he nearly says, ancient words soaring to his mouth, the shapes of them lingering on his tongue. Mother, look what we have brought home.

Then the Grandfather joins them and the moment is gone.

His father throws him a disapproving glance, and Arjuna shrinks from the princes. His mother, though, is staring at Karna.

“Vāsu...?” she whispers, as if to a ghost, and Karna turns.

“Yes, Mā?”

“His name is Karna,” Bheema declares loudly, and glares at them. The prince has not yet forgiven Arjuna’s stunt at the Graduation, even if Karna claims he would have done the same.

Radha Mā looks flustered, and Karna shifts in discomfort, as if put on a stage for a part he does not know how to play. Adhiratha grabs Arjuna and wraps an arm around his wife.

“Please forgive her, Prince,” he says, and starts pulling them away. “By your leave...”

Arjuna supposes they have embarrassed his father enough. His mother walks as if in a trance. “Vāsu?” she murmurs under her breath. “Vāsusena... child, where are you gone?”

Arjuna, alarmed, turns one last time. Karna is miserable and bewildered, staring after Rādha like a lost child, and Kunti's eyes, seeking him, are wet with tears.

Arjuna sits silent and still, horror trembling beneath his skin like a fluttering bird.

“Duryodhana, please...” Arjuna whispers, unsure of what he begs, and fearful of the prince's wrath.

“I bet my brother, Karna,” Yudhisthira says, drunk on dharma and shivering with repentance. “If I win, I shall have him and all that is on the board; if you do, then he is yours.”

Karna looks up, stunned. There is betrayal on his face, and Arjuna’s heart stings. Even Duryodhana frowns, for Karna alone of all his cousins he names a friend.

“As you say,” Shakuni shrugs, and rolls his dice. “Lo! I win!”

Karna rises from his seat without being asked, walks over to kneel beside his brothers. His mien is smooth and calm now, all torment shielded behind a mask, but Bheema leaps up, enraged.

“Brother!” he tells Yudhisthira, “Hear me! Cease this madness before you lose all else.”

“I cannot leave them to this fate, Bheema,” Yudhisthira says, and picks the dice again. “I stake Bheema.”

“No, wait,” Duryodhana says, brows furrowed. “Māmāshree, do not bet now.”

The two players look up.

“No more?” Yudhisthira repeats slowly, as if he thought this game would go on forever, till the last brother was staked, and perhaps his wife and mother as well.

“Are you sure, my dear?” Shakuni asks.

Duryodhana ignores both of them, strides over to Karna. “Come with me.”

“I shall split your head open,” Bheema roars from beside Yudhisthira. “Leave him alone.”

“I won him,” Duryodhana reminds him coldly, “and I would that he comes with me.”

Karna rises with a grace that startles Arjuna, no longer the clumsy middle prince who dropped things, just like he is no longer a charioteer's dutiful son.

“I will go,” he says, and Yudhisthira turns to the court at large. “Please forgive my brother’s outburst.”

Arjuna wants to slap him.

Duryodhana wraps an arm around Karna's shoulders, and steers him to the doors. For a moment it appears that Bheema would follow, but then the Kaurava prince dismisses the guards, and they step just outside, far enough so no one can overhear whispers, but near enough that they are seen, and a fuming Bheema sits back down.

Arjuna sits and waits for a long time, like all others at court, even the blind Emperor, who can never walk without his son, and thinks miserably of how much Krishna would disapprove.

He is about to join them, either to pacify or to add fuel to the fire, when Karna speaks, loud and sarcastic enough to be heard all over the court. “I loved it. I loved it so much I am going to write a play about it, and have actors sent to perform it all over Āryavarta. Why, I should- ”

Duryodhana catches his flailing hands, shushes him. They whisper once more. The blind Emperor swivels his head in apparent confusion. Arjuna gets up to intervene.

Then Duryodhana walks in, a furious Karna in tow.

Arjuna seizes him by the arm. “Let them go, Duryodhana,” he pleads. “Do not do this.”

His patron and friend...? looks at him quietly for a long time, so long that Arjuna very nearly reaches for his bow.

Dhritarashtra, for once in his life, takes the cue. “Court is dismissed,” he calls, and the ordeal is over.

“You have counselled me wisely,” Duryodhana says at last. “Now, and before. It is a shame that I heeded you not.” Then he raises his head and says aloud, without preamble or explanation, “Let all be returned and restored to the Pāndava princes. Thank you, noble ones, for joining us in this game. We shall retire soon for lunch.”

