#and since i have parents who are affluent enough and kind enough to take me back into the family | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

Tumblr is available in 18 languages.

#and since i have parents who are affluent enough and kind enough to take me back into the family

thegreatestjournalistofalltime · 9 months

Text

In this post:

About the Muse (Freddie Lounds, NBC Hannibal)

About the Mun (Hi, I’m Casper!)

I’ll Write...

I Won’t Write...

Character Headcanons (HC’s and Canon-Divergent Ideas)

RP Rules

This is my main RP blog, and Freddie is my main character. However, I also have a blog for Dr. Frederick Chilton, @b1oodandchocolate , on which I would also be thrilled to write with you if you’d like! Both are independent and selective.

All dividers used below were made by saradika. Please go check out her work. It’s all lovely.

Freddie Lounds is rude, brilliant, and damn-near fearless. She does whatever she has to do in order to get information for her tabloid site, Tattle Crime. Unfortunately, this often means breaking laws, manipulating people, or engaging in otherwise nefarious behavior. However, she has her moments when she shows that she does have a heart, and that she does care about other people... Sometimes. Depends on who it is, really.

Here’s Freddie’s Wiki Bio for more information if you haven’t seen the show ❤️

Hello, there! My name is Casper. I’m transmasc non-binary (my pronouns are they/them/theirs or he/him/his) and I’m over the age of 30. I’m neurodivergent as fuck, and, despite writing for shady characters, I’m a soft boi 😅

I’m kind of the stereotypical introvert, so I know I can sometimes come across as standoffish (especially online), but I promise that I’m friendly! I just have a super low threshold for socializing, especially with people I don’t know or don’t know very well yet, which sometimes makes it seem like I don’t want to talk to someone, when the reality is that I just can’t at a given time. Especially since it’s super easy for me to hit “burnout mode.”

Anyway, I’m hoping that I can actually do something of substance with this blog this time around and stick around a while longer lol. Please don’t be afraid to say hi! Just please keep in mind that I may not be able to respond right away.

Lastly, this is my Ao3, collecting dust lol: casperlounds on Ao3

Fluffy stuff

Platonic relationships

Consensual NSFW stuff (please see rules below)

Violent or Dark Themes (please see rules below)

Canon-Compliant OR Canon-Divergent Stuff

RP with Non-Hannibal Characters from Other Shows/Movies

RP with OCs in OR Outside of Hannibal

And more...

NonCon/Sexual Violence

Various Kinks (please see rules below)

Varying Degrees of Gore (please see rules below)

And more...

Freddie actually comes from a fairly affluent family and her parents are proud of her (they just kind of overlook a lot of the less savory things she does).

She is an only child.

Her middle name is “Emily.” Her mother initially wanted it to be “Amelie.”

Bisexual in the sense that she doesn’t care about/isn’t repulsed by sleeping with men, as it was implied with Zeller. This is especially true if it means getting what she wants for an article (she’s canonically Machiavellian), but I definitely see her as homoromantic. She may have a fling with a man, but it will never be serious and she won’t grow attached, even if it’s just for fun and not as some means to an end. Though the likelihood of that in itself is low.

Has a crush on Dr. Bloom.

Please read these rules before requesting to roleplay.

This blog is 18+ ONLY. Therefore, I will also only write with people over the age of 18. Minors, please DNI.

If you want to RP with me, please PM me and let me know what you had in mind. Please do not post a starter without discussing things with me first. That way, we can also decide who will start things off!

I will only accept random starters from certain people. If I get comfortable enough, I’ll let you know if I’m OK with your doing that. However, please don’t take this personally! As I stated in the About the Mun section, I’m both neurodivergent and have trouble with social spaces.

That said, if I post an Open Starter that reads “(anyone may reply),” I mean anyone, even non-mutuals. Any Open Starters meant solely for mutuals will be clearly marked to avoid confusion. However, for those who do reply (thank you!), please be aware that I may not get to yours or it may or may not turn into a longer RP.

Please understand that I often struggle with burnout and extreme fatigue, as well as other symptoms stemming from ADHD. Therefore, there will be times when I write more and times that I write less. I also might find it easier to work on one thing over another at a given time, but that doesn't mean I don’t value the partner or the RP I’m not working on. If this doesn't work for you, that’s totally understandable, just please don’t start writing with me if this is something you think will be a problem. That wouldn’t be fair to either of us.

On that same note, please be aware that I will not be writing page-long+ replies. Some of my starters/replies may be longer than others, but I generally write two or three paragraphs. If you’re looking for someone who writes lengthy replies, I’m not your guy. Realistically, I also know I wouldn’t be able to read those lengthy posts, so it wouldn’t be fair to you, either.

Despite not writing ultra lengthy replies, I do put a lot of thought and effort into them. I’ve been made aware that some people have started to use AI generated responses in RP (what a time to be alive). This is a hard no from me. I may take a while to respond, but when I do, I do so to the best of my abilities. I’d hope my partners do the same.

If you want to drop or rework/restart a thread or idea that we’re working on together, please let me know!

Please don’t message me asking when I’m going to get to your response. All that does is make me anxious. I’ll likely let you know, myself, when I can get around to it if you’ve been waiting.

Likewise, please don’t spam message me, especially if I haven’t responded. That makes me incredibly anxious and less likely to respond at all.

However, please do message me if you have questions or want to discuss an idea in the RP we’re working on!!!

I will not have exclusive partners for a given character (i.e. a single Hannibal Lecter that I write with and no other Hannibals). There may be people I write with most frequently for a given character, but I won’t exclude other people.

If you aren’t sure if I’ll be comfortable with something, please ask. This includes NSFW themes, dark themes, violence, and gore. I will do the same for you!

As a general rule, I’ll likely not be comfortable with most kinks. You can ask in PMs while we plan our roleplay, but please know that the answer will likely be “no.”

In the event that you want to RP NSFW stuff, please let me know at the start that this is something you'd like to explore. However, also keep in mind that if I’m not feeling the connection, if it it doesn't make sense for our muses after we get into the RP, I won’t force it. Likewise, I’m also aware that sometimes things will gradually, naturally lead to romantic or sexual places, so it’s fine if that happens organically as we go.

This post and all its sections are subject to change or revision. If that happens, I’ll post that I’ve updated it.

#Casper's Rules

1 note · View note

hayjeon · 4 years

Text

One Year, My Love [M] (ft. Jungkook) | pt. 1

→ historical/royal!au, marriagecontract!au, based off the kdrama 100 days My Prince; → You forge a marriage contract with the strangely speaking man who suddenly stumbled into your town with memory loss, but little do you know that he’s actually the lost Crown Prince, and a lot can happen between a married man and woman in one year.

→ genres: lots of fluff/plot development, a tiny bit of angst, and a little smut → 15k words | part 1| part 2 | fin.

A/N: I went on a writing binge the past couple days and I was able to finish this monster fic, and wanted to get it out for you guys so you can read during quarantine! I usually tend to write really angsty and darker fics, so I hope that the fluff in this one is really refreshing :)

“No!” You scream, flailing your arms as the officials try to drag you into the waiting carriage. “I won’t marry him! I can’t!”

The matchmaker looks wistfully at you as you struggle. “Please! Y/n, he is rich! He’ll pay for your debt, and you’ll avoid a punishment! I’m sure that your fiancee, ‘Jungkook’ that you speak of, doesn’t even exist! You have no one else! Just go!”

You struggle, putting up quite a fight with the two men gripping either of your arms. “Never!” You scream, turning to bite one on his arm. He yelps and lets you go, and when his partner sees that you bit him, he throws you onto the ground, drawing his sword and whipping it at your neck.

He huffs, “You bitch, you know that it’s the King’s decree that all women must be wed by tonight. This is your last chance to survive. Your punishment may be death, and if you want to meet that end, so be it!”

You glare up at him, blowing the hair that fell out of your bun out of your face, “So do it! Kill me! I’d rather die than be married off to someone who’s older than my father! He’s a pig!”

The villagers murmur. They knew of him. The rich landowner who happened to also be a government official who was heftily over sixty years of age, and well-known to have multiple concubines. If you married him, you would be his seventh.

The official just presses his sword closer to your neck, and you feel the sharp blade dig into your delicate skin. “General Oh is being a kind man to allow a woman with age and no property wed into his household. You should be thankful!”

“Thankful!” You scoff, laughing loudly “Ha! Thankful? To that swine who sits around all day getting fat, instead of protecting the country and his tenants like he should? His one desire is to get enough concubines so he could fuck one each day of the week! You call him a kind man? Do you not have any sisters, or a daughter? Would you ship her off to a man like that?!”

The man hesitates, and you see him gulp. There. You’d hit a nerve.

“Oh,” you smile slyly, “so you do have a woman close to you.” You take his moment of weakness to stand, but he still holds the sword pointed towards you. “Then you’d understand why I would rather die by your sword, than by that swine’s disgusting little dick.”

The official’s eyes widen, but he holds his ground. “Well, if that may be it, then I have no choice but to follow the King’s decree. All men or women who refuse to be wed by tonight will be executed.”

You hold your head high, eyeing him down with a steely gaze. “So be it.” You grit, lip curling.

The official seems like it’s the last thing he wants to do, but everyone turns their heads or shuts their eyes as the man lifts his sword high. You lift your eyes to the sky. You’d endured quite a bit of your life, struggling to make ends meet after your parents were murdered, you’d run away and swam through the rushing rivers to escape the murderers dressed in black who’d ransacked your house and kidnapped your brother. After you were saved and adopted by your current father, your life had been one of petty thefts and begging until you’d been able to run some manual labor jobs to help pay for food and kindling for yourself and your father. Until now, it had been a hard, hard life. There was no god. But you knew one thing. You would never, ever lose your honor. And so be it, losing your life this way.

You suck in a breath, waiting for the sword to swing down, when suddenly your father’s voice cuts through the crowd.

“WAIT! WAAAAIIIIITTTT!” He cries, stumbling and pushing through the crowd. He tows along a man dressed in white after him. “He’s here! Her fiancee!” He lifts the hand that holds the man’s hand. The man seems as confused as you are, but the official lowers his sword.

The matchmaker gasps. “That’s Jungkook?!” He gapes. “He exists? I thought she made him up!”

Your father runs up to you, and you face him with a bewildered expression as he leans in close. “Just go with it,” he grits, before facing the official with a gentle smile that doesn’t match the environment of the conversation. “I’m so sorry for my daughter, she must’ve lost her mind. She has a fiancee, but he was far away. I just returned with him, and they will be wed today!”

You whip your head to stare at the man in tow with your father. He seems beaten up; a busted lip and some bruise littering his cheek and neck. But underneath the grime he’s quite handsome, and seems to be of around your age. His eyes are round and his skin quite pale. His nose is large and regal, while his lips are round and plush. His jawline is sharp and his shoulders broad and muscular. He meets your gaze with a frown.

The official faces you, quirking his brow. “Is this true?”

Your panicked expression molds into a calmer one, your mind running a hundred miles a minute. “Yes,” you determine, facing him with a bold stare. “This is my fiancee. I will be wed to him.” Better the wide-eyed man than the swine.

He faces the man. “Is what she is saying true?”

You and the rest of the onlookers turn to the handsome man. He frowns, contemplating how your father had nursed him to health and moments ago begged him to please return the favor by marrying his daughter. He was shocked and had no time to ask questions as he’d been dragged out of bed to the town hall of this run-down village. His head still throbs, and he watches as you look at him with such determination, and your father with desperation.

He squares his shoulders, and looks back at the official.

“Yes. She is my fiancee.”

Everyone seems to sigh in relief as the official nods and sheathes his sword. He signals to his comrade and they leave the premises, promising to send word to their general regarding your marriage status. He hoists himself up on the horse. “You must be wed by tonight,” he warns, and gallops away.

The matchmaker scurries up to you both, a huge smile on his face. “So, what kind of a wedding do you want?”

You and the man sit on the front porch. You level him with a steely gaze, your arms crossed across your chest while your dad cowers in the corner.

“Your name?” You ask.

He glares back at you. “I don’t remember.”

“How did you meet my father, then?”

Your dad pipes up. “I found him when I went to go fishing. He’d been washed up on the riverbed with a nasty wound on the back of his head.”

The both of you return to glaring at eachother.

“Fine,” you snap, “It seems as if you and I have both...situations...that need to be solved. You don’t remember anything about yourself and where you’ve come from. I need to find a husband to marry by the end of the day or else I’ll be executed. We will forge a deal.”

He frowns. “What are the terms? What is preventing me from just running away?”

You spread out a scroll, dipping your brush into the ink as you write neatly. “Term 1. You shall be given the name, ‘Jungkook.’”

“That’s the name that I lied was of my fiancee.” You explain, “Since you seem to not remember your own name, that shall be the name at least until you remember yours, that you are called by.” He watches you write in silence.

“Term 2. I will nurse you back to health. If you decide you don’t want this, you will die of starvation, mugging, or of your wounds. We are the only chance you have at regaining your memory and returning to your previous life.”

You watch as his expression remains unchanging. He had an impeccable pokerface.

“Term 3. We will be wed for 1 year. Whether your memory has returned or not, the year must be fulfilled in order to satisfy the decree of the King. After the given time, when the flowers of the Spring begin to bloom, you may go on your way, and I will go on mine.”

He frowns at you. “What will happen in that time?”

You shrug, watching the villagers scurry about, preparing food and decorations for your wedding. “I will nurse you back to health and we must maintain the state of the house and act as a married couple. There is not much else. It is the least you can repay to my father for saving your life.”

He nods. “Keep going.”

You lean down to write down the final term. “Term 4. You will speak to no one of this truth, and this contract will stay within the walls of this house and be known by the parties present: you, myself, and my father.”

He sighs, eyebrows furrowed as he stares at the contract. “You misspelled ‘myself’” he mutters.

You stare up in shock. “You know how to read?”

He seems to be surprised at your question. “Yes?”

You straighten up. “Well, if you know how to read, then you must be from an affluent family. Ever the more reason to continue to try and regain your memories.”

“And you?”

You still, pausing at his question. There was no way he would understand what you’ve been through, why you were here now. You clear your throat, “I-I just picked it up. It’s a skill that I needed to learn to survive.”

He doesn’t reply, and so you clear your throat again, turning the contract towards him. “Do you agree to these terms?”

He surveys the script for a bit longer, and then nods. “I agree to these terms.” He dips his thumb in the ink and presses it down into the paper, and then takes the brush to write neatly on the bottom next to yours.

Jungkook.

The marriage ensues quickly, your surprised villagers preparing a last minute celebration of sorts. You borrow the matrimonial robes from your neighbor, Jisoo, who was wedded last week and has yet to return it to her lender, and Jungkook is able to borrow the matching set.

In order to meet the deadline, your town decides to skip all the formalities and boil down the ceremony to just a fraction of the normal festivities. The matchmaker has put on his officiator’s clothes for the final time, and asks you the question. “Do you, y/n of this town, agree to marry and cherish this man, Jungkook, for the rest of your life, through sickness and in health?”

You meet the eyes of Jungkook. He’s cleaned up quite nicely, your father helping him bandage up his wounds better and washing himself so he’s no longer caked in dirt and dried blood. His hair is re-tied into the tall bun on his head and the ceremonial silk hat placed on his head, adorned with beautiful beads. His robes are a beautiful royal blue.

You weren’t really a liar. You were known to say it as it is. Your mouth had gotten you in quite a lot of trouble growing up. But this is the one time you knew you had to life. In order to survive. You would not cherish this man. You didn’t even know him. It would only be a marriage of a year.

“I do.” You reply.

The matchmaker smiles. “And do you, Jungkook,” he declares, turning, “take y/n, agree to marry and cherish this woman for the rest of your life, through sickness and in health?”

He watches you, dressed in bright, red silk robes traditional for a bride and hair pulled into a large updo and adorned with a traditional wedding headpiece. “I do.” He states.

Everyone erupts in cheers, your father being the loudest of them all. The matchmaker declares, “Then, with the power vested in me, I declare that Y/n and Jungkook are now married! Our city has completed the decree!”

The villagers burst into music and dancing, women ushering forward with plates of food that they’d just cooked, and the fattest pig’s meat was brought forward with jugs of rice wine to share. You and Jungkook left the premises to change out of your clothes, in order to not get them dirty.