Two years later, when the knowledge of the game is a rumour, and the incident at Indraprastha's lake is forgotten, Karna comes alone to Hastinapura. Krishna, who is visiting, gives Arjuna one of his secret smiles.

At the gates, Duryodhana meets him stiffly, for things have never been the same between the two sets of cousins. They bow ceremoniously, Dhritarashtra speaks a few half-hearted greetings, and Gandhari fusses over him.

Karna and Duryodhana stare at each other, and then Karna wraps him in a fierce hug.

“You’re not forgiven,” the Pandava prince says, voice muffled, but Arjuna notes Karna's trembling hands and thinks he knows otherwise.

Then, to his surprise, Karna turns to him. Krishna smiles at him again and whispers, “Prepare yourself, Angarāja.”

Before Arjuna can ask him what he means, Karna bows to him and says, “Greetings, brother.”

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faenemy · 5 months

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Reflection

Vent poetry up to interpretation. Heavy themes of the cycle of abuse being perpetuated by parents, and parents ignoring mirrored trauma in their children. So uh

TW IMPLIED CHILD ABUSE

‘Cause everything I do

Is a reflection of you

Mirrored pleasure

Mirrored pain

Everything lost

Nothing gained

A chance to fix mistakes

One you choose to take

At the cost of my love

At the cost of my being

Shape me, form me

Like clay in your hands,

Mold me

The me that will never be

The you that never was

Is that all you see

When you look in the mirror

For everything I do

Is a reflection of you

You let what burned you

Scorch me

And blame me for my cries

My eyes burn

My chest screams

“Why must I die”

To become what never was

To become what will never be

You, not me

For everything received

Is given again

A gift I hope

I will not return

Your own suffer as you did

For your pain is their own

And all are the same in the eyes

Of an uncaring god

Is everything I am

A reflection of you

If I have lived it

You have lived it tenfold

If I have felt it

You have felt it tenfold

If I will have dealt it

Then I will deal it tenfold

For why escape

When one can perpetuate

And place their fears

Upon new blood

Forever intertwined

However may I escape you

May I never embrace you

Let me never chase you

I am your flesh your blood

The fruit of your tree

An extension of you

Never me

The harm I have lived through

So similar to your own

Yet blinded by those before you

You ascend their throne

To be taught your place

To teach the next ones too

Is that my fate

Or may I make a grand escape

Away from the violence

Away from the tears

Away from all I fear

Away from all I hold dear

With pleasure

Comes pain

With love, Despair

Yet all I find here

Is a legacy near

May it end with me

May my children be free

Free from guilt

Free from pain

Free from those

Who controlled me

I am but a reflection

But I will run

You cannot contain me

In a mirrored prison

I will break it

Shatter your image of me

And I will be free

To be but a reflection

A blossoming sprout

Brought into hell

With no way out

Oh! But the sun shines above

Through the clouds

Guiding me

She will lead me out

For light is ahead

And dawn will break

Then, only then

Will you see my true face

I am more than a reflection

Of your sorrows and woes

Of your anger and hatred

Of those long below

I am me

I am free

My roots will sink deep

Into new soil

Where I will not allow turmoil

To bubble and boil

May my branches reach

To the heavens above

Oh Lord let me children

Be born into the Sun

Let them be free

Let them bask in her rays

Let them never be a reflection

Let them never be me

#fae writes #faes poetry #vent #tw vent #tw implied abuse #fae rambles #fae has too many thoughts rn #@ me if you a psychoanalysis of my mother /j

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spymasterspriest · 10 months

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Chapter 1

The Spymaster & The Priest A role reversal Gwynriel fanfiction

Masterlist, or read the entire series on AO3

Desperately focused on his calligraphy, Azriel took advantage of the huge manuscript before him and the painstaking task of copying it to block out the hyper awareness he had of his surroundings. Leaning in, he filled the vellum with loose, perfect script.

She was here. Again. It was fine, so long as he kept his eyes on the quill, the desk beyond it, the books atop. He refused to be led astray by the shadows dancing atop his broad shoulders. Let them watch, least he not be distracted.

Without looking up and without seeing her, Azriel absorbs himself in the task at hand. His efforts are fruituitous. At least for a few minutes, because then she laughs. The sound warm and joyful as it carried like morning bells across the workshop.