Jisoo helps you undress and get into your regular clothes. “Jungkook is quite handsome, don’t you think?” She smiles, folding the silk neatly into its box. “You’ve found quite a fiancee.”

You smile weakly, tying the knot in your shirt.

“He doesn’t talk much, though, does he?” She ponders aloud, helping you get the pins and the headdress out of your hair. “I love that Eunwoo is a talker. He’s quite expressive, which matches me.”

You hum, erasing the makeup off your face. “Yes, you and your match are quite the pair. You got lucky, Jisoo.”

She blushes, sighing dreamily. “I still can’t believe I was matched with him. He’s amazing.”

You chuckle. “I’m sure he thinks the same of you.”

You catch your gaze in the mirror. The day was full of events, but your face looks haggard and sad. You wonder if you’d ever be able to find someone who thinks so of you.

Jisoo cherps up. “Oh right, during your wedding, I don’t know if you heard, but there was an official announcement that the Crown Prince Jeon has died.”

You perk up at the news. “What? Wasn’t he the one who decreed this whole marriage law?”

She nods thoughtfully. “Yeah, seems like it was a political move to try and increase the population. Quite a move, in my opinion. He would’ve made a fine king. But there are rumors he was assassinated.”

Frowning, you help her pack up the dress. “The royals are never the type to ever care about people like us. Whether the Crown Prince took the throne or his little brother, it doesn’t matter. They would never make things better for us.”

Jisoo shrugs. “You never know.”

When she leaves the room, you think to yourself. If the Crown Prince was the one who’d decreed the nationwide marriage law, and if he was now suddenly dead, there was a chance that the law would be appealed.

When you and Jungkook get a moment alone, you pull him aside where no one is listening. “We need to think of a plan.”

He pulls his arm out from where you hold him. “Don’t touch me, how dare you place your hands on me?” You roll your eyes, ignoring his haughty language. “If anyone asks you, we met at the field where the yellow flowers bloom. It was there that you fell in love with me, and asked for my hand in marriage a few years ago. Until now, you were deployed far away as a warrior, and now have returned due to your injuries in battle. That is the story that you must tell the villagers until this is over. Am I clear?”

He huffs, crossing his arms. “Fine.”

You frown at him. “What is wrong now?”

He turns from you. “I wanted to keep those clothes on,” he murmurs, and you frown and tip your ear closer to him. “What?”

“I wanted to keep the robes on,” he mutters, and you follow his gaze to where Jisoo and Eunwoo return the ceremonial robes back to the kind vendor who’d lent it to them.

You scoff. “Why? They’re ceremonial robes.”

“They were quite comfortable. I hate these scratchy clothes your father has put me in.” You finally take a step back to look at him. You giggle. You recognize the outfit, it was one your father had worn years ago and had gotten to fat to fit in anymore. The hemp fits neatly on Jungkook’s shoulders, but he cringes as the scratchy and stiff fabric rubs against his skin.

You roll your eyes, slapping him. “Don’t be a little baby.” His eyes widen at your actions. “How dare you!” He bellows, “Never put your hands on me, woman!”

You narrow your eyes at him. “So you are from a rich family, huh? You know how to read, you prefer silk clothing, and you talk like a spoiled little brat. Well, look, Jungkook. Here in the village, we work with the sweat on our backs to make money, and with that money we buy food. Hear that? Food. We don’t go around, and waste our money on things like silk. Instead, we walk into the forest, gather heaploads of grass and weave them together to create this fabric. And only after that’s finished, we sew them together by hand, and wear it for years. Do you understand?!”

Your voice has gotten quite loud in the rant, and his eyes widen and he seems to shrink a little under your anger.

Huffing at him, you jam a finger into his chest. “And finally, you never, ever call a lady ‘woman’! That is the language of those rich swines who treat others below them like trash. Here in this village, you treat others with respect, and kindness. I’m not sure if you learned that in your previous cushy lifestyle, but it’s something you need to learn to survive here. Got it? Or else, I’ll kill you, and kill myself after!”

His eyes go impossibly wide at the last statement and he cowers from you, neck shrinking into his shoulders as he stutters. “O-o-okay, no need to get violent. Jeez.”

You toss your neck, marching away towards the festivities, smiling. This was going to be a piece of cake.

Settling into your new home is easy. Your villagers help to build a new section on your square of land, in order to create a private separate section for you and Jungkook. Although he seems complains through most of it, he helps you, your father, and the rest of the villagers plummage through the forest for wood and timber, and carries it back all the way and helps the rest of the men build the structures.

The room that is eventually built is large enough to house the both of you comfortably, and the ladies in your town had graciously gifted you a set of beautiful blankets for you to share.

You and Jungkook stare down at the set of blankets neatly laid down with two pillows, side by side.

“There is absolutely no way that I will sleep in the same bed as you,” he declares. “I will take the new blankets. You may sleep in that corner as to not collect suspicion from the villagers regarding our marriage.

You gape at him. “Seriously? You’re saying that I should sleep on the cold, hard floor while you get the cushy new blankets? A man should be offering the better position to the woman!”

He frowns at you. “You are to me neither a wife nor a woman. It is only through our agreement that you are somewhat a partner to me, and nowhere in the contract is it states that I must betray my comfort for your convenience.”

You roll your eyes, and you argue back and forth until you’re about to rip your hair out.

“Ugh, fine!” You yell, throwing open the closet doors as you fish out your old blankets. You throw them in the corner, and settle in them as you see Jungkook happily skip over to his set and pull the covers all the way up to his chest with a content smile.

Despite the villagers’ generosity and their help with everything, the extra mouth that you need to feed begins to take a toll on you and your father’s expenses after a few weeks. Before the wedding, you had been making just enough to feed yourself and your father. You’d run odd jobs, such as deliveries or serving food at a local restaurant while your father worked as a carpenter. But Jungkook ate and ate and ate.

You and your father watch in disgust as Jungkook gobbles down the entire plate of food you’d prepared in minutes. Initially, you’d fought about the food, too.

“What is this?!” He exclaims, holding up the fish you’d cooked with his chopsticks in disgust, “This tiny monstrosity?! I’ve never even seen a fish this small!”

You’re unimpressed as you continue to shovel the plain rice that you’d made today into your mouth. “Shut up and eat what you’re given,” you mutter. But he doesn’t stop.

“I demand that you bring me meat. Like from the wedding! Little did I know that you people eat these insect-looking despicable dishes, if I knew, I would not have agreed!” He continues to rant until you’re fed up too.

You grab your chopsticks, whipping them up and snatching the fish from his. In one mouthful, the fish is shoved into your own mouth and gulped down. He watches you in shock. You snatch his bowl of rice as well, emptying it into your mouth as you chew loudly and quickly, washing it down with a cup of water. After you swallow, you burp loudly, and smile at him.

“If you don’t want to eat it, then don’t!” You drop the smile and clear the dishes, throwing them in the sink.

“What about my dinner?!” He cries, “I just spent the whole day lugging heavy wood on my back, and this is what I’m given?!”

You sneer back, “Then learn to eat what’s given, Jungkook!”

After that fiasco, he’d never complained about your food again. But now the problem was, he ate too much.

“May I have one more?” He says, holding his empty bowl out to you, and you gawk at him.

“That’s your third bowl, Jungkook. We don’t have any more.”

He frowns, swallowing his food and pouting. “I want more food, though.”

You roll your eyes. “If you’re going to eat so much, then get a job! We need to continue to pay rent and you sitting around here all day is doing nothing!”

He shakes his head. “I refuse. Although I can’t remember much, what I do remember is that I have never been forced to do any sort of labor. And that won’t change now either.”

You face him with a sly look. “If you don’t work, then I won’t make you food. It’s simple.”

He drops the haughty expression. “Fine. What can I do?”

You start off with the easy stuff. Eunwoo gets Jungkook a job as a water carrier for the town. They had to climb the mountains afoot with a yoke centered on their shoulders, either side hung with a heavy clay pot that was to be filled with the clean upstream river water and then returned to the towns people.

Jungkook pants and huffs as he climbs the hills. He feels the burn in his thighs, but he grits his teeth at the thought of being able to eat some more good food. He’d admit, although the ingredients that you worked with were less than amazing, the way you’d learned to pair them with specific vegetables that you grew personally in the yard or with spices that you’d created yourself had created in him quite an appetite for the food that you made.

He follows in Eunwoo’s footsteps as the road gets less steep and they pause to take a breather. Eunwoo wipes his sweat with a smile.

Jungkook mutters, “How are you so happy all the time?”

Eunwoo leans on a rock as he passes his smaller jug of water over to Jungkook. “How can I be unhappy? I have a beautiful wife, a house to live in, and a series of jobs that bring in enough money for me to be fed. What more should I desire?” He turns to Jungkook.

Jungkook silently hands over the jug. “Wouldn’t you want a bigger house, some better clothes, or to move into a town that’s better than this one?”

Eunwoo laughs. “I suppose for someone like you who’s been to the military as a warrior, you were paid quite nicely and given great amenities, but I was born humble and plan to die humble. Jisoo is one of the greatest gifts I’ve ever been granted as a man, and I plan to live fruitfully and responsibly so that I may provide for her and treat her as she deserves to be treated.”

Jungkook follows Eunwoo’s suit as he stands and picks up the jugs again on his shoulders. Do I feel that way about y/n? Is it wrong that I don’t have any of that for myself towards her?

His thoughts are cut off when Eunwoo calls out, “We’re almost there! Just ahead, you can hear the brook!”

Jungkook almost jumps for joy when he arrives at the riverbed, the brook babbling brightly as the clear water streams downhill. He and Eunwoo laugh as they use the cold, fresh water to clean off their hands and faces of sweat, and begin filling their jugs with the water. The creek is beautiful; there are trees overcast that slightly give some shade, while still giving way to the bright blue sky overhead. There are a few birds that chitter and jump from tree to tree while Jungkook and Eunwoo take a breather. There are some beautiful yellow flowers that stud the other bank across the river. Jungkook wonders if maybe that may lead to the yellow flower fields where you’d told him to say you two met.

Both of them grunt as they feel the weight of the water weighing down on their shoulders, but don’t say a word as they begin the trek down the mountain.

Suddenly, Eunwoo pauses, and Jungkook stops. “What’s wrong?” He asks, and Eunwoo tips his head as he looks around, listening for sounds. “Wait a second, someone is coming.”

Like clockwork, Jungkook suddenly hears the distant sound of horses galloping, and they continue toward the sound until they can hear the small group of officials approaching them.

“Halt!” One of them calls, and when he dismounts from his horse, Jungkook can see that it was the official that had once threatened you a few weeks back, before the wedding.

“Oh, Jungkook, I see!” The official recognizes, and Jungkook dismounts the jugs from his shoulders to face the official. “I see you’re now a married man, and working hard to provide for the missus at home, yes?”

Jungkook nods solemnly.

“Well, we are just checking the premises for intruders. We’ve heard that there have been some muggings in the vicinity, so be on your merry way. Just be careful.” The official smiles and gets on his horse, signaling for the others to follow. As they gallop off, Jungkook narrows his eyes at the emblem engraved on the base of the official’s sword.

Suddenly, he feels a sharp pain in his head.

A rustle sounds from near him, and then a shout, and then aching pain in his shoulder. A sword is pointed at him, and he is able to just catch the emblem engraved on the hilt before it’s raised high and whipping towards him.

The flashback ends and Jungkook yells out a strangled cry as he falls towards the ground.

Eunwoo takes off his yoke and runs back towards Jungkook, shocked and yelling, “Jungkook! Jungkook! Are you alright? Can you hear me?! Jungkook!”

Jungkook can only see a glimpse of the blue sky above him before everything goes black.

You’re at home, weaving some baskets as a job from the lady at the market when suddenly you hear distant shouts and galloping. Frowning, you drop the basket and make your way over to the gate of your house, peering over the wood to see what the commotion is all about. But the sound continues to approach, and to your surprise, you see government officials approaching with Jungkook on the back of a horse.

Eyes widening, you throw open your gate and walk up to the official whom you recognize to be the one who’d dealt with you before.

He gets off his horse, and Eunwoo dismounts another as they both carry Jungkook into your home.

“What’s wrong?! What’s wrong with him?!” You cry, and Eunwoo looks at you worriedly. “I don’t know! We were carrying water back to the village when suddenly he starting screaming and then fell to the ground unconscious! Thankfully the officials were nearby when he did, so they were able to bring us back.”

There’s a crowd of people waiting in your gate entrance, trying to peek at what’s going on. You turn to the official.

He eyes you, “I remember you. I see that you’ve followed the law and gotten married. I’m sorry that I had to bring your husband in like this. My name is Jimin.”

You shake your head. “It’s fine, what’s wrong?”

Jimin shrugs. “I believe that it may be an affect of overwork? I’m not sure. You may need to consult a doctor if he doesn’t wake up soon.”

You scoff, “He hasn’t worked before! How can it be of overwork?!”

He shrugs again. “It is up to you, madame, but please do keep in mind that the jugs he was using were broken when he fell, and so you know owe the town money to make up for the loss.”

Your shoulders sag at the comment as the official rides away with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I’m just doing my job.”

You nod at him, smiling weakly. “I understand. Thank you, sir.”

He tips his hat to you, and before he rides away says, “You know, I’ve never met someone like you before. You remind me a lot of someone I used to know. I believe you and your husband will get through this. Good luck.”

He rides off and you return to your room as the rest of the villagers disperse. Sighing, you sit next to Jungkook’s sleeping figure and check his pulse and put your finger under his nose to make sure he’s still breathing. Although his wounds from before had healed, he had another fresh scratch on his cheek now, you assume from the fall.

Blinking back tears, you find some clean rags and begin cleaning the cut, gently placing a bandage on it.

There was no god. There was no such thing as luck. You had just nearly escaped death by marrying a man you didn’t even know, and now you were in more debt than ever. This wasn’t easy at all. You wipe away tears of frustration as you watch Jungkook sleep, and eventually the exhaustion from the day becomes too much as you close your eyes too.

Jungkook wakes up to a dark room, and a searing pain in behind his eyes. Wincing, he groans as he turns his head to the side, and stops when he sees you curled up next to him on the cold floor. You have one arm tucked underneath your head and your knees are curled up towards your chest in a form of warmth. He glances to your side to see that the first aid kit of bandages had been opened and a bowl of water and rags for his forehead.

He turns to his side, the headache a little duller as he focuses on your features. You were quite beautiful, he thinks to himself. Not a traditional, eye-catching beauty like Jisoo’s, but a simple kind of beauty that shone through in moments like these.

Now that you’re sleeping and not frowning or yelling at him, he sees that your eyes are quite soft, your brows framing them nicely and your skin quite smooth. Your lips soft-looking and your cheeks quite supple. You were quite cute, he thinks to himself with a slight smile.

You seem to be having nightmares, as you suddenly shudder in your sleep and frown, a deep line setting in between your brows. He reaches out, pressing a thumb lightly to the space, and immediately, your expression softens, as you subconsciously inch closer for some warmth. He takes the blanket that’s placed over him and throws it over you, and faces you as you curl into the warmth.

He reaches out a hand and tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear. The headache no longer bothers him anymore.

You wake up to the sounds of the rooster crowing and some kind of weight on your chest. When you open your eyes, the first thing you see is the face of Jungkook, and the second thing you notice is that you’re only inches away from him, his arm thrown over your shoulders as you’re cuddled up to his torso.

With a yelp, you jump back, and that seems to wake him up. “What are you doing?!” You yell, covering your chest with your arms. “Why are we sleeping together?!”

He rubs the sleep out of his eyes and faces you with a funny expression. “You’re the one who fell asleep here next to me.”

You frown, reaching out a putting a hand on his forehead. He slaps it away and you recoil with an eyeroll. “Are you feeling okay?” You ask, looking into his eyes to make sure he’s okay.

He frowns. “Why am I here?”

You sigh, leaning back against the wall. “You fell, remember? You fainted while carrying back jugs of water.”

He frowns again, hands raking over his face. “Yes, I think I remember now...”

You scoff. “Did you do it on purpose?”

He turns towards you with an incredulous look. “Excuse me?”

Crossing your arms, you face him with a hard look. “You’ve been complaining about labor ever since the day we got married. Don��t think for a second that I believe you actually passed out up there. You were fine when carrying down wood for the house. Why did you suddenly faint? You pretended so that you wouldn’t have to work, right?!”

He faces you with wide eyes that have a tinge of anger. You’ve never seen him with that expression before. “How dare you accuse me of pretending to faint! I had a sudden headache and then I felt myself lose balance, how could you--”

“Oh, you felt yourself lose balance? Huh?” You mock him, “Well look where it’s gotten us. You may have spent the whole day resting, but you’ve gotten us twenty more nyangs in debt than we already are, especially since you’ve already wasted all our savings on your goddamned food!”

You stand, gathering the first aid kit and the bowl of water. Glaring back at him, you mutter, “I should have just died back then,” and slam the door shut behind you. Jungkook sighs, raking his hand over his face.

First it was the random memory, and then now, this. It was far from over.

For the next few days, Jungkook can’t seem to find you. You’ve completely disappeared, and no matter who he asks, he can’t seem to figure out where you’ve gone. Even your father is as confused as he is.

Jungkook mutters to himself as he tries his best to figure out how the stove works, as it seems your father has no idea either. This week had been particularly tough, as Jungkook had to figure out when to water the plants, go get the water from the stream again with Eunwoo, clean the stables, retreive eggs from the chickens without getting his eyes clawed out, and prepare meals for himself and your father in the meantime. His back hurt like crazy, and he’d also almost gotten kicked in the arm earlier by accidentally trying to milk a male cow. He was absolutely at his wits’ end.

Eunwoo stops by with a sheepish smile. “Jisoo offered to prepare you some fried cakes, would you like some?” Jungkook graciously accepts and Eunwoo sits next to your father as Jungkook continues muttering to himself, trying to put more kindling into the fire underneath the iron stove and poking it with a stick. “Just wait a little longer friend,” Eunwoo calls out, “Jisoo is returning soon from the market and said she’d stop by.”

Finally, she arrives, with a big smile on her face and a package of some sorts. She greets her husband with a shy kiss. Jungkook watches as they giggle into the kiss, before Jisoo breaks apart and bounds over to Jungkook and revealing what she has. Jungkook almost falls into the fire when he sees what she’s holding.

“Oh my! Get that out of my face!” He cries, falling backward and scrambling away from the thing.

She frowns, “But Jungkook, you’ve been asking for fish ever since you got here. I found some fresh bass for you, for a great price at the market! We can finally have some good fish tonight!”

Jungkook frowns at the slimy thing. It’s still alive, gills gaping for air as its eyes bulge ugly out its head and its tail still squirming about. He squeezes his eyes shut and holds back a gag. “I think I’m gonna be sick,” he wheezes.

Jisoo rolls her eyes. “Can you prepare it so that I can cook it? Usually the men do that here.”

Jungkook shakes his head no, and Eunwoo sighs, standing up and approaching them. “Here, let me help,” he says, crouching down next to the both of them and demonstrating as he retreives the kitchen knife from the counter, the same knife Jungkook had spent the entire afternoon looking for.

He smiles at Jungkook, ever still the innocent one. “First, you have to kill it the most painless way possible, while removing the blood. You take the blade, place it under here, where the neck meets the body, and---”

The moment Eunwoo slices the fish, Jungkook passes out again.

“Jungkook, Jungkook!” Jisoo shakes him awake, sighing at his form. “You fainted again. But in the meantime, Eunwoo and I prepared some food for you. Hopefully you’re okay with seeing fish in an edible form. Come eat.”

Jungkook joins them on the table and carefully lifts the table cover, sighing in relief when instead of a live fish, he sees Jisoo’s carefully cooked dinner waiting for him to eat. “Oh thank god,” he mutters, picking up his chopsticks. He happily thanks her, digging in and smiling at the taste.

One thing he notes, is that Jisoo tends to oversalt her fish. He thinks to himself that he quite misses your cooking.

“So Jisoo, what brings you here?” He asks, and she looks up at him with a confused expression.

“Y/n asked me to cook you guys a meal or two while she was gone. She didn’t tell you?”

Jungkook frowns. “I have no idea where she’s gone. I thought she’d run away because she didn’t want to have me for a husband.”

Jisoo laughs. “No, she’ll be back. She didn’t tell me what she was doing, but she often disappears once every month for a couple days. In fact, I think that’s her coming!”

She stands and all the men’s eyes follow as Jisoo runs to the gate, and you return, dressed in the most beautiful gown Jungkook has ever seen you in.

It’s a beautiful soft pink, adorned with flowers and he watches you in awe as you put on a big smile and throw your arms around Jisoo in greeting. You greet your father, and when you meet his eyes, Jungkook perks up, putting on a tiny smile as he expects you to return the smile.

But instead, you frown and just greet Eunwoo, ignoring Jungkook as you stalk back out of the gate. Jungkook jumps up, running over to follow you.

“Where have you been!” He demands, grabbing your arm and turning you to face him. He’s breathing heavily, and his brows are furrowed as he continues to yell. “What kind of a wife leaves her husband for days without telling him where she’s gone! Did you know how worr--” He cuts himself off, blinking at his own words.

You frown at him. “You were worried?” You cock your head at him, and he clears his throat.

“No,” he blurts, glaring at nothing in particular. “It made me very.....uncomfortable.”

You roll your eyes, yanking your arm out of his grip. “You make me quite uncomfortable too, got that? Because of your stupidity, I had to go work on a job for a few days to earn enough money to pay off those jugs that you broke, and made a little more to feed us for the next couple of days.”

He frowns, “Why would you do that?”

You give him a scoff. “Seriously? Of course I have to do this, you don’t want to work, my father isn’t making any money right now, and we’re in debt. What do you mean why?”

“I thought you’d left me,” he says, blinking up at you and instead of the angry expression he was sporting earlier, he seems a bit softer now, a bit poutier even.

You sigh, “Unfortunately, I can’t just up and leave because we have a contract to uphold.”

He tugs at your skirt. “Where did you get these nice clothes?”

Turning, you give him a smile, and Jungkook has to keep himself from smiling back. “Aren’t these beautiful? They were a gift!”

He frowns. “A gift? From who?”

“The general.”

Jungkook’s fist tightens. “The general? You mean the man who you refused to marry? The work you did was for him?”

You purse your lips. “I know how it sounds, but despite the obvious pervertedness, he still has quite an influence on our town and the only way to make enough money to cover the jugs that you broke was to help serve food at his birthday celebration.”

Jungkook grits his teeth. “Is that why you’re wearing makeup?”

You’re shocked that he noticed. Earlier today, one of the other waitresses that you’d been working with had offered the girls some of her own blush and lipstick, saying that when you wore some color, the officials were more likely to give bigger tips. And she was right. You’d earned enough to feed your family for a month and to cover Jungkook’s mistake.

Shrugging, you nod. “Yes?”

The angry expression sets in his features again. “You shall not wear makeup for that man again. This is an order.”

You laugh at his words. “What? Are you seriously ordering me around? Why, are you jealous or something?”

He frowns. “If these emotions running through me right now are called being ‘jealous,’ then so be it. I hate the thought of that man looking at you with makeup on and a beautiful dress and giving you money thinking that it might be a way for him to get his disgusting hands on you. You are my wife!”

You’re shocked at his outburst, your mind completely going blank. You do what you do best, which is to bark back a retort. “Well, I wouldn’t have had to do this if it weren’t for you--”

Jungkook leans in, cutting you off with a searing kiss. He does’t quite remember if he’s had any experience with any other women, but his body seems to recognize this. He just didn’t know how else to shut you up. He holds your waist close as he leans into you, your smell enveloping his senses as he opens his mouth to slot his lips in between yours.

You fall silent, eyes wide as he steps closer and his tongue flicks against your lower lip quickly before he detaches from you. He first smirks at your shocked expression, and presses his lips together. “Mm,” he comments, “tastes sweet.” At your horrified expression, he leans in to wipe the corner of your mouth, successfully erasing the remnants of the color left on your lips.

“There we go,” he quips. And leans back. When you take a breath to yell out whatever curses there are in the world at him, he stops you and goes first.

“We may be in a contract marriage, but Term 3 clearly states that we must uphold the appearances in order to look like a married couple. You shouldn’t act like you’re single in front of that pervert in order to make up for my mistakes. For what you did I’m grateful, and I owe you a debt, but in the future, I’d like it if you would not submit yourself to those things. You are above those things.”

You watch him silently as he continues. “Let me find out what kind of work I can do. I do not want you to be hurt anymore or have to worry about money again. I will uphold my part of the agreement.”

He turns and walks back into the house as you watch in shock.

You press a hand to your chest. What was this fluttering feeling for?

Spring fades into summer as the two of you continue on living. Jungkook continues to work odd jobs here and there, and manages to make enough money to support the three of you comfortably. You’re able to start patching up the holes in the roof and the stables, and buy new clothes for yourself and Jungkook to wear comfortably. You two never speak of the kiss again, but you find that the both of you settle into a comfortable pattern of life and work.

Towards the end of the season when the days seem to start getting cooler, one of the marketplace workers notices how hard Jungkook works, and offers him a job at the local bookstore. You and Jungkook squeal in delight at the amount that he’s making, and later to more delight, discover that he can also make much, much more transcribing books by hand for the local bookstore. So in the mornings, Jungkook goes and helps as a bookkeeper, and returns later in the afternoon to eat his dinner and the both of you work on transcribing books together.

He teaches you to write better. Ever since you’d run away from home as a little girl, life in the village didn’t really grant you a lot of experience to continue practicing your writing. It was good, but not great. So night after night, Jungkook patiently watches you painstakingly use the brush to transcribe the stories that were the most popular.

Together, you’d begun from novels about dragons and fairies, and when the vendor was quite pleased with how neatly the books were written, you and Jungkook were given more tasks to do, including transcribing some political and economic books.

As the months passed, this became sort of a routine, as you’d begun using the money now to buy better ingredients for the meals you made for him at the market. Your home had now been patched up and upgraded as best as you could, and you’d bought a few more chickens and had gifted your father a new set of clothes and warm blankets. Jungkook seemed content with his now more comfortable set of new clothes and the hefty meals you prepared. Life was beginning to settle and improve.

Jungkook frowns as he transcribes one night, “Hm,” he muses, “The King has decreed that his next youngest son shall be the next King.”

You scoot closer to him to read what he’s looking at. You hum, “Interesting, I wonder if that will improve anything.”

He looks at you, “What do you mean?”

You shrug, resuming your own transcription. “Whenever the royals shuffle amongst themselves, or the generals and officials fight for the throne, it doesn’t really seem to affect us or benefit us.”

Jungkook frowns, staring down at the announcement he was asked to reproduce. “I read in the political books I transcribed that the morals that this country was founded upon were that the King and the government must be of the people, for the people.”

Sighing, you stare down at the political text you’d been copying. It spoke of the same values. “I know. It would be nice if we could return to a time like that, no? But unfortunately, while people like us are struggling to make ends meet and jumping for joy at the opportunity to patch up our roof, there are the royals who sit on their throne and are planning what their next party will be like, or what country they want to conquer. We are of different worlds, and it has been ages since we’ve had a King who truly cares for the people.”

Jungkook sighs. “If I were King, I would immediately do away with those stupid parties. And those disgusting men who sit in their positions without doing anything.”

You smile at him, “Like that pig who has six concubines?”

He laughs, “Exactly like him.” You laugh back, and Jungkook has to pause for a second, as he catches himself staring at your expression in the candlelight.

But you see him before he can stop himself, and you ask, “What, is there something on my face?”

Jungkook sets down his brush. “You’re quite beautiful when you smile. Why don’t you do that more often?”

Your smile falls as you coldly return to your transcription. Jungkook curses himself for asking you a question that removed the smile from your face. He also silently returns to his work, unsure of what to say next.

“I’m not my father’s daughter, you know.”

Jungkook’s hand pauses in his calligraphy, but he doesn’t say anything and just looks up at you as you continue in your own writing. You don’t look up to him and continue speaking.

“I had to run, far, far away from my real home. My parents were murdered by some people, and my brother and I hid in the forest until the men were gone. I was supposed to meet my brother on the bridge near the river, but he never came back to get me.”

“So I ran, far away, where they can’t find me and where they gave up trying to look for me. I eventually swam down the river and was found by my father, now. And even though I return to that bridge secretly every month when the moon is at its fullest, he’s never shown for the past twenty years. Although life has gotten a little better with you, I can’t say that my life was a good one, nor will it be. I’ll always be an orphan and I’ll always be the one who lost her family. So it seems that more often than not I find myself feeling sad sometimes.”

You feel a tear roll down your cheek. It’s been a while since you shared that with anyone. The only ones being your own father and Jisoo. Suddenly, you hear him arise from his seated position near you and in moments he’s gripping you close, cradling your head close to his chest as he hugs you.

“Don’t cry,” he murmurs, and you feel it within his chest. The warmth is comforting, and you lift your hands to settle on his broad back. “Why do you say that you have no family? I read in a poem I transcribed that family is not defined by bloodlines nor wealth, but in the love and care we have for eachother. Your father loves you, and so do Jisoo and Eunwoo. And I am your family as well.”

Your tears fall a little faster at that. A dull ache beats in the pit of your chest as he continues. “I am your husband. Jisoo and Eunwoo are our friends. Your father is my father-in-law. We are a family.”

You sob louder in his arms and he murmurs more sweet words as he rocks you and shushes you. But the reason why you cry isn’t because he’s healing all your wounds, but because he’s healing your wounds with promises you know he can’t keep.

He was your husband for only one year, and it’s already passed a few months, into the Autumn, which meant that its been halfway. He had no idea when he would regain his memories back, or who he was. For all you knew, he could be a general’s son, destined to go into glorious battles and lead his troops into war for the sake of the country. Or he could be a son of someone who works in the Castle, or a royal even.

Anywho, whichever house he belonged to, it would be millions of times better than now, and you knew that he would leave without even a glance back. It was in anyone’s nature.

So as he continues to make promises, you let him hold you a little longer, because you know that this will all come to an end someday. You apologize to whatever god is out there. You’d never been selfish. You’d always worked hard to feed and fend for your family.

So you make one, single, selfish wish.

I wish I could stay like this forever, and that he won’t leave me.

Before the autumn ends, Jungkook returns one day with a tree.

“What the heck?!” You cry, as him and Eunwoo grunt with the effort of carrying the thing off the truck and burying it into the entrance of your home. “What are you doing?!”

Jungkook smiles, shoveling the dirt back into the roots. “I bought us a tree.”

You put your hands on your hips. “I can see that, but why?!”

He laughs, leaning on the shovel and laughing boyishly at you. “Look!”

He points up and although most of the branches have succumbed to the autumn weather and turned their leaves red and orange and yellow, you can see the buds of the flowers peeking through. Yellow flowers.

“Remember?” Jungkook says, wiping the sweat off his brow, “We met here, in the fields of yellow flowers.” He wiggles his brows at you.

Your heart sinks at the memory of the lie you’d told him to recite to others.

“Why?” You ask softly.

He softens at your expression approaching you and rubbing your arms. “Oh, don’t be sad. It was just so beautiful I wanted to put it here. I thought you’d like it. It’s our little inside secret.”

You blink away the tears. Why was he so kind? It made it harder to distinguish what was real and what wasn’t.

Jungkook’s heart sinks when he sees you go back into the house with slumped shoulders. He really thought you would like it.

You did like it. You loved it. That was the problem.

You’d counted the months that had passed since your agreement, and it had been more than half a year. That quickly, life had become so adjusted to having Jungkook around, you didn’t know how to distinguish what was real or not.

But deep down, you knew that the pang in your chest everytime he smiled at you, or the worrying feeling deep in your gut everytime he arrived home late all indicated that you indeed had developed a deep sense of...emotion for your husband.

You were just too scared to admit it was love.

Because for you, everytime you had fallen in love or let yourself feel love, those people or things had been taken away from you. Your only wish was that Jungkook wouldn’t be taken away. But that in itself was quite the selfish wish. He really could have been betrothed to someone out there, and there might be a woman like you, waiting for her husband to return home achingly.

You would never wish that upon someone.

But you can’t ignore the pain that settles in your heart when you imagine Jungkook returning home to any other woman besides yourself.

Later that week, Jungkook is taking his daily walk to the bookstore, when he pauses at the sight of a woman putting out her daily goods. She seems to own a female’s clothing store, and in the front of her display, she proudly puts a series of colorful shoes that catch his eye.

He approaches the stall, and the kind lady greets him with a smile. “Looking for a present for your wife?”

He nods, “Yes. I don’t know her taste, however.”