Betrayed by self imposed will, his golden, hazel eyes find the source of the sound and - blessed Mother.

She’s mid-laugh, face alight with amusement making her hair shine like the gold leaf upon his page. Her mahogany hair was pull back and away from her face, the shade reminding him of the wine the High Priest drank with his super.

Azriel curses himself.

Taller than the average high fae, she’s easy to spot - leaning her long willowy frame against the edge of the doorway. The light hugs her in a way that feels intimate, as if its place itself along her fine lines in the most flattering way; purposefully, lovingly.

The High Priest is trying to shoo her away from the library, presumably toward the offices where they discuss their matters in private. Whatever matter has brought her here again. It’s akin to watching someone attempt to herd a cat about the room. She crosses her arms, emphasizing the lean muscle of her biceps and the feminine curves of her chest. Leaning in, she mutters something to the High Priest.

Her words don’t carry, but Azriel’s shadows pick up on the rumble of her voice and weight of her tone. His mouth goes dry. There are not many who willingly engaged with the Night Court’s spymaster, let alone brave enough to look her in the eye or argue with her.

Gesturing more emphatically, the High Priest motions her toward the exit. With a heavy sigh, she stands from her casual lean and allows the priest to escort her from the library. Azriel lets loose a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, watching as she turns, long ponytail swaying.

Her glimmering, teal gaze crashes into his. She knows you’re watching her, his shadows warn, and he freezes like a terrified rabbit. A touch too long, her gaze remains on his long enough to be more stare than glance. Her brow arches at him in silent question.

Perpetually hovering on a blush at all times, Azriel feels the color rise in his cheeks. At his shameful flush, the spymasters eyebrows climb higher, amused, and she cocks her head at him curiously. For a terrible instant its all worth it, the embarrassment of getting caught starting, as the side of her mouth curls into a smile, light dancing in her gaze.

Oh Cauldron, he was staring. Why was he still staring? It was embarrassing but Azriel found he didn’t mind terribly. She didn’t seem to be laughing at him, rather finding humor in situation as a whole. The High Priest was motioning for her to follow and she finally pulls away, breaking the spell.

Half grateful, half cursing the old priest, Azriel attempts to get his breathing back under control. The shadows atop his shoulders have stopped their dancing now that she’s disappeared through the doorway. Dropping his head into his hands, he takes a long moment to refocus his thoughts. How did she always manage to do this to him? With just a glance?

His breathing under control, Azriel reaches for the hot mug of tea carefully placed on a small shelf to the side of his desk, a precautionary measure taken ever since he’d ruined four copies of the illuminated beastiary he’d been assigned in his younger years. Swallowing a long, calming gulp, he sets his mug back down, pulls his shoulders back and stretches his wrists. His quill lay broken up on the desk, snapped in half, which he apparently had done while he’d been staring.

Instead of beating his head against the desk in frustration, though it’s a close call, Azriel tucks his wings tight and clears his throat. He’ll need another writing instrument, though he wasn’t sure how to explain the loss of this one to the library master.

That night in the dinner hall, he sat amongst his brothers. There were few Illyrian priests. His people’s talents lay elsewhere, not in penmanship and linguistics. While he may not share his race with his brothers, there is the commonality that they were, nearly all, bastard born in some variety.

”Do you know what the High Lord’s spymaster is doing here?” He asked the priest nearest him, keeping his tone casual.

Tonight was not a night for silent, self reflection. He rarely spoke at dinner and his question melts into the hum of a hundred-odd priests chatting quietly about their days. Though the conversation mostly skewed in the direction of the new kitchen rotation and the quality of their efforts.

“I’ve heard rumor she’s a light singer,” Brother Jan chimes in from down the table. “The High Priest is wary of her, but they say our High Lord trusts her emphatically.”

”They say she’s blessed by the Cauldron. She’s starborn,” another spoke up.

”I’ve heard she’s secretly a villain, here to lure us all into some trap!”

”Do you really think she’s a light singer? Aren’t they dangerous?”

”She trains with the General Commander. Her possibly being a light singer isn’t the only thing that makes her dangerous.”

”Lord Cassian?”

”Lord of Bloodshed, you mean.”

Down the table an enthusiastic group of young priests began regaling stories of the General’s past victories. Azriel knew them all well. Lord Cassian was renowned for his strategic victories and brutality. He’d stayed up many nights reading about the Illyrian General, always with a sense of pride.

“They say she fought alongside the Valkyries during the Great War,” another continued, voice squeaky and broken. “That she’s unmatched in combat.”

”I find her incredibly distracting,” Brother Balthor snorted, snatching a piece of bread from the center of the table. His face was obscured by the robe’s hood. The rest of the table grumbles in agreement.

“She’s here on the High Lord’s business,” a young priest admitted finally, face flushed red.

“That can’t be good.”

”Blessed Mother, save us.”

”What business does the High Lord’s spymaster have in the library?”

”I wonder,” Azriel starts after clearing his throat, keeping his voice tightly controlled and free of emotion. “I wonder if-“

The High Priest stands from the head table, signaling evening announcements. Azriel didn’t have the chance to finish voicing his thoughts or gathering more information from his brothers.

Evening activities kept him busy enough that his mind was quiet, no longer distracted by the spymaster. With the library prepped for tomorrows work, he made his way back tot he dormitories. The chiming of bells echoed, bouncing off the walls, releasing the Tower priests of their day’s responsibilities. Blissful quiet yawned before him, stretching down the hall until he was closing the door to his room.

He allowed himself a groan of mental anguish, his shadows stretching out into the room beyond. Grateful for the dark, he approached the small basin beneath the room’s sole window. As he closes his eyes to wash up, he can see her charmingly wicked smile and those sea colored eyes. A growling hunger gnaws at his ribs despite his fullness from dinner. Usually he could ignore this hunger, but he found it increasingly difficult of late, especially when he was thinking of her.

It had been two years and twenty one days since he’d last seen the spymaster. Azriel wondered if she remembered him, covered in blood, her screams…

Shadows swirled around him, a numbing cold against his skin, shocking him from the memories of that day. He hadn’t even known her name then.

She appeared in the doorways of the Tower library from time to time, smelling like a sunny day, apple blossoms, and salted sea air. It drove him to maddening distraction. Just as he felt a restoration in th equilibrium of his life, she would show up again, sauntering through the library. Any semblance of calm smashed by his racing heart.

It was ridiculous. The spymaster didn’t even know he existed. His shadows gave him no warnings of her arrivals - completely unheard of! He was aware of every movement in the Tower and every being, creature from the priests who vowed silence and moved as softly as she did, to the dark power that hid in every spider infested corner of the library.

She looked at you today. His shadows pressed against his skin. She looked at you and smiled. Not even the High Priest has received one of those.

“No one smiles at the High Priest,” he argues. “Smiling is just premeditated mischief.”

That’s not the point. You’re being deliberately aloof. She smiled at you. You watch her more closely than anyone here. You know this.

“I do not,” Azriel grumbled furiously. “I just- I’m curious as to why she’s here, which requires the use of my ears and eyes. It has nothing to do with-“

Oh, yes. You stare at her face, and legs, and chest, the dirty little traitors sing. You think about leaving the Tower with her and seeing the world. You dream about running your hands through her hair. You even wonder what she would feel like if you-

”Stop,” he demanded, command in his tone that the shadows couldn’t ignore. “We’re not continuing this conversation.”

Azriel plopped down upon his narrow bed, face pressed into the soft mattress. The heat in his cheeks begins to wane.

Fine. His shadows smooth against him, relaxing around his body as fatigue begins to weigh Azriel down. But, his shadows reply snidely, if its not like that - why are you hard right now?

Fuck.

Tucking his wings, Azriel rolls onto his back, unearthing his face so that he could stare at the ceiling. Inhaling deeply, he fills his lungs to the point of pain before exhaling. It was a natural part of being male, healthy, and functioning. It wasn’t like priests weren’t allowed their vices. He had his own. It had just never been… enough.

If he just mediated, took his sleeping tonic, he’d likely be able to sleep. Azriel cursed. He would need further distraction.

Cautiously, Azriel lifted his head from the bed, expanding his hearing to the shadows that stretched across the floor and beyond. The High Priest was still awake in his office, but not within a threatening distance.

Azriel reached beneath his pillow and extracts the sheathed blade and book hidden there. He tucks the knife back after a long look and slides the book toward him. Curling himself into a ball, he rests on his side and opens the worn cover.

He doesn’t need the light - shadows and the dark hide nothing from him, not even the words scribed onto these pages. Azriel runs his scarred fingertips gently over the softened vellum, the ink faded after all these years, and lets himself feel a bit of nostalgia, even if tiny. This was his mothers book. The only thing he dare keep of hers.