She laughs, “My dear, you don’t know a thing about women. It isn’t what you’re buying her. It’s that you’re buying something for her at all. Tell me a little about her.”

He muses, folding his hands behind his back. “Well, she’s about yeh tall, and seems to be a healthy weight. She always has her hair up in a--”

The lady laughs again. “No, not her features. Her personality. Tell me about her.”

Jungkook pauses, blinking down at his feet as he thinks.

“Well, first, she’s very strong. Not as in she can lift heavy things, because she can’t. I know, because she asks me to do them for her and I like doing them. But she’s strong in that I’ve never met anyone else who is as confident and fearless as she is. When I first met her, she was literally staring into the eyes of her own death without blinking. I admire that. She has no fear.”

“She’s also really kind. Underneath that fearlessness, she’s very attentive. She notices what I like to eat and don’t like to eat, and sometimes when I come home in a bad mood, she’ll do her best to prepare me a nice warm bath and extra servings of food.”

“And she’s also very delicate. She may hate to think that, but I love that underneath that hard shell, is a soft inner shell that’s kind and soft and pure. I love seeing glimpses of that while living as her husband.”

Jungkook looks up at the woman as he finishes. She has a knowing smile on her face.

“Well, dear, looks like we have a man here who’s desperately in love with his wife. For you, I’d recommend these.”

She points towards a pair of beautiful pink slippers, adorned with drawings of cherry blossoms and threaded with deep maroon thread that seemed to glisten in the sun. He smiles. They would look perfect on you.

“How much?” He asks.

She laughs, putting the shoes in a package for him. “I usually try to charge a bit more in order to make some money off of the sale, but I bought these for 10 nyangs, so I only ask for 10.”

He frowns, “Are you sure ma’am? You’d be making no profit...”

She smiles, handing over the package to him. “I’m sure. You remind me of me and my husband. That’s true love right there.”

Jungkook hands over the money with a solemn expression. “True love?”

She smiles. “Yes, dear. The kind of love that makes you fearless, the kind of selfless love. A love that you would die for. You seem young so you might be of the generation that had to marry on such short notice, but I can tell by the way you talk about her that you care for her very deeply. Only men who love their wives can talk like that. I’m happy for you. Now go and give her those shoes.”

Jungkook stares at the shoes as he walks towards the bookstore.

True love? Was it true that he’d fallen for you? He tucks them into his pocket.

Needing to think about that conversation more, he keeps the shoes in the bookstore and returns home without the present.

Jungkook watches you light up when he enters the gates in the evening, and you smile at him, gesturing to the table of food you’d prepared. “Jungkook!” You exclaim, bounding up to him, “How was work?”

“Good,” he sighs, falling into step with you as you guide him to where you’ve prepared dinner. “I’m hungry,” he smiles.

You return the smile brightly, and unveil the meal you’d prepared. “I made the fried cakes you like, and the kimchi is seasoned just right today. And I found some fresh fish at the market today, so Jisoo and I bought two to prepare for you and Eunwoo. We figured we’d treat our husbands to something nice and fattening, so that when the winter comes, you have some meat on your bones.”

Our husband. He likes the ring of that.

He digs in, listening attentively as you tell him about the town gossip, and of what happened in your day, and he reciprocates, sharing stories of the strange customers that frequented the bookstore.

When he’s finished eating, you stand to clear away his dishes, but he stops you, smiling as he takes his own dishes to the basin. “I’ll clean, you should rest.”

You smile at him and watch as he turns to clean the dishes, stacking them neatly as he finishes them one by one. When he’s finished, he joins you on your porch, as you both lean against the house and watch the stars.

The lantern beautifully lights up the underside of the tree that he’d bought, and the stars against the beautiful night sky makes this a scene that takes his breath away.

The wind blows a bit colder tonight, and when he sees you shudder, he lets you lean against him as he curls an arm around you. The both of you fall into a comfortable silence as you watch the stars.

“What are you thinking about?” He murmurs, watching your face lit up by the warm candlelight as you watch the sky.

You have a small smile on your lips as you gaze. “Just about how happy I am right now. I really like the tree, I wish I told you earlier.”

Jungkook smiles, looking at you knowingly. “I thought you didn’t like it cause it was a waste of our money.”

You turn to him with wide eyes, “No, no, that’s not it.” You chuckle, “I like it very much, thank you.”

Jungkook lets you settle back into his warmth as you both continue to look at the stars. His eyes drift downward to the tree, which is fluttering slightly in the wind. The leaves are beginning to fall. His eyes continue to trail downward, and he rests on your feet, and how the hemp straw shoes that you wore were beginning to fall apart a bit at the sides.

He bites his lip. It was still a bit longer until the streets would close. Maybe he had a little bit of time.

He stands, holding a hand out to you, “Will you come with me somewhere?”

You take his hand, confusedly following as he makes a beeline for the gate. “Where are we going? At this time in the evening?”

He doesn’t reply as he continues down the road towards the market, stalking quickly and determinedly towards the bookstore. Your cheeks flame at the fact that his hand is tightly wrapped around yours.

“Did you forget to bring some books back from the bookstore?” You ask, struggling to keep up, but when he arrives at the store, he faces you.

“Sit here,” he instructs, and you confusedly take a seat in front of the store as he unlocks the door and rummages around for something. “Aha!” He cries from inside, and you crane your neck to try and peer into the store, but he calls out, “close your eyes!” from inside.

You frown, yelling back, “Why?”

He yells back, “I’m not coming out until you promise to keep your eyes closed.”

You laugh a little, but reply, “Okay, fine!” And close your eyes.

You hear him peep out to check if you were telling the truth, and then after confirming that you were, indeed, closing your eyes as you’d promised, he shuffles out towards you.

You hear him kneel in front of you, and suddenly, he grips your ankle and takes your straw shoes off. Your eyes fly open in shock and you gasp. “What’re you doing?”

He looks up at you with a soft smile. “You broke the promise, you were supposed to keep your eyes shut.”

You frown at him. “What?”

He shakes his head a little, but grins up at you anyways. “Well since you have your eyes open, you can watch me do this.”

He peels open a paper package to reveal two dainty shoes, pink and made with the finest fabrics and thread. He gently places one of them on your foot. A weight settles deep into your chest at the way he smiles at you after he’s done.

“I wanted to buy you something meaningful, not something for the house or something we can both enjoy like the tree, but something specifically for you. I saw these on my way to work today.”

Your eyes fill with tears as you look down at the way the shoes adorn your feet. It’s been years since you’ve been able to wear shoes like these. And these were perfect. Too perfect.

This was beginning to become too perfect. It scared you like hell.

The next morning, you wake Jungkook up with a solemn expression, and he’s immediately worried. He’s become quite sensitive to your mood changes and emotions, and he can tell by the way you speak or the way you make your way around the kitchen that you have something on your mind.

As he eats, you take a deep breath, and speak.

“I think you should go with my father today and visit the river where he found you.”

Jungkook stops with a mouthful of rice. “What?”

“You should try to find your memory soon. Maybe going to the river may trigger your memory to come back again.”

He sets his soon spoon, looking at you with a heavy expression. “And then? If I find my memories again?”

You stare down at your hands, lip trembling a bit at the next part. “We agreed that if you found your memory, we would revisit the contract’s terms. But I thought it would be a good idea for you to at least try.”

Jungkook sighs, as he glares at the tree and how the leaves are beginning to fall and create a pile of dead color on the ground. He had just gotten into a routine, feeling more and more content about staying here with you. He’d even had a moment last night when he’d wanted to confess that he’d fallen in love with you, and that he was considering just continuing to live here with you.

But it seems like you had different ideas.

He clears his throat, finishing off his cup of water. “Good idea,” he grits, squaring his shoulders. If this was what you wanted, then he would do anything for you.

He stands. “Thank you for breakfast, I think if we are to find out something today, we should leave as soon as possible. I’ll go next door and let father know that we’ll be leaving soon.” He leaves without another word, nor a look in your direction.

The tear that had been balancing on your lashes finally falls.

This was all for his own good.

Jungkook and your father begin a trip with a couple more townspeople who are trekking up the mountains to obtain some more water for the coming cold season. The villagers bring along some donkeys and horses to help carry the heavy jugs, while Jungkook and his partner are empty handed. Their mission wasn’t to find water, it was to find the truth.

As they walk up the winding path, Jungkook and your father fall behind a bit as your father begins explaining some things here and there.

“This path we’re on,” he whispers to Jungkook, “Is the path that I brought you down from the river. We’re almost there.”

“Father,” Jungkook murmurs, “What was I wearing when you found me? And where did you keep me?”

His father-in-law cranes his neck as he looks at the direction the rest of the villagers were heading in. “Follow me,” he whispers, and heads towards the fork in the road and begins climbing a different road than the group. Jungkook follows, stumbling over rocks and tree roots as they climb into a different side of the road into a small clearing, where Jungkook can see a tiny series of huts sits, made of straw and wood.

His father-in-law climbs into one of them, and knocks politely on the door.

Immediately, it opens to reveal a very old man, who greets you father with a stern smile, and then settles his gaze on Jungkook.

“Oh, you’re alive!” The grandpa exclaims. Jungkook confusedly asks, “I’m sorry, how do we know eachother?”

Your father pipes up. “This is the mountain healer. He’s the one who helped nurse you back to health when I found you nearby. Here, look, I even kept the clothes that you were wearing when I found you.” The grandpa holds out a package for Jungkook, and he frowns, holding it close.

He gives the healer a deep bow. “Thank you very much, I owe you my life.”

The healer laughs, clapping Jungkook on the back. “Seems like you’ve recovered very well. You look quite healthy and strong.”

Your father chuckles, “Actually, elder, we’ve come to re-visit you to inquire of some questions. Jungkook here still hasn’t found his memory, and we believe that it’s because of his injury that he’s not able to remember where he’s from or even what his previous name is. Do you remember anything while you were nursing him back to health?”

The elderly healer frowns, as he cocks his head. Jungkook takes a seat next to him, leaning in to hear what he has to say.

“I remember not much, but I do recall that you did talk a lot in your sleep when you were healing. You would sometimes burst into incoherent yelling, or sometimes talk with a stern voice.”

Jungkook leans in. “What did I say?”

“I don’t recall much, but I do remember you talking about the ‘Road that Winds to the East,’ whatever that means.”

Jungkook frowns and turns to your father. “Does that mean anything, father?”

He frowns too, “Well there are only a few main roads here in these woods, and most of them I know by heart. Elder, may I borrow your map?”

He retreieves it from a cabinet as your father continues to speaking. “Look, this road that we just came in from leads to the North. The only road that would go from the East and West would be this one. But there’s no way...”

“Why?” Jungkook asks.

“That’s the road that leads to and from the Castle and the Capitol.”

Jungkook’s eyes widen as he stares at the road that indeed winds directly from the capitol towards the forest that he was found in. He’s about to ask the elder another question when suddenly, there’s a bit of commotion outside.

Eunwoo barges into the hut, panting heavily as he wipes his sweat away. “Jungkook! Father! I’ve been looking for you everywhere! The group said that you’d broken off from them a bit back so I borrowed a horse and came here. You need to hurry! You need to go back!”

Jungkook stands, frowning as he helps Eunwoo take a seat. “What’s wrong?!”

Eunwoo stares up at Jungkook with eyes full of fear. “Y/N! She’s been taken! She’s in danger!”

You’d spent most of the afternoon blinking and wiping away tears as you wove as many baskets as you could. But the moisture in your eyes prevented you from clearly seeing the needle you were working with, so your fingers were horribly sore and swollen by the time the sun was at its highest point.

Sighing, you lean back and close your eyes, head heavy as you think of how Jungkook might not return today.

Suddenly, you hear your gate being thrown open, as a group of men in dark colored, torn clothes enter your property. Immediately you stand, clenching your fists. “Who are you?!”

The men ignore you, only one glancing your way as they begin to ransack your home, ignoring your screams. You flail and beat your fists against them as they tear open the doors of your new house, throwing the closet doors open and rustling through the clothes and blankets. Another destroys the chicken coop and another kicks the doors of your father’s place open and does the same to his belongings.

“What are you doing!” You scream, crying as the men destroy in minutes what you and Jungkook had worked tirelessly to create and repair. “Stop! How dare you!”

The ringleader gets tired of your screams and slaps you straight across your face. The impact and the shock makes you tumble back, hand held to the burning cheek in terror. “Shut up, bitch! We’ve gotten orders from the general officer that you and your husband owe him a debt. We’re here to collect on his orders.”

You scream back in shock. “That swine? I owe him nothing! What are you talking about?! I never borrowed anything from him!”

One of his men emerges from your bedroom, holding up the pink dress that you and the other waitresses had been gifted after the idiot’s birthday party celebration. “Sir! Look what I found!”

The ringleader smiles nastily down at you. “So you’re lying to me, eh? How does a poor woman like you afford a dress like this? And shoes like yours?”

You look down at the shoes on your feet, now scuffed from the dirt when he’d hit you. “They were bought with our hard earned money! We have no fault!” You rush up to him and try to wrestle the dress out of his hands, but he’s stronger than you and grips your wrists as you struggle. Suddenly, you feel a searing pain on your back and everything goes black.

When you come to, you panic at the feeling of your hands being immobile, and then you realize that the rest of your body is bound tightly against a tree trunk with some thick rope.

You scream, struggling against the ropes, but the ringleader from earlier comes into your line of vision, smirking nastily as he surveys how you struggle. “We sent someone to go find your husband. Either he can bring us the money, or we can just sell you off to some hostels and get the money ourselves. It’s his choice.”

Your eyes widen. “What?! My husband?!”

He nods. “Hopefully he’ll come. I heard that the marriage was done last minute, but hopefully he loves you enough to know that the moment he refuses to comply to our terms, it’s over for the both of you.”

He smiles at you, his disgusting breath fanning over your face as you glare in horror at him, “In fact,” he says, tilting his head and turning around, “here someone comes.”

You hear it too, the sound of heavy horse steps beating the ground as you see Jungkook approaching on a horse that you’ve never seen before. You scream out as soon as he stops the animal, “No! Don’t come any closer! Run!” You struggle and wriggle against the bindings as much as you can, but the men have already surrounded the horse and your husband, and Jungkook dismounts easily, facing the men with a hard glare.

He takes one look at you and gives you a nod as you cry and struggle against the rope, but it doesn’t give much slack. He reaches up into the saddle of the horse to pull out a long bamboo stick, and immediately lunges for one of the men.

You watch in shock as he deftly uses the stick to go nimbly for the vulnerable parts of each man, crouching under the swing of their swords and using that moment to hit the stiff bamboo against their shins or their kneecaps, or using it to knock the air out of their lungs with a hard swing to their chest or shoulders.

Jungkook uses a tree to jump off of as he hits a man on his head, and uses the dazed burglar as leverage to kick another in the chest. In that moment though, he stumbles to the ground, and the searing pain in his head returns again.

It was exactly the same vision he’d had when he was getting water. But this time there was more.

He raises his gaze and sees that the one who wields the sword has a gaze so sharp and fierce, that it takes his breath away.

In the moment of distraction, one of the burglars manages to get his sword close enough to deliver a slice on Jungkook’s bicep. He cries out, stumbling as you scream his name, but he picks himself back up and charges towards the men.

He finishes them off one by one, and you watch in amazement and horror as your husband neatly lands on the ground with all the men groaning in pain.

You see a movement in the corner of your eye and see that the ringleader is reaching over for his sword on the ground, and you cry, “Jungkook! Look out!”

Jungkook turns, immediately catching sight of him and runs over, kicking the sword away and flipping it up with his feet. It lands neatly in his hand and he points the tip at the ringleader’s neck with a movement so fast you hear the sound of the sword slicing the air. Jungkook frowns. “You should probably leave, and never come back, now that I have a sword in my hands. I can do much more damage with this than I did with the bamboo stick.”

The ringleader spits a mouthful of blood, and in seconds, him and his helpers scramble out of the woods, tail in between their legs as they limp away.

When they’re all out of sigh, Jungkook immediately turns and runs over to you, using the sword to cut away all of the ropes. As soon as your hands are free, you lunge towards him, throwing your arms around his shoulders as you sob into his neck.

“I’m sorry,” you cry, “It’s all my fault, I should have never gone to that man’s birthday celebration. I should’ve never believed him,” and Jungkook just holds you close, his large hands spanning across your back as he presses you close to him.