As a child, Azriel had been kept away from her. His mother’s husband was not Azriel’s biological father, a fact that he and his mother were never allowed to forget. Her husband and his brothers had been cruel, locking him away in a dark cell, refusing him flight, scarring him. His mother hadn’t escaped their abuse either.

At the age of eight, they’d dumped him on the steps of the temple in Sangravah. He’d poured himself into his studies, intent on becoming a priest. Once he had the ear of the High Priest, he could advocate for his mother, keep her safe, hidden away where she could live in peace.

To help make that dream possible, he’d taken on side jobs in the city, transcribing old tomes and teaching the less affluent how to read and write. An immense amount of pride swelled in his chest at the thought. Azriel had put away a tidy bit of money, eventually allowing himself to buy a home to set her up in.

As a priest in Sangravah he’d visited her often. In fact, he’d been with her two years ago when Hyburn’s forces had attacked, when he’d felt driven back to the temple by shadow and dark influence, her screams sounding in his head…

Flipping through the book in his hands, Azriel pushed away all thought, diving into the old war stories from before the Great War. He settled into the mattress, blankets pillowed around him, and read the adventures of others. Deep in the secret, dark part of his soul, he wondered what it might be like to have some of his own.

#gwynriel #role reversal au #azriel shadowsinger #gwyn berdara #azriel x gwyn #she’s the spymaster #he’s the priest #acosf fanfiction #acosf

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jabbage · 11 days

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#Letters from Watson #lettersfromwatson

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kpopfanfictrash · 1 year

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Not Another Holiday Romance (Teaser)

Posting Date: Saturday, December 24th at 6:00 PM EST

Part of: the Snow Falls Collaboration with @underthejoon and @suga-kookiemonster

Genre: Director!Y/N, Town Historian!Namjoon, One Night Stand!AU

Author's Note: This story will be told in alternating viewpoints between Y/N and Namjoon.

Synopsis: You, a perpetually alone (and utterly cynical) movie director, are sent to the town of Snow Falls, Middle-of-Nowhere for your latest film assignment. Stuck in holiday hell until the new year, you’re determined to get in and get out with minimal damage to your Grinch reputation. That is, until a ridiculously gorgeous (and young?!) town historian is assigned to help with your film. Suddenly, you find yourself the heroine of one of those corny romances you direct – and are discovering they might not be so corny after all.

Estimated WC (Total): 30K

Rating: 18+

Preview WC: 2,021

“But I don’t care what they think,” insists Matt, stepping closer. “I’ve spent my entire life hearing about what I should and shouldn’t do and right now, I don’t care about any of it. I care about you. On Easter,” he adds, blonde hair shining underneath the bright lights.

Bunny – because yes, the character’s real name is Bunny – smiles up at Matt, blinking away tears. Except – hang on. No. Bunny is actually crying, which isn’t in the script.

Exhaling loudly, you push yourself to stand. “CUT!” you call, ignoring the groans from the crew. “Amber, the script says, ‘eyes glistening,’ not full-on waterfalls. Matt’s telling you he wants you, not going off to war. Let’s do it again!”

Dropping her dewy expression, Amber Carmichael (the actress cast as Bunny) turns, squinting against the lights. “You sure?” she calls, raising a hand to her brow. “I thought it added something to the moment! You know, like catharsis.”

“The only thing it added,” grumbles Matt – both the name of the actor and character, “was confusion.”

Ignoring him, Amber flips long, dark hair over one shoulder. “Alright,” she says, unconcerned. “Let’s go again!”

Trying not to sigh, you sit down in your chair. Hiding laughter, your assistant director, Abby, ducks behind her green binder.

“This is gold,” she murmurs as the crew resets. “If this movie weren’t already terrible, Amber’s acting would get it there.”

“And why does that make you cheerful?” you ask. “I’m the director and you’re the assistant director. Our names are tied to this.”

Shrugging, Abby flips a few pages. “Hey, I enjoy my job. We’re making content for people who just want to relax after dinner. An important job which keeps 74.6% of bored housewives from killing their husbands. It’s true – look it up.”

You, of course, do not bother to look it up because Abby is known for making up statistics to suit her purpose. Most are rooted in a semblance of truth though, and you know that people watch Mallhark – your employer – for a reason. Basic escapism if nothing else.

You just aren’t sure an Easter romcom was what they had in mind.

Matt and Amber are currently acting before a greenscreen, the rolling green hills to be added in later. Abby might see this as glass half-full but from where you’re sitting, things look pretty dismal. The main character of your movie is named Bunny, for crying out loud.

Once upon a time, when you were first promoted to director and tasked by Mallhark to make the holidays magical, you took great pride in your work. You stayed up until morning making edits, pouring over screen tests, and searching for locations but lately, you can barely drag yourself to set. Lately, everything has felt stale, and you aren’t sure how to recapture the magic for yourself, let alone someone else.

Pulling your lower lip between teeth, you shove this aside to concentrate on the moment. Magic or not, you need to finish this film today. Your flight out of here is tonight and Mallhark doesn’t take kindly to schedule delays.

“All set?” you yell, waiting for the crew to respond. Once they do, you nod. “Okay. Three… two… one…” You signal to start, settling back in your seat.

Brian, your main camera operator, zooms in to frame the shot. A second operator, Siying, works a hand-held for close-ups. Everyone on set feeds off one another – one of the few things you still appreciate about movie making. Even the cheesiest, cheapest films necessitate a tremendous crew.

Amber and Matt start their scene from the top, with Amber perched on a rock to stare at the (fake) sunset.

“BUNNY!”

Matt runs into frame, startling Bunny into falling sideways, nearly into his lap. The two confess, laying their insecurities out between them. Like a grocery list, Bunny rattles off her fear of commitment, of abandonment and Matt wholeheartedly accepts her as her leading man.

Watching this, you feel a slight twinge in your chest. It’d be nice if real life could be that simple. In your experience though, men tend to run the moment flaws are unearthed.

“I care about you. On Easter,” Matt blurts, ending his monologue.

Bunny stares up at him, starry-eyed. You have to hand it to Matt – as a Mallhark veteran, he really knows his stuff. Cheating his angles, he gives the camera crew the shot they need while continuing to gaze into Bunny’s eyes.

Amber isn’t quite as good, staring back with her lips parted. Maybe it wouldn’t seem so provocative if she hadn’t just come from amateur porn. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but the angles and facial expressions are wildly different here on Mallhark.

Abby must be thinking the same since you catch her scribbling a note in her binder. Possibly edit out porn sigh during ending?

“Oh, Matt,” Bunny says. “I love you.”

“And I love you, Bunny.” Matt gathers her to him, and you close your eyes to brace yourself for the next bit of dialogue. “I’m hop-lessly in love with you.”

The two of them laugh, only sounding slightly strained, which is the best you can hope for. Matt presses his lips to Bunny’s, and you wait an appropriate time before you yell cut.

“That’s it!” you call, standing from your chair. “Thanks, folks!”

Amber and Matt break apart, the crew loudly applauding the successful take. Sagging in your seat, you hear Abby close her binder with a snap.

“So,” she declares. “That was fun.”

Rather than respond, you lower your head and start to rub your temples.

Abby makes a tsking noise. “You’re becoming cynical, Y/N. How can you not love this channel? Come on, think about it – the meet cutes! The banter! The romance! The bunnies!”

“I’m allergic to rabbits,” you mutter.

“Huh.” Abby tilts her head. “Well, bad luck getting assigned to the Easter movie, then.”

“And besides,” you exhale, looking up. “Let’s call a spade a spade, Abby. We’re not solving world hunger. These movies are thinly veiled Christian propaganda that’s being spoon-fed to the viewer. I’m surprised we don’t do blatant product placement, too. Really lean into the consumerist angle.”

“Damn.” Abby snorts. “Who spit in your peppermint mocha this morning?”

“And that’s another thing,” you gripe, jiggling your empty cup. “This mocha was terrible! I should be at least able to taste coffee, right?”

“Depends. Most people who order peppermint mochas just want the chocolate.”

“Ugh. I’m sorry,” you sigh, knowing you’re being unfair. “I’m just in a crappy mood today.”

“You’ve been in a crappy mood for a week,” Abby says, standing from her chair. Stretching both arms overhead, she leans side to side. “Don’t shoot the messenger, but as your best friend I feel obligated to let you know.”

Stomach sinking, you follow her lead and stand. Abby is right. You’ve been generally terrible to be around, and it isn’t her fault. Trailing her throughout the set, you wave goodbye to the crew on your way to the door.