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” he whispers, and he pulls back to survey your face. He softly ghosts a thumb over the red mark on your cheek, eyebrows furrowing at the mark. “Did he hit you?”

You nod, hand coming up to cup the sore spot. His jaw grits, “I should’ve killed him.”

You shake your head. “No, I’m fine. Please, let’s just go home. I’ll be okay. What about your arm?” Your hands grab for him, and when you push up his sleeve, you see that the cut isn’t very deep, but it bleeds nonetheless, staining his clothes.

Your eyes widen, tears brimming as you scramble to find the hem of your dress to tear a piece of fabric away, but he stops you, your hand enclosed in his fist. He gives you a gentle smile. “I’ll be okay, wife. Don’t ruin your clothes for this, either.”

He helps you up and onto the back of his horse, and you lean into his back, arms clasped around his waist as he leads the both of you in the direction to where home is. You mutter in his ear. “When did you learn to ride a horse? And to fight like that?”

Jungkook frowns, “I’m not sure. When I heard you were in danger, I just took the first and fastest thing I could find, which was Eunwoo’s horse. And then when I got here...I just didn’t think.”

You rest your head on his shoulder blade. “If you know how to write, how to read, fight, and horseback ride, you must have been from an affluent family.”

Jungkook doesn’t say anything. He now realizes that in the hurry to get back to you, he’d dropped the package that contains the clothes he was found in. He hopes that either your father or Eunwoo had enough sense to bring it back home with them. He makes a different turn with the horse than the one you’re used to.

“Where are we going?”

He turns back to smile at you. “Do you trust me?”

He rides for a little bit until he arrives at a meadow, and your eyes go wide at the scene. It’s the field of yellow flowers. Now that the autumn is almost over, the summer wild flowers are now receding from their full bloom, and the fields are now a beautiful golden color as the green begins to fade away into a beautiful beige and yellow golden field. You gasp as Jungkook helps you dismount, and you marvel at the beautiful scene against the backdrop of the beautiful sunset. Everything was golden.

His voice sounds from behind you. “You told me to tell others that you and I fell in love here in these fields.”

You nod, still staring at the scene. “It was always a dream of mine, to fall in love in these fields. They’re absolutely beautiful.”

You hear his footsteps approach, and he stands in front of you, in his beauty. “Can’t it become true?”

Your eyes widen as your mouth drops slightly. “What? What are you talking about?”

He reaches for your hand. “Today I realized, that that I am in love with you. At first, I wasn’t sure. I thought they might be feelings of filial love, out of duty or just a camaraderie from spending the past few months with you. But today, when I dropped everything in order to come for you, and when I saw you tied up to that tree with that bruise on your face, I couldn’t think or see anything. I knew that I had to save you. If it meant dying, then I knew in that moment that I would die fighting to protect you.”

Your tears fall as your breath gets caught in your throat. He just smiles down softly at you.

“Would it be so terrible, if we actually did fall in love in these fields?” He whispers, reaching out to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. “Would it be so far from your dreams if I were to continue to be your husband?”

You shake your head, and whisper, “No,” you hiccup, “it would be absolutely perfectly perfect,” before he leans down and captures your lips in his.

Unlike the kiss you had earlier in the spring, this one is hungry, and desperate. He holds you to him like you might fade away, and his lips hungrily swipe across yours as if its a declaration, a mark of his true dedication to you. Your tears fall and he easily swipes them away with his thumbs as you clutch him and press yourself up against him as close as you can, breathing in his scent, feeling him, perfectly lined up against you.

You both return and deal with the hysterics of your father, Eunwoo, and Jisoo. Some of the villagers have come to help you repatch the things that the burglars destroyed, and after they’re finished, the moon is high into the air and most of everything back to normal. You would have to pay to get some things re-done and patched up, but the selfless villagers had done more than enough to help you and Jungkook.

While you and Jisoo go aside to prepare some dinner for everyone who helped, your father pulls Jungkook aside.

“Here,” he says, handing Jungkook the paper package. “I brought this to give to you.”

Jungkook thanks him as he stares meaningfully down at the package. Your father peers at him, “Aren’t you going to open it? What you were wearing might hold an important clue to who you were before all of this.”

Jungkook smiles, clutching the package in his fist. “No, father.” He leads him over to the campfire in the center of the yard, and tosses the paper package into the flames. Both men watch as the package burns quickly, the sparks flying into the night sky. Jungkook murmurs only loud enough for your father to hear. “I would rather live as Y/n’s husband happily, than to go back to a past that I might not be as happy in.” He turns to the elder. “Father, I would like to ask for your daughter’s hand.”

The elder man laughs, staring and sighing up at the sky. “My dear boy, I’ve thanked the gods every single day that you were the one I found. Even though it was only meant for a year, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so happy.” At those words, the two of them look over to you, who’s happily serving dishes to everyone who’d volunteered to help, laughing and smiling and drinking with them as they cheer and dig into the hefty dinner.

Your father grips Jungkook’s hand in his. “All I ask is that you cherish her. She deserves it.”

Jungkook smiles. “I know, father. She does deserve it.”

From the side, Eunwoo notices that Jungkook and your father murmuring to themselves quietly before joining the dinner table. When he returns from using the restroom, he sees something golden glinting within the glowing embers of the fire.

Later that evening, after all the guests had left and your father had fallen asleep, you draw Jungkook a bath after you’d washed up yourself, and you wait as you stare up at the stars on your porch.

Suddenly, you feel arms wrap around you from behind, and your soft gasp turns into a giggle as Jungkook presses his lips to your neck, tickling you. “Are you all done?” You whisper, and he nods, snuggling in closer to you. Your cheeks turn incredibly hot as you realize he’s not wearing a shirt and the arms around you and the chest pressed against you are bare.

Your eyes drift down, and catch sight of the cut from earlier on his bicep. Turning in his embrace, you press a light kiss against his chin. “I need to dress your injury,” you say, and he glances down at it as if he’d forgotten, and you follow him into your bedroom.

The candlelight does nothing to hide the hotness of your cheeks as he stares at you deeply as you clean and dress the wound. Once you’re all finished, you’re already breathing heavily under the heaviness of his gaze, and when you look up at him through your lashes, he smiles at the look on your face and leans in to press his lips against yours.

They press against your mouth, letting you relax into him, and then he grips your waist, hoisting you up onto his lap as you gasp into the kiss. He takes that moment to slip his tongue into your mouth, licking softly against yours and tasting you as you steady yourself with hands on his bare shoulders.

His hands grip you through your dress, but they drift upwards to where your top is, undoing the ribbon there easily and casting away the top layer. You pant as he leans in to press his lips against your neck and chest, the only thing you can hear right now is the flickering of the fire outside, the soft puckers of his lips against your skin, and the heavy pants you let out at the way his lips make your mind go completely blank.

He peels back the white layer of your underdress, your breasts falling out from the constrictive material and his hands come to cup them worshippingly, his lips immediately kissing the soft skin there and then lowering to capture a nipple and suck lightly.

You gasp and cry out at the sensation, feeling a wetness pool in between your legs at the sensation and grip the hair at the nape of his neck, pressing his heat closer to you. “Please,” you pant, “I can’t wait.”

He chuckles against your skin, pulling back to smile up at your exasperated expression. “You’re so beautiful, I want to savor this,” he mutters, a hand coming up to tug your hair out of the bun you always wore it in, and the locks tumble out across your back. He threads his fingers through them softly, look at the view of you perched naked on his lap, trembling and lit up by the soft glow of the candlelight.

He presses a kiss against your lips as his hands slide under your dress and between your thighs, fingers pressing questioningly into the wetness he finds there.

You moan at the sensation, grinding against his fingers as they circle the pebble there that incites an incredible feeling of pleasure. He leans forward until you’re spread out on the sheets, naked and panting for him.

It’s your time being touched by a man, but Jungkook makes it seem like it’s the last. He holds you delicately in a way you’ve never been held before, his narrow hips slotting in between your thighs as he whispers sweet nothings into your lips. He carves his name into your mouth with his tongue, panting impossible breaths into your neck as he presses himself deep into your center, pushing past the wetness and settling deep within your hips as he begins to rock against you, his hands sliding into yours.

And as you moan and cry out his name, you’re completely and absolutely blown away by how exactly perfectly perfect it is.

#jungkook fics #bts fics #jungkook smut #bts smut #jungkook angst #writing #fics #mine #jungkook #1 year my love

3K notes · View notes

barricadebops · 3 years

Text

And He Falls With a Smile

Summary: In 1823 Feuilly arrives in Paris. In 1824 a man in a daring red waistcoat invites him to a student organization where despite his orphan status, Feuilly gains a family in the throes of rebellion and revolution. Read on AO3 here.

1823

In many ways, Paris is quite unlike the south. The city bustles with more people than Feuilly had ever seen in Aigues-Mortes. He will likely have to take a while to become accustomed to the constant crowds in the streets, the way everyone seems a stranger to each other.

However, to his due consideration, Paris is also in many ways quite akin to the south.

The language of French rolls easy off his tongue like the rhythms of Provençal and Polish, and casts no doubt on his employability when it comes to dealing with coworkers at the fan-making atelier. The streets are still lined with the poor who cry out for help, for just one sou while the haughty bourgeois stroll past leisurely, and there are still women thrown on the ground—prostitutes from destitution, children begging for alms instead of attending school, and there is so much misery that surrounds him when he steps foot in the city, and the orphan boy thinks that there has not been much significant change here, that he will work here until he dies never having known a true family.

Feuilly’s only family has been the concepts of France, Poland, Greece, Hungary, Romania, Italy—simply put, the rest of the world, the people of the rest of the world.

So, Feuilly resolves that he shall adopt the people of Paris too.

________________________________________________________________

1824

He meets a man by the name of Bahorel, down by the schools of law.

Three francs does not buy a man much. It hardly puts bread on the table. It certainly does not provide for better clothes than what Feuilly dons everyday. And only in his scarcely selfish dreams, do three francs provide him with a place at the universities of Paris, where every bit of knowledge is put within his reach with thought only of reading and reading and reading until his brain tires and he nods off to sleep, blissful in the knowledge that he will not have to rush awake the next morning to catch work.

But three francs does not lend him that reality. Three francs only lets him gaze wistfully outside the buildings and think of a life where he could read better, where he could write better, where he wouldn’t have to waste away toiling at the fan-making atelier—where others would not have to toil away—others who are younger, who are needy, who should be going to school. People from France, from Poland, from Greece and Hungary and Romania and Italy. People from around the world who deserve better than to have their inherent right to an opportunity, an education, a leap at life—taken away from them.

L'École de droit de Paris is teeming with young men, all affluently dressed, all hailing from wealthy families—men who care not for why lawyers are so prudent, why law needs to be so heavily examined. It is filled with men who walk without casting a glance at Lady Themis, their patron, who stands disappointed—though she may be blindfolded—knowing that her supposed guardians do nothing to bring about justice, to bring about her divine right. It is filled with bourgeois young men with haughty airs, fake smiles, and cold graces.

L'École de droit de Paris teems with such young men when classes are let out. For now, Feuilly can enjoy its tranquility, its academic aura without the glances thrown his way. Peasant worker.

So no one can really seek to blame him for the irritation that rises within him when he feels a man crash into his side, throwing him off balance and sending him sprawling onto the hard cobblestones of the campus.

"Are you quite alright?"

Feuilly has the strong urge to snap at the hooligan present above him now that he was not alright at all, not since he disturbed some of the only moments he is allowed to breathe free with his rough tumbling.

But he stops short. Something about the man's smile—though he must admit, it seems rather rude to smile in a situation like this—halts the words on his tongue.

The man, or well rather a boy since he looks like he cannot be much older than him—is smiling brashly, unabashed in his humour. Though he wears the red coat of a man bound to be wealthy, there is a certain quality in the way he holds out his hand to Feuilly, without disgust, without turning his nose up at him, without thinking that he is a great saint for doing so, that makes Feuilly think that he cannot possibly be of the bourgeois, and without thinking, Feuilly takes the proffered hand and rises his feet. As he regains his footing, the man nearly sends him back down by delivering a mighty clap on his back.

"My sincerest apologies, my good fellow. Here you were, wasting away your time like a respectable gentleman should be doing, when I so rudely crashed into you. But I do believe this is a fortunate coincidence! To meet another sensible individual—it is not everyday you have the great opportunity to meet another idler—they seem rather scarce in this dull profession. I do know of just one other, but unfortunately Bossuet is forced to remain in Blondeau's class—what amusement! Imagine Blondeau really considering that being kicked out of his class is a punishment! I fret for poor Bossuet who shall come out having truly come into possession of knowledge on property law. Just imagine!"

Much as Feuilly may have tried if he really did want to, he could not imagine, considering he was not actually a student of law, not to mention that he had absolutely no clue who this Bossuet was.

"But—" the man continues on, and Feuilly vaguely realizes that at this point he should make haste to mention that he is not actually a student of l' ècole and that he really should be heading back to the atelier, but the man barrels on, "say, I have not seen you in any class before. You certainly must be younger than I, for there can be no other way to explain it."

Feuilly flushes. How could this man seriously still go on believing that he was a student here when he saw the way he dressed and held himself?

Clearing his throat, he shook his head and clarified, "You're mistaken, Monsieur. I am not a student of the school."

The man's eyebrows furrow for a moment before his smile returns with massive force. "And I thought you could not possibly get better!" Feuilly's gaze darts up curiously. "How fortunate indeed!"

At this, Feuilly's mind staggers a little, and he bristles at the way the man's words rub on him. Did he think it was fortunate that a poor man like him could not afford an education, a right all deserve? Did he think it was fortunate that children lacked the opportunity to acquire knowledge because of the situations they were born into?

This man had to be of the haughty bourgeois, there was no doubt about it. His bold, rather daring waistcoat definitely spoke a testament to the statement.

There was work to be done at the atelier, there were fans to be made, money to be earned, another day to be lived. Feuilly needed to head back and throw this man out of the recesses of his mind, for he did not have any space freed up there either.

And yet—

And yet, Feuilly finds that this man is so incredibly wrong to have said what it is he said, and, well, someone must correct him one way or another—

"Forgive me, Monsieur," he says stiffly, "but I see absolutely no reason as to why this is a good thing. Do you really laugh at the thought of an orphan being unable to find the money to pursue an education?"

For the first time in their spontaneous conversation, the man's face is thrown off guard.

"Pardonnez-moi ?" His brows wrinkle before he bursts out with a hearty laugh. "Oh no! My dear fellow you have it all wrong!" The man grins and for a split moment Feuilly is sure he is the slightest bit mad. "I—of all people! I could never make fun of the peasants—my own parents are peasants, mon ami, it is why they have common sense."

There is something in this man's bold words that has even Feuilly amused enough to crack a smile. Perhaps he had simply misjudged him; though he would likely never understand Feuilly on the full on accounts of actually still having parents that evidently did love their son, the man hailed from a peasant background, so of all things, he was definitely not stuffy like the rest of his new-class, though the daring red coat did write him into Feuilly's books as just the slightest bit reckless—such was the effect of the colour red clothed on such a brash man.

He lets out a resigned sigh; at this point he absolutely has to get back to the factory if he wants to clock in on time. But the man is still grinning at him, and Feuilly cannot help but feel the urge to stay.

"Your words undoubtedly ring true, and it speaks a testament to the kind of life you have been made to lead." All at once, his face turned serious. "We need more men like you at our meetings—come join us, I beg of you."

Meetings? What sort of meetings could this man have been talking about?

Unless…

Feuilly was not illiterate. He had caught whisperings of secret Jacobin societies, groups that hid themselves away from the gaze of the King as they would secretly plot rebellion. A man of the people, the true common man, Feuilly too had been eager to join these groups—but where was the time? He hardly had any time to go back to the pathetic little apartment he had managed to scrounge up money for, how could he find himself time to attend Republican meetings?

At the atelier, the clock was surely ticking away, bringing Feuilly closer every minute to being late heading back to work. "I'm sorry," he turns away and makes to head off. "I find myself unable to join, unfortunately, at the moment."

There is an elbow at the crook of his arm easing him around. "I urge you to reconsider, Monsieur. There is always room for new recruits, and I assure you that your input will always be valued." He opened his mouth to argue when the man put up a hand to stop him. "Your time needn't be an issue—we are all but students, we will uphold your responsibilities if need be. But your word—your word will be no doubt incredibly valuable. Please think of it."

Feuilly hesitates; in the sky, the sun burned bright in indication of a rapidly approaching afternoon. "And what do you call yourselves?"

The man's eyes twinkled. "Les Amis de l 'ABC," he replies rather cheekily.

Les Amis de l'ABC? Somewhere, the name strikes at Feuilly's core. The Friends of the ABC. Surely an educational group—that was something he could support—and something he could personally understand, too.

"And what is it exactly that your group does, Monsieur?"

"Well, in name, we are dedicated to the education of children." (L'ABC). The man's smile turns a little sharp as he lowers his voice. "In reality, we… Well, I suppose you would have to come see yourself, would you not? Though I suppose if you ponder our name long enough, you should figure out anyways.”

ABC…

Abaisse.

Les Amis de l’ABC — Les Amis de l'abaisse.

The Friends of the ABC—the Friends of the abased.

A rather clever name, if he had to be quite honest. So it was as Feuilly suspected.

“And who exactly makes up your group?” he asks, attempting to keep up his inquisitive tone even as he moves to clasp the man’s hand.

The man laughs. “Well, if—when we succeed, I imagine we shall become a group that will belong to some measure of history, though that’s not why do what we do.”

“Succeed?”

“Yes! I have no doubts that we shall do exactly that. The question is, Monsieur, will you be there with us when we do so?”

There is no reason to say yes; in fact, there is every reason to say no. The minutes are still ticking by and the factory foreman is not a forgiving man, especially not towards orphans who need the job more than he needs the orphan, and there was never any time to join such organizations, and so many of them are run by bourgeois boys who did not know what they spoke of, never truly knew what it was their goals should be, why would they accept Feuilly among their ranks—

And yet, there is just something about this man, something about the aura he exudes, something brash and reckless but accepting, even if his words do not always come off that way, that makes him hesitate from immediately flatly refusing and turning to get on with his day, something about the unspoken promise held in his words, something about the name—the Friends of the Abased.

He heaves a breath and looks up at the sky; it’s approach towards afternoon and the way campus seems to hold its breath, ready to release when the professors adjourn their classes signals his inevitable tardiness at work.

He glances at the sparkle glinting in the man’s eyes—there is an entire future, a lifetime held within the promise of the society that the man informs him of that Feuilly is yet unaware of.

“Well where is it that you meet?”

With a mighty thump on his back, the man slings an arm around his shoulders, using his arm to point his finger towards the horizon in the direction of the north-east. “Follow the streets until they take you towards the Café Musain at Place Saint-Michel, near six tonight. Ask a patron to lead you towards the backroom—a male, however, for we do not allow women to enter—with the exception of dear Louison, that is—surely you can understand the delicate nature of women, my own mistress would tremble at the talk of rebellion and she is one to laugh at about anything I should think to say—and surely you shall see me there. And if I should be late—for it is not unheard of that I should be out late talking to others of the same cause—tell them you were asked to join by Bahorel.”

Feuilly swallows. Seemed rather a large commitment he was signing onto before even truly attending one of these meetings.

“I shall ensure my best efforts to attend one of your meetings then, Monsieur Bahorel,” he says at last.

“And we shall ensure our best efforts to work towards that future in which orphans are allowed to pursue the education they seek.” The man—Bahorel—tips his hat. “Now you must pardon me, Monsieur—”

“Feuilly,” he interrupts. Bahorel inclines his head in sign of having listened.

“—Feuilly,” he says, “but the afternoon approaches and classes will soon be adjourned for the rest of the day, and I must deploy myself to the mighty task of finding Bossuet and listening to his new complaint no doubt against Blondeau, and then head off with him to find young Enjolras and de Courfeyrac too, for though the former may be able to sway a crowd with his words, especially with his second-in-command by his side, those two cannot hope to find their way through the university streets and—”

“Thank you, Monsieur Bahorel, I shall hope to see you then, tonight," he interrupts, only the slightest bit ashamed for having done so; he really does need to be on his way.

If Bahorel takes offense to his interruption, he makes no sign of it; rather, he clasps his hand, and says, “Thank you, Monsieur Feuilly. Your presence will be greatly appreciated. No doubt everyone will be pleased. I look forward to seeing you sit amongst us.

Feuilly tips the ragged hat he has on his head in response.

This is how it begins.

________________________________________________________________

1825

It is ten at night, a most indecent time for respectable men to still be outside, and yet Feuilly can see no sign of Enjolras tiring while he listens with bright eyes to what Feuilly has to say on the subject of the partitioning of Poland.

It was indeed a topic of great rage and indignation for Feuilly, that date of 1772. How was it that a monarchy, a tyranny, had the right to strip a people of their identity? Of their nationality? He exclaimed as much to Enjolras, who watched on with awe.

"But how can they have the right? To tell a people that they no longer have the ability to climb atop their tables and exclaim 'I am Polish! Here I stand free in my country of Poland! ?" Running a hand through his fiery hair, he fumed just as he thought about it. "The audacity!"

At the table, Enjolras scoots closer, looks up at him with wide eyes. “Indeed. Tell me more of it.”

He glances at him, and, briefly, he allows himself to ponder the person sitting in front of him. Feuilly hesitates to call him a boy, though, at nineteen years, that is exactly what he is.

It is simply that, despite his excessively youthful face, there was something in Enjolras' eyes that gave him the feeling that the boy had already lived for hundreds of years, made him feel as if he were seated in front a man who had already, in some previous existence, traversed the many revolutions of the past.

And yet—

And yet, despite that, not having gone unnoticed by any of those few members who attended the meetings, it is Feuilly who Enjolras evidently idolizes—reveres, even.

And it is a fact that Feuilly cannot fully comprehend; of all the people Enjolras is surrounded by, all the people he has to idolize—Combeferre or Joly or even Bahorel—he sees first and foremost Feuilly, a poor orphan who struggles to read when Enjolras himself could make his way through the thickest of volumes with ease.

Feuilly does not think less of himself for his background, but how often can a man go on surrounded by people who excelled in a variety of skills than he could only ever hope to gain without feeling the occasional pang of self doubt?

He allows himself a smile. “But I thought you had already read about this, Enjolras? Combeferre tells me the matter is one that incenses you quite the bit—rightfully, might I add.”

He thinks of how strange it is—at the atelier, no one gave second thought to anything Feuilly had to say, so he never really thought to say anything anymore to his coworkers or his foreman who he knew would either ignore him or dismiss him straight away.

But Enjolras listens. He listens to the words of a poor orphan boy, and despite his upbringing by his parents that likely taught him not to pay heed to the words of a man like Feuilly, he instead leans forward, always leans forward at every meeting whenever Feuilly raises his voice to contribute, and he listens breathlessly and nods and says But of course, and Yes you’re right, and But if you could please tell us more, we need more of what you have to say.

Enjolras nods vigorously. “Yes, of course, the stripping of the autonomy of any nation is an injustice—it is simply that hearing you speak of it is all the more informing.”

Feuilly quirks an eyebrow at him. “And why would that be?”

“Because you are all the more knowledgeable of this, of course.”

He huffs a laugh. “It was not as if I was there when they put down the first partition. I am hardly an eye-witness, nor would I say more knowledgeable than you.”

In front of him, Enjolras reaches a hand to grasp at Feuilly’s. “But you are! For as well as I understand it, I could never truly know what kind of an effect such a monstrous event could have on the common man. But you, Feuilly, you know so well, for you have endured far worse than I have, you are a much better man than I am, surely you must know you have my eternal respect—”

As he blushes, Feuilly briefly thinks of scolding Enjolras for proclaiming Feuilly better than himself only on the grounds that he was born in a different circumstance.

He squeezes Enjolras’ hand back. “Do not declare yourself a lesser man than me, Enjolras. Over this past year you have demonstrated the fact that those of the upper class can still have compassion and the skill to identify injustice, and you have made me feel all the more welcome amongst your ranks.”

Enjolras smiles. “Les Amis de l’ABC would not be what we are without your inclusion, my friend. It is for people like you that we fight, it would hardly be a cause if we did not have your voice present with us. The gratitude should be coming from me to you for trusting us, for joining us. You make us who we are Feuilly.”

And Feuilly is just the slightest bit blown away by Enjolras’ words, for while he knew Enjolras held a special sort of respect for him, he had never imagined that his reverence shaped up like this.

“Will you tell me more about Poland?”

He glances down at Enjolras, who stares up with hopeful eyes, and he smiles.

“But of course.”

________________________________________________________________

1826

It is not unheard of that Jehan Prouvaire should be sitting quietly in his corner after meetings, staring dreamily at his paper as if he could see entire meadows and forests scrawled on it rather than the lushious words he pens to create his poetry.

“The stars are not out and yet you gaze at your paper as if you can already see the constellations they form,” he says as he lowers himself into the chair next to Prouvaire, having been beckoned over.

Prouvaire blushes and smiles softly. “Every constellation has a story tied to it, and poetry seeks to do much the same. Poetry is how our ancestors spoke of their tales around the fire.”

“Is that what you will be writing about today? The stars?”

Prouvaire hums and shakes his head. “No. I think I should like to write in Polish today.”

Jerking slightly, Feuilly looks at him, confused. “Write in Polish?”

He nods. “Yes. I think of it often, you know, and I feel it’s an injustice, the way the Polish identity has been stolen from the people, almost as if their right to thought has been taken. I figured, would it not be prudent, then, of me to write a poem in Polish, and reaffirm their status?”

Nodding vigorously, Feuilly agrees, “Yes, of course. Your words hold the utmost merit, and I’m glad to see you acknowledge this through your words. I can think of no better way for you to express your thoughts about this than through your sacred form of writing.”

He props his chin on his hand and leans forward. “Yes, but I seem to encounter a problem in that I do not know how to speak Polish. My friend, I only have one favour to ask of you: will you help me construct this poem?”

Feuilly blinks. Of all the honours he could have been bestowed with… For Prouvaire, reading and writing poetry was one of the very fundamental things that kept people humble. To connect to nature, to hear of stories past—it is what both allows humans to soar amongst the beauty present in the world, yet keep them humbled and grounded to work on what needed to be improved. For Prouvaire, poetry is his form of worship, his devotion to the miracles of the world before him, present in front of him, and the one yet to come.

“You would choose to ask… me, to help you?” he asks, bewildered at the thought of him sharing something so close to his heart, to his spirit.

There is a sort of sparkle in Prouvaire’s eyes, a look he reserves for when he gazes at wildflowers and oats growing in meadows, or for when he hears the nightingale sing—a look so impossibly soft that he can use it only when he finds himself looking upon a being he believes deserves to be showered upon with love and written about with the utmost tenderness—and it is present in his eyes when he gently places his hand atop Feuilly’s and says with the utmost solemnity, “My friend, I could think of no one else who I would trust more for such a matter.”

Feuilly is rendered speechless. Both with the love he feels for his friend, and by the astonishment at the trust his friend shows in him.

Feuilly hopes the world will see Prouvaire's soft verses and name him with the likes of Keats, whom he idolizes.

Jehan hopes that one day the world will read his poem—the one he writes now, that tells the story of a common fan-maker who spoke Polish and still strived to see the possibilities of the entire world despite the world never having strived to see the possibility in him—and understands the adoration that he and the rest of his friends had for a man who was made up of a thousand different nations and came from a thousand different stories and had with him a thousand different plans for the future.

________________________________________________________________

1827

The sky is dark and Feuilly’s perception of time has been skewed by the long, insufferable hours spent at the atelier crafting fans while harbouring a most dreadful headache.

He does not see that the clock has struck much past seven, much past eight, now half an hour after nine, and that his foreman kept him detained much longer than he realizes, taking advantage of the evident illness that has Feuilly dazed and unaware. With much effort, he pushes the door to the café open and stumbles towards the backroom where he expects his friends will be.

Upon reaching the backroom, he leans a hand against the frame and struggles to comprehend the image of an empty room, one where the meeting has clearly adjourned.

Well, mostly empty.

“Feuilly?” At his side, Combeferre reaches a hand to place on his shoulder, a steadying presence among the rushing winds that seem to have found their way into the café. “Are you quite alright?”

He coughs—once—twice—three times into his fist. “Well I do find myself in a bit of confusion,” he admits as Combeferre gently takes him by the crook of his elbow and seats him at a table. “Has the meeting for today been cancelled? I would not have imagined that everyone would be busy all at the same time.”

Combeferre tilts his head and looks at him peculiarly. “The meeting?” He frowns. “My friend, are you well? The meeting ended about an hour and a half ago.”

Furrowing his eyebrows, he coughs twice more as he shakes his head and says, “No, that cannot be. Surely it cannot be so late. I had only just seen the clock, look, there, it says…” he trails off as his eyes fall upon the small hand halfway towards its path to the painted ten, then glances back at Combeferre sheepishly. Clearing his throat, a rather painful task to do considering just how raw it feels, he manages to scrape out the words, “It appears I have missed the meeting. I apologize, I did not realize just how late it had become.”

Combeferre smiles sympathetically. “Evidently. Your presence was greatly missed at the meeting, Enjolras looked rather down about it, but nonetheless we understood, though we thought it was simply because you were working.

Burying his head in his hands, he croaks, “I was supposed to be working regular time. I don't know how I didn't realize the foreman had me working late without informing me of it.” At this, Combeferre’s eyes darken a shade.

“You cannot let this go unprotested, Feuilly,” he says, the slightest bit angry, though Feuilly knows it is not anger directed towards him. “Your foreman has no right to do so; we will go back tomorrow and demand he pay you what you deserve for working the extra hours you did.”

Raising his head, Feuilly looks up, a little surprised at Combeferre. “It will not work, Combeferre, for all that I would like it to. The foreman has plenty of people available to replace me should I start to fuss. Though it is wrong, you must know that he has the power to keep me longer without paying.”

Combeferre runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “However much power he holds, he cannot go against the principle of the matter and expect no retaliation. It is settled; we will go and speak to your foreman.” When Feuilly opens his mouth to speak, Combeferre holds his hand up and halts the words on his tongue. Silently, he reaches forward and gingerly places the back of his hand on Feuilly’s forehead, tutting at the heat that comes away. “Tell me how you feel,” he commands.

Feuilly frowns. “It is really not that much of a concern, my friend—”

“Feuilly,” Combeferre pinches the bridge of his nose before looking up at him again, “in about a years time I shall begin my internship at l’Hôpital Necker; as of right now, I have enough medical knowledge—well, really, anyone has enough medical knowledge—to diagnose you with the fact that you have caught a cold—no doubt from the rainy season we have all found ourselves trapped in—and while it is nothing serious, it can become something of a concern if you do not rest and allow me to take care of you.”

Feuilly looks away. “While I do not doubt your knowledge, Combeferre, you needn’t bother yourself with—”

“What is more so a bother, Feuilly,” Combeferre interrupts him once more, and does not even look the slightest bit embarrassed for doing so, “is when one of my friends fall ill, and instead of taking the time they need to get better, they only continue to work until it is worse and their recovery becomes all the more difficult.” He watches as Combeferre rises from his seat, holding out his hand when he says, “So, for my own convenience, if you believe—unjustly, may I add—that your own convenience is not worth it, please come back with me to my apartment so that we can have you back on your feet in mere matter of days rather than weeks.”

As Feuilly allows himself to be hauled up, his arm slung around Combeferre’s shoulders, for he does not believe he has the strength in him to stand a single second more on his own—he marvels at what it is he must have done that warrants fate to provide him with friends who care for him like a mother or father would their own child, though Feuilly is not well acquainted with the feeling.

________________________________________________________________

1828

Even before he feels Courfeyrac’s hand clap down on his shoulder, Feuilly can feel Courfeyrac approaching—because that is simply the kind of person he is; his aura is boisterous and bubbly, a loud that made you grin rather than cringe away.

“My friend!” Courfeyrac exclaims. “My friend, my friend, my very good friend!”

Feuilly smiles as he knows what is inevitably going to come up. “As much as you may ask, Courfeyrac, I simply do not have the time to stand out in the middle of the street only so you can ‘save’ me in front of that Genevieve girl you have recently taken a fancy to.”

Courfeyrac looks taken aback for a moment before he begins to laugh. “No, no, I was not speaking of that. Besides, I have most recently been made to come to sense that I do not need anyone to play the part of a man in distress who needs to be saved—as long as I somehow end her near Bossuet, I shall allow him to carry on with the way he already lives, and soon enough I shall have saved him from his own stupidity in front of her!”

At another table, Bossuet indignantly pipes up, “Hey!” In response, Joly waves his cane dismissively.

“Calm yourself, Aigle de Meaux, his facts are not incorrect.”

As Bossuet and Joly begin to bicker in that lighthearted way friends so often do, Courfeyrac turns his gaze towards him, and Feuilly finds himself blinking, trying to figure out what exactly it is Courfeyrac will be asking him as a favour, for he knows the beginning of their conversation is exactly what Courfeyrac will do every time he seeks to extract a favour from someone.

And whatever it is, Feuilly already knows he will be saying yes, for not only does he love his friend enough to do anything for him, he is sure that had it been Feuilly asking for the favour, Courfeyrac would have already been up from his seat heading off to help.

“Out with it, Courfeyrac,” he encourages with a smile. “What is it that you evidently need me to do?”

Courfeyrac grins. “You know me so well, my dear friend. Well, the matter is,” he lets out a long-suffering sigh, “my parents have been writing incessantly to me in hopes that I will, at their side, attend the ball of one of their long-time friends.” Courfeyrac grimaces. “I shall depart for Avignon in a week’s time.”

Feuilly blinks, confused. He could hardly grasp at what this entire affair had to do with him.

“But Courfeyrac, you have always struck me as a man who delighted in dressing in a nice coat and going dancing.”

Waving a dismissive hand, Courfeyrac huffs impatiently. “I like to go dancing with my friends. I would rather not have to suffer by my parents’ side at some ball surrounded by a crowd of people who cheer at the sight of the 1814 Charter.”

At his mention of the Charter, Feuilly allows himself a little laugh, his mind straying to a recent memory of Courfeyrac throwing a copy of the very same thing in the fire during a heated debate with Combeferre.

Calming himself, he manages enough breath to ask, “That is all good and fine, but what do I have to do with all this?”

With a beam, Courfeyrac shuffles closer to throw an arm around his shoulders. “So,” he begins, “all I ask from you is a small favour.” At Feuilly’s silence, he continues, “I want you to attend with me.”

At this, Feuilly nearly spits out the coffee he had taken in his mouth.

Once he finishes choking, he adopts a look of astonishment and asks, “Me?”

Courfeyrac’s grin is one of sincerity; try as he might, there is no sort of a joke written on his face. “Yes.”

Clearing his throat, he asks, “But… Why would you ask me of all people?”

At this, Courfeyrac frowns. “But why ever not you? I cannot think of a single reason why I would not ask you.”

He feels a humiliating blush stain his cheeks as the many, many reasons why he should be amongst the last people Courfeyrac should ask crosses his mind. For God’s sake, even Grantaire is a more preferable option—he, at least, hailed from a wealthy family, and so has the knowledge of the sort of behaviour and etiquette to be employed in such situations.

With a sad sort of smile, he places his hand on his friend’s shoulder and says, “Find someone else to go with you, Courfeyrac. I’m sorry, I truly am, but I must deny you this one thing.”

Courfeyrac’s frown deepens. “But why?”

Must he really push this issue?

Well, Feuilly is not ashamed of who he was, but it really is a little rude making him say the words.

“Courfeyrac,” he sputters, “I haven’t the faintest clue how to behave at such a social gathering. Neither do I… neither do I have the money for the sort of lavish clothing no doubt one is expected to wear there.”

Courfeyrac’s mouth flattens, and it is a rare moment that Feuilly sees him so frank. “Your background has not rendered you a scoundrel, Feuilly—I have only ever seen you act as a man should—honest and down-to-earth. You’re exactly the kind of person a man should be like, and frankly I do not care much for the opinions of my parents’ friends, and I believe you needn’t do so either. As for clothing, if you will not allow me to purchase you new clothing, I shall simply ask Combeferre to borrow his, on your behalf.”

His little speech shocks him. “But,” his voice is a little weak, “why would you ask me?”

At last, Courfeyrac’s face brightens once more into the sort of face he was famous for amongst his friends. “My friend! You are such interesting conversation! I cannot think of another person I would rather have by my side as I am forced to endure another gathering of insufferable royalists.”

Feuilly struggles with his words. Courfeyrac would have him attend the ball by his side? Once more he finds himself searching Courfeyrac’s face for any hint of a cruel joke, but finds none.

At his silence, Courfeyrac rises from his seat, grinning widely, for silence tends to give the impression that the opposing side has fallen into agreement. “Excellent! So, Tuesday next week we shall depart. And I shall begin my valiant search through Combeferre’s wardrobe!”

Feuilly remains astonished in his seat.

________________________________________________________________

1829

If he has to be completely honest, Feuilly does not talk very often with Grantaire, and so, Feuilly finds he cannot really come to a conclusion about him. He sees that the man is doubtful of their efforts, loud and rambunctious, and is drunk, always seems to be drunk.

But there is also a sort of melancholy present on his face when he thinks no one can see, when he does not constantly keep up that smirk as he goes on his next drunken ramble, a bitter and sardonic expression when he hears the rest speak of revolution and he finds himself too tired to even inject himself into the conversation. He sees a yearning, impossibly broken look grace Grantaire's face when their leader starts to speak or makes to smile or cries when upset or rages when he is furious—he seems to look as if he is reaching for something he can never quite have no matter how he stretches his fingers whenever Enjolras does anything, really.

Feuilly does not know much of Grantaire. So, he thinks to speak to him.

"Grantaire," he sits down next to him and inclines his head in greeting when Grantaire looks up from where he had been staring hard at his bottle of absinthe.

"Ah! The fan-maker makes time for me at last!" Grantaire cries as he spreads his arms wide. "Yes, young Feuilly, what is it that you find yourself in need of a drunk for?"

He ignores the young comment, only meditating briefly on the fact that he is the same age as Grantaire, and instead, hoping to forge a connection to the man, asks, "Did you really study under the guidance of Gros?"

Grantaire bellows out a loud peal of laughter. "My good fellow," he slurs, and Feuilly worries for how much he has had to drink tonight, "you must not believe everything that comes out of this drunkard's mouth."

He furrows his eyebrows. So he was lying?

"So you lied?" he asks in clarification. "You never did go to art school?"

A smile twists up Grantaire's face. "I only just told you not to trust everything I say. And yet! And yet, what is the first thing you do after I give you advice?"

He was beginning to get a little lost here. "I’m not quite sure I follow. Did you attend art school or not?"

Grantaire leans back in his chair. "Yes and no!"

"Yes and no?"

He grins at Feuilly. "A tale worthy of the likes of pleasant idlers, I am afraid, and while you are pleasant enough, you are anything but an idler—you cannot possibly hope to enjoy it."

He leans forward. "And yet, I find myself curious enough to hear of it nonetheless."

"Well," he starts, and for a moment, Feuilly fears that Grantaire will start on another one of his rather infamous rants, and while it is not that he is exactly opposed to them, but more so, he needs to get home so he can get however many hours of sleep Joly ordered him to get. "I certainly did attend classes at first. But the pretentiousness of it all! No man can tell you better that artists are amongst the most pretentious people to grace this hellish landscape we call earth. And the nude models were hardly anything to look at! I could get myself a better whore for less than a sou! Or better yet, not pay at all when it is me that such women always want!"

For a split second, Grantaire's gaze drifts, and when Feuilly tracks the movement of his eyes, he ends up looking over to where Enjolras stands at the table near the front, regarding Grantaire with a strong look of disappointment as he holds Grantaire's stare before returning to whatever it was he was discussing with Combeferre.

Grantaire tips his bottle towards the ceiling.

"No, I made the decision that no more would I waste away somewhere I knew I would rot. So instead I spent my time pilfering apples."

He huffs a laugh. “Pilfering apples? The ones used to model fruit?”

Within Grantaire’s eyes, Feuilly sees a mischievous sort of glint. “The very same.”

“And now? Do you still attend?”

He shrugs. “From time to time, though, I must ask why you think to ask me. My good fellow,” he reaches forward and lays a heavy hand on Feuilly’s shoulder. “I should think to ask you, rather, on your own painting.”

Feuilly flushes a little. “I haven’t the slightest of time for painting, Capital R.”

“And yet what little you have painted deserves to be hung up next to the works of Géricault!” Grantaire cries once more, and despite himself, Feuilly grins a little.

“It is hardly anything compared to Géricault.”

Grantaire waves a dismissive hand. “Bah! All these names—Géricault, Prud’hon, Delacroix—all of them are insufferable men who catch one whiff of fame and lose themselves to their pretentiousness. Your one work, young fan-maker, would be worth more than any of those scoundrels’ paintings put together.”

And Feuilly cannot help but gape, for this man in front of him, the very set definition of a skeptic, who once told their group, on his own whims, that believing was for the foolish and that he had no wish to believe in anything that would earn him an early death—he now sits here telling Feuilly that he finds meaning in his work, more meaning than in the works of the greatest painters to exist.

It leaves him shocked beyond compared.

Attempting to gather his thoughts once more into a state of decent coherency, he proceeds to ask, "Do you paint anymore?"

For a moment, just one quick moment that Feuilly admits he would not have caught had he not been looking closely, Grantaire's eyes flicker over to where Enjolras appears to be moderating some sort of a debate between Combeferre and Courfeyrac, laughing at something Courfeyrac must have said, and he notices the way Grantaire's face twists bitterly.

"Yes."

Feuilly does not ever ask what—or who—his subject is.

________________________________________________________________

1830

The weather of Paris in the spring signals the approach of a storm the Friends, unknown yet to their knowledge, will find themselves fighting in when the people decide in the season of July that tyranny must not be allowed to continue, and will resurrect barricades all throughout the city in the name of a free France achieved through a revolution that sees the overthrowing of King Charles X.

But for now, it is spring and the rain beats down upon the poor the hardest, upon those who have less shelter, fewer clothes, scarce food, and only in abundance do they have misery.

Feuilly counts himself lucky that he has a roof over his head, even if it is one that freezes in the night’s cold, and in the summer, swelters in the day’s heat.

Joly, however, does not seem to think so.

“I simply cannot allow you to go back to your flat when the rain beats down on our heads like this!” he cries, ignoring Feuilly’s several protests to the idea of spending the night at Joly’s residence, after Joly had taken one step into Feuilly’s own apartment and declared it uninhabitable in their current temperatures. “There is more than enough room at my residence, and I will not have one of my own falling ill when I had more than enough resources to prevent the ailment.”

“I wish not to intrude,” Feuilly repeats for what must surely be the hundredth time. “You already find yourself housing Bossuet, too, and—”

“Feuilly,” Joly scrubs a hand across his face, “helping a friend is hardly any bother to me. In the six years we have known each other is this how you expect me to behave?”

And Feuilly stops short, because Feuilly, who has never had a family—who has never had a mother or father or brother or sister—could hardly ever have imagined in his life that would have a friend—that he would have several friends—who would care for him—who would love him—like this, enough to offer up the chance at a residence that must look like a palace compared to his own shabby room, even if for one night.

“I simply… I simply would not want to cause any burden,” he mumbles.

Joly’s face splits into a bright grin, the one everyone who knows him is familiar with, the one that gives reason to why they all call him Jolllly. “But my friend!” he exclaims. “The more people to house, the more amusing the occasion, no?” Armed in one hand with his cane and the other holding Feuilly by the elbow, he begins to lead him towards his apartment. “Come! We shall make merry by the fire and drink to our heart’s content today—and we will not have to worry about rationing our drinking, for Grantaire is not here, either!”

“Make merry by the fire? But I regret to inform you that the Yuletide season is well past us,” an amused voice says by their side. As they both turn to the left, a familiar, laughing bald head makes itself apparent to their eyes.

Feuilly snorts. “I have not known you to be one to turn down an opportunity to nest by Joly’s fire, Bossuet. I find that I would rather while away the time in the false pretense that Christmas is still upon us rather than spend the hours shivering in the rain—would you not?”

“Bossuet can handle a little rain, what with the two sous in his pockets, he may even be able to manage a meager coffee,” Joly teases, carefully bringing the tip of his cane to rub at his nose.

“Really?” He raises an eyebrow. “Do tell, how does one manage a coffee at just two sous?”

“With enough grovelling at my door once he realizes that his endeavour is an impossible one and he owes me for the medical supplies I would inevitably have to purchase to bring him back to health after shivering so long in the cold.”

Bossuet bellows a laugh as he makes way for himself in between Feuilly and Joly, draping an arm around each's shoulders. “The grovelling will not be necessary, Jolllly, I shall tag along anyways. I would never decline, having found myself in the company of our dear friend Feuilly.”

Feuilly shoots him a confused look. “And why might my company be so desirable?”

Bossuet and Joly both laugh as if he had just told them the most amusing joke, but Feuilly cannot quite catch what it is that is so funny about what he said.

“Friends do not ask each other why their company is desirable, Feuilly,” Bossuet simply says.

And Feuilly feels something warm in his heart turn to a roaring fire, despite the chill of the rain.

Later, when he finds himself tucked into one of Joly’s armchairs, a blanket around him, he feels Joly lay a gentle hand upon his shoulder, looking at him most earnestly.

“I beg you think not of this as charity, my friend, but rather as something a friend would do for another. Nay a friend—more a brother.”

And with that, Joly leaves to prevent Bossuet from setting himself on fire in the kitchen while Feuilly struggles to blink back a wetness that threatens to slide down his cheeks, though his feelings are far from any sort of sorrow he has felt before.

________________________________________________________________

1832

He is hungry and he is thirsty and he is tired and he knows he is going to die.

He also knows that not only will he die in triumph, but he can imagine no other group of wonderful, extraordinary, familiar people he would rather die with.

Enjolras has already delivered news of their abandonment. Now, they sit and listen as he speaks of the principles of their fight, of the principles of their deaths, and Feuilly can think of no better speech he has ever heard in his short life.

He realizes, with a jolt, that Enjolras has turned to him. “Listen to me, Feuilly, valiant worker, man of the people, man of the peoples. I revere you. Yes, you see the future clearly, yes, you are right. You had neither father nor mother, Feuilly. You adopted humanity as your mother and right as your father. You’re going to die here—in other words, to triumph.” He holds his gaze for a second longer before he continues.

And Feuilly nods. Because he believes in Enjolras. He trusts in his words.

He knows he will die. But what better cause could there be?

He wishes they had succeeded, he had hoped, had so ardently believed that the people would rise with them.

But if the people do not wish to answer the call of revolution, he knows it will not succeed. He has accepted this.

And he realizes it is okay. He has come to terms with it.

He dwells on Enjolras’ words.

You had neither father nor mother, Feuilly. You adopted humanity as your mother and right as your father.

And, he quietly thinks to himself, I have adopted my friends as my brothers. And there is no one I would rather die beside. There are no other people who I would rather see smile one more time, or hold one more time, or laugh with and cry with and sit with one more time.

When he had first arrived in Paris, back eight years ago, Feuilly had resolved that he would adopt the people of Paris just as he had adopted those of the rest of the world.

He never imagined he himself would be adopted in turn.

________________________________________________________________

Rather than the bullet, Feuilly feels a sort of warmth spread through him instead. He lifts a hand to place at his side, where his blood begins to seep through his shirt and waistcoat.

He thinks of Bossuet’s laugh when he comes up with only two sous in his pocket and still offers Feuilly a drink.

He remembers why Joly was named the way he was, remembers his jollity in just about every situation Feuilly had found himself and Joly trapped in.

He nearly laughs at the thought of Grantaire’s rambles, and he sympathizes with his pursuit to find a family after his own had thrown him out. He sincerely hopes he will find the family that Feuilly did, too.

He recalls the feeling of Courfeyrac’s warmth, recalls how he kept the group together, how he shared that warmth with everyone no matter who they were, even if they were orphans like Feuilly.

He remembers Combeferre’s care, the way he always seemed to keep one eye open to look after everyone in the group, the way he never stopped making sure Feuilly got enough sleep, or had enough food, or rested enough, and he thinks that the world has just lost one of its greatest doctors.

He smiles at the memory of Jehan’s empathy, how his eyes seemed to see right through anything, and the way he always knew when to sit with Feuilly and ask him if there was something he wanted to share, something weighing down on his chest that was suffocating him, something that seemed to be relieved only when Jehan would smile that soft smile of his and tell him that he always had him by his side.

He can still feel Enjolras’ passion light up the barricade, recalls how his passion showed when he preached of a free France, when he spoke of the plight of the poor, and remembers the way that passion would soften into reverence when he would sit with Feuilly and listen to what he had to say, despite the fact that all his life he was likely taught to disregard men like him.

He remembers Bahorel’s bravery, how could he ever forget? He remembers that reckless smile, the bold behaviour that led to him taking his hand after being toppled to the ground, remembers that single question Bahorel asked him that would change his life forever, and he wishes—he cries at the thought of never having had the chance to say thank you, to tell him he is the reason why Feuilly is content to die in the situation he has found himself in.

Feuilly thinks of being born into the world with no family, no one to call his own.

Then he thinks about leaving it having found the men he loves, he loves—oh Lord above he loves like he could never love a mother or a father, he loves these men so much that it tears his heart in two thinking of each and everyone dying—he catches a glimpse of Enjolras being backed up the stairs while the National Guardsmen continues to prowl their way towards him and he sees Combeferre glance towards the heavens as his chest is speared by three bayonets and he sees Courfeyrac fall to his side having been shot once, twice, three times, and he sees Joly and Bossuet look towards each other as they are both shot side by side and he remembers the strength in Jehan’s voice when he cried out one last time in the name of the world they had sought to build and he remembers Bahorel’s spirit being the first to leave and he remembers, remembers, remembers, and it hurts so much, it makes him ache with a pain that makes him want to scream and cry for he cannot imagine the thought of having finally found his family and then having them torn from him, one by one, he hurts so much and surely God cannot be so cruel that he snatches their dreams, snatches the only people he knows he will ever love away—

And then he finds peace. Because as he bleeds out, he hears a voice, clear as the dawn drawing above the new day, cry out Long live the republic! and it is Grantaire, and he can almost hear Enjolras smile when he hears what he knows is the final report resounding, and in Combeferre’s eyes there is a sort of divine trust as his eyes remain affixed to where he believes he will find salvation, and there is a sort of tranquility in Courfeyrac’s eyes, and he sees the way Joly and Bossuet are still looking to each other even in death, and he thinks of how Jehan went out exactly as he wished, with strong words on his tongue, and he thinks of Bahorel’s fighting spirit and how he died doing what he thought was right.

His hand grows damper and hotter as his blood seeps out quicker and quicker.

The world may not remember their names in history—but Feuilly knows they will have a permanent place in his.

Like Combeferre, he casts his eyes towards heaven, and he thinks he can see Bahorel hold out his hand like he did eight years ago.

He can’t wait to have his life change again.

And Feuilly falls with a smile.

57 notes · View notes

cinnaminsvga · 4 years

Text

Taming of the Bridezilla | Seokjin

→ summary: Picture this: You had been (not-so) cordially invited to the wedding of your least favorite cousin—a woman who had been hellbent on making your childhood a living hell. Now older and wiser, you would think that you would put aside your differences and attend your cousin’s special day without any hard feelings, right? You wouldn’t seek revenge, now would you?

→ genre: fake dating!au, i2l, humor/crack, fluff → warnings: seokjin and oc paradoxically have big yet small brains, fake proposals, not-so fake mutual pining, thinly veiled baby-making jokes, terrible family members, ass slapping (no worries it’s consensual) → words: 6.3K → a/n: first of all, no this is not a horror fic; i just thought the title was funny. unless you consider the stupidity of the characters to be mildly horrifying, then sure you can count this as a horror fic. this insanely ridiculous fic was commissioned by @breadoffoxy!! anyone who loves chaotic jin is an angel in my book. yes, this comm is a bit longer than expected but what can i say... i love me some jin. anyway i hope you guys enjoy!

“You got the ring, right?”

Seokjin pats his left breast pocket and gives you a quick smirk. The bump where the ring should be is fortuitously hidden by his large and garish boutonniere, looking to all the world like he had pinned a whole head of cabbage to his suit. Even then, he still somehow manages to make it work. “Of course I did. This entire plan would be useless if I didn’t have it,” he says.

“What flavor did you get? I quite like the watermelon one,” you muse, smacking your lips in anticipation. “Though it’s hard to remember since I haven’t had a ring pop in years.”

Seokjin laughs loudly, startling a group of aunties gossiping in the corner. They all shoot glares at him, though the effect has lost its novelty as they’ve already been glaring at you from the moment you arrived. You suppose that they have a good reason to, considering that you both arrived at the reception an entire 30 minutes late. You can imagine them cursing you under their breath, saying something like, “You’ve brought dishonor to us all!” or whatever it is that aunties like to say these days.

“I could have gotten you all the flavors available at the convenience store if you wanted, but then we’d be 40 minutes late instead,” Seokjin sighs, pretending to be anguished at the thought.

You snort in the most unladylike manner that you can, grinning wildly when you hear one of the aunties gasp in horrified disbelief. From the way they’re reacting, you might have thought that you just flashed them your Borat-inspired neon green thong.

“I do love a man who can treat me well,” you giggle, earning a soft pinch from him.

“Oh, hush. I know you love it. You nearly burst into tears the other day when I bought you a McFlurry because your broke ass was a dollar short,” Seokjin teases. You squawk indignantly, unable to come up with a retort.

“Whatever! Just because you’re a trust fund baby doesn’t mean you get to bully my impoverished state. Just you fucking wait ‘til I get hit by a wealthy 77 year old’s BMW and then I’ll be made for life,” you huff, your illusion of annoyance quickly shattered by the large, dumb grin on your face. “Hey, would you still love me if I broke all my limbs but had a massive bank account?”

“I’d rather buy you McDonald’s for the rest of your life than see you in pain,” he answers simply, patting you gently on the head. “Though I suppose helping you inject thousands of calories into your bloodstream would also cause you pain later on in life, but hey, at least you’d go down doing what you love.”

“Oh, yes. Keep talking dirty to me. I love it when you talk about the ways you’d kill me by association.” You laugh, casually looping your arms together as you walk past the slowly growing crowd of aunties and entering the reception hall to find your seats. Almost everyone is already in their seats, with a few guests milling about and greeting one another with tight-lipped smiles and hollow laughter. The sight brings goosebumps up your arm, bringing back terrible memories of having to make niceties with these people despite knowing that they despised you and your less affluent family.

Remember, you’re only here as a representative for your parents, you tell yourself. You’d rather bear the brunt of the thinly-veiled insults than to have your parents have to experience this hell. Besides, you have big plans for today, and they would only be brought to an end if your mother ever found out what you wanted to do in the first place.

“As they say… We’re here for a good time, not a long time, which I suppose is our philosophy for tonight as well,” he quips back. He taps you lightly on the hand, wrenching your gaze away from the magnificent chocolate fountain on the dessert table and back to his somewhat less magnificent face. A straight-up lie, but it is the only defense mechanism you have in your arsenal that can keep you from staring at how gorgeous he looks in his suit and tie like a braindead idiot. Denial, after all, hasn’t failed you during the last five years that you’ve been in love with your own best friend.

“What is it?” you ask, curious when he furtively points out one of your cousins near the front of the hall. “That’s Namjoon. Do you know him?”

“Know is a strong word,” Seokjin hums, winking at your cousin when he happens to turn towards the two of you. Namjoon’s eyes light up when he sees him, but his excitement immediately vanishes when he notices who Seokjin has beside him on his right arm. You could see the mental cogs going on inside Namjoon’s head as he stares at the two of you, but you don’t get to see him reach a conclusion before Seokjin is pulling you away, walking in the opposite direction.

“Seokjin? What was that all about?” you ask, though you have to admit you’re kind of afraid to know the answer to your own question. As much as everything about tonight’s scheme had been your idea, you can’t help but think that Seokjin’s intense enthusiasm to help you isn’t merely out of his own desire to help you as a friend, but rather due to his innate calling to cause chaos wherever he goes.

“I have a secret bonus surprise for the bride and groom once we get kicked out from this joint after we do our thing,” he says. “And, dare I say, it’ll be quite a treat for all the guests here.” The smirk on his lips is downright heinous, only exacerbating the frantic racing of your heart. There must be something wrong with you, not with how badly you want to do unspeakable atrocities to him and his evil-looking ass. Or perhaps he was simply put down on Earth to test your slowly fraying sanity.

He snaps you out of your dumbfounded, horny stupor when he continues, “If everything goes according to plan, then we’ll truly end this night with a bang, no pun intended.”

“What was even the pun there?” You raise a brow, slightly disconcerted by the way Seokjin was struggling to keep his laughter (at his own joke) at bay. “You know what? Don’t even answer. I guess I’ll just have to find out later tonight.”

After some pointless meandering while the two of you locate your seats, you are finally able to locate your table, unsurprisingly situated near the farthest corner of the hall where no one would have to see you. You’re honestly more surprised that your newly-wedded cousin had even remembered to give you a seat, though you suppose that it must have been at the behest of your uncle. While your devil of a cousin has always been rude and cruel to you, you have to admit that at least her father knew some manners, though that only begs the question as to what happened to his daughter along the way. Genetics and expensive etiquette classes can only help so much, you suppose.

“Thank you again for doing this with me. You really didn’t need to,” you say when you take a seat, nearly elbowing him in the process. Your chairs are wedged right beside the emergency exit and a grotesque ice sculpture of the bride and groom, forcing the two of you to sit so close that you could feel Seokjin breathe directly into your ear. If you shifted just slightly to the right, you’d basically be sitting on his lap (which is a prospect that intrigues you greatly, but you refrain from voicing it in fear of creeping him out… for now).

“How could I ever resist the offer to ruin your cousin’s wedding? This has been on my bucket list for years,” he winks cheekily at you. “Besides, you’re my dearest friend, Y/N. You could ask me to fight a bear naked, and I’d gladly let it eat my dick in one chomp!”

“I wouldn’t let a bear eat your dick,” you say kindly, patting him gently on the back. “You can’t afford to lose an inch when you only have two to offer.”

Before you could laugh hysterically at Seokjin’s howls of betrayal, your attention is pulled away when the soft violin music stops playing abruptly. From far away, it’s hard to tell what’s going on until you notice a bright light reflecting off of the sea of attendees, the balding head of the reception’s host bobbing up and down as he makes his way to the front of the hall.

“Attention esteemed guests! We will now begin serving dinner shortly. Please remain in your seats as our waiters attend to you.” The host speaks into a crackly microphone just as a few scraggly-looking underpaid teenagers in black dress shirts come out with the first course of the night.

Seokjin cranes his neck, trying to see what the food is. “What the hell is that? Why does it look like green shit in a bowl?” he murmurs, loud enough so that only you can hear. “I didn’t know your cousin was a Dr. Seuss fan. Are we being served green eggs and ham?” Before you can guess, you watch as his nose crinkles in disgust, a vile stench making its way to your area even though none of the waiters were even close to your table. “Oh my goodness, is that stench what we’re supposed to eat?”

“Smells like a barnyard,” you comment, though you aren’t as surprised as he is by the revolting smell. “Well, my cousin always did like making atrocious vegan recipes on her shitty WordPress blog, so I wouldn’t put it past her if she made up the menu for her own wedding.”

“She’s a vegan and a bully? What are the odds,” he says drily, cringing when he watches one of the guests begin to dry heave the moment a spoonful of the green stuff enters their mouth. “Christ. I didn’t know I was signing up for a life or death mission.”

“At this rate, I don’t think we’re getting served until the end of the night anyway,” you say, observing as the understaffed employees tried their best to get to every table while insufferable aunts did their worst to hinder their progress by nagging and complaining. Why were they so adamant about eating the food anyway? Were they itching to get diarrhea on a Saturday night? You do admit that it would probably be better, so then at least you’d have an excuse to leave earlier. “Though I suppose... Do you think eating the mystery goo while it’s cold would be better or worse?”

“It’s okay, I’ll treat you to McDonald’s when we finish up here,” he says, smiling sweetly at you. Never in your life has the mention of greasy fries and chicken nuggies made your heart race faster than it did at that moment, but then again, it could also be your high-blood pressure kicking up. Either way, you can’t ignore the way your face heats up at his offer, now more excited than ever for the reception to be over.

You and Seokjin chat as you wait for everyone around you to finish eating, not even bothered when the waiters forget to bring your food. You’re in the middle of debating the pros and cons of cock and ball torture when large dark shadows loom over both your heads, much like a solar eclipse. A cold shiver runs up your spine when you look up to find the reptilian faces of your aunts, the fumes of their designer perfume creating a cloud so noxious that you could feel your lungs shrivel into prunes.

“Hello, Y/N. It’s nice to see you after such a long time,” your Aunt Sohee greets, her tone indicating that there was nothing pleasant about seeing you at all. Your aunt, who had gotten so much botox done that she was reminiscent of a plastic balloon ready to pop, has her entourage of fellow aunties behind her, all of whom looked ridiculous in their fake designer dresses. You swear you can see that one of them had forgotten to snip off the Made in China tag before wearing it to the wedding.

“Aunt Sohee, you’re looking… young,” you say after a moment, deciding to settle on lying for now. Even though your main plan for this evening is to create chaos at your cousin’s wedding, your one condition is that you wouldn’t cause a scene with your aunts. While you are hardly in the running for favorite niece, there is still a 1% chance that you could get some inheritance from them once they hit the grave, so you’ll have to grit your teeth and bear the incoming barrage of personal questions coming your way lest you lose out in the long run.

“Why, thank you. I can’t say the same for you,” she huffs, shamelessly grabbing my cheeks and squishing them like stress balls. She peers sourly at your disfigured face, trying to squint judgmentally at you but failing due to her horrendous plastic surgery. “How old are you? Why do you have so many wrinkles?”

You feel your eyebrow twitch involuntarily, unable to respond even if you wanted due to the gorilla-hold she has on your face. You side-eye Seokjin, who is looking back at you with a blank and calm expression. You had already told him beforehand that you wouldn’t be arguing with your aunts, but that doesn’t mean he’s not allowed to be an asshole.

Being an asshole, after all, is Seokjin’s favorite pastime.

“Hello, Aunties. My name is Kim Seokjin, and I’m Y/N’s long-term boyfriend. She’s told me many good things about you,” he says with a polite smile, his hamster cheeks puffing up in that adorably boyish way. The surrounding aunties all begin to coo at his handsome face (unfair!), but they’re quickly silenced by a sharp glare from your Aunt Sohee. She appraises him, giving him a once over with a pursed lip.

“Long-term boyfriend, huh? Are you sure you aren’t paying her or something? Y/N hasn’t had a boyfriend in years. Her cousins have told me that she’s been too busy with other… extracurricular activities to bother sticking around,” your aunt says snidely, her sneer deepening. She lets go of your face, crossing her arms when she spies the expensive watch on his wrist. “Ah, I see that you’re well-off. I just can’t possibly see why else you’d be staying with her if not for other reasons.”

You can feel your blood pressure rising, the veins on your forehead undoubtedly bulging as you try to suppress your rage. Screw your cousin for spreading a rumor that you’re a whore! It’s as if you were the one sucking guys off in the locker rooms when the two of you were in the second year of high school and not her. You haven’t even had your first proper kiss, for heaven’s sake!

Instead of getting angry, Seokjin’s expression hardly changes at all. His serene smile is still plastered on his face, but only you can tell that he’s even remotely bothered by their rude remarks. You can feel the air around him turn frosty, but your oblivious aunties are still too busy tittering amongst themselves, exchanging insults at your expense.

“Oh, are we that obvious?” Seokjin tilts his head, feigning innocence. Your head jerks towards him, your eyes bugging out of their sockets. What the fuck? “You are so right, Auntie Sohee. I’m sure Y/N must have informed you about our predicament. You see, we’ve—”

“Your predicament?” Aunt Sohee scoffs, interrupting Seokjin mid-speech. “I can’t believe the nerve of this girl, bringing her little boy-toy to the holy matrimony of her cousin—”

“—been trying to produce an heir to the Kim Line for months now,” Seokjin sighs heavily, looking off into the distance with glazed, dreamy eyes. You nearly cough out a lung at his sudden proclamation, about to interject and ask him what on earth he was talking about. Your words die on your tongue, however, when he grips your hand tightly underneath the table. He taps three times on the back of your hand: an old sign that you both made back in high school whenever he was busy bullshitting his way out of trouble.

Luckily, none of your aunts notice your blunder, all of them too occupied trying to wrap their heads around what Seokjin had said. Multiple mouths drop