Normally, you’d stay and help clean, but time is of the essence if you want to make your flight. Mallhark, in true capitalist fashion, has scheduled your films back-to-back. You’re even missing the wrap party, which tends to be a trainwreck but in the fun kind of way.

“I know,” you sigh, pushing open a door. “The worst part is I don’t have any right to be a grump. I mean, I have a good job. I’m directing, which is what I want to do. I have a nice place to live. I have food on the table, I have friends –”

“Friend,” Abby corrects, then waves a hand. “Continue.”

Your glare at her is half hearted because once again, she’s correct. “Anyways,” you say, pushing through a second set of doors. “I have everything I need, so I don’t know why I’m in such a funk.”

“Hm,” Abby says in a tone which says incoming monologue.

Stopping at your trailer, you turn around to face her. “Come on,” you say, gesturing with one hand. “Out with it.”

Abby innocently blinks. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Tell me the thing you want to say.”

“It’s just.” She shrugs. “It’s basic science.”

You stare at her for a moment. “Okay, I’ll bite. How is this science?”

“95% of people aren’t happy with what they have.”

“Is that so?”

“Yep.” Abby nods, dark hair flying. “Okay, so I may have made up that number, but it sounds right, doesn’t it? What I mean is – it’s all Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. Sure, all your physical and safety needs are met but what about the rest? Are you satisfied and proud of your work? Does having only one friend” – Abby gives you a long look – “fulfill your quota on love and belonging?”

Whatever retort you had dies in your throat, unable to suitably respond. Abby has a point. True, you have it better than some, but it doesn’t mean things in your life are that great. Especially given the email you received last week.

Exhaling slowly, you stare at a point above Abby’s head. “I got the casting list for our next movie,” you mutter.

“O-kay.” She frowns. “Not sure how this ties into our conversation, but okay.”

Dropping your gaze, you look at her. “Nico was cast as the male lead.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

“Fuck.”

“Uh-huh.”

Abby falls silent, clearly struggling to come up with a positive response. You should tell her there isn’t one – you’ve been sitting with this for over a week and have nothing.

Nico Taylor, aka The Ex. Also known as Mallhark’s leading man/heartthrob from many a 00’s movie. He had a brief action career before stepping from the spotlight to ‘sort things out,’ or attend serious therapy to undo the effects of childhood stardom. Now, he’s reemerged on the Mallhark scene.

You met him last fall, had a whirlwind romance where you experienced love for the first time and then, come January 1st, you found yourself dumped. It was brutal, fast, and made all the worse by the fact that you both work for Mallhark.

Thus far, you’ve been able to avoid working with Nico, but it seems your good luck has run out. Typically, directors are involved with casting decisions. Your next film though, is a Christmas movie being shot on location. That means permits, logistics and specific timelines. Because of this, your film schedule changed abruptly and overlapped with your current film. Casting was delegated and now, look where you are.

On the one hand, it’s a sign of Mallhark’s faith in the script to assign such a big star. On the other hand, you’ll be trapped in a remote location with your ex-boyfriend for a month.

Abby slowly shakes her head, her mouth a round o. “Well.” She pauses. “Shit, Y/N. I don’t even know what to say. Let’s go and get drunk at the airport?”

You can’t help but laugh; it’s such an Abby response but for once, you agree. “I mean, yeah. Let’s do it,” you say, pulling open your door. “I’ll grab my bags and meet you out front? We can call an Uber.”

Abby nods, waving goodbye as she heads for her trailer. You’re halfway inside before realizing something and poking your head back out.

“Abby?” you call.

She stops, jogging in place as she turns around. “Yeah?”

“Where are we headed?”

A delighted grin spreads across Abby’s face, which should be your first warning. Stomach sinking, you deduce it’s somewhere suitably cheesy.

“Snow Falls,” she says, clapping both hands together. “Isn’t that adorable? Sounds like something out of a Christmas story!”

“Dear god,” you groan, pulling your head back inside. “I’m going to need more than the in-flight wine to get me through this.”

Zipping up your bag, you place this on the ground and look around your trailer. No personal effects, which is just how you like it. Fewer things to pack means fewer things to repack when the stint inevitably ends.

Five weeks, you remind yourself. Only five weeks until you can repack again.

Teaser #2: definitive ranking of sluttiest male sweaters

#bangtanarmynet #bts fanfic #namjoon fanfic #bts fic #bts au #namjoon fic #namjoon au #bts writing #namjoon writing

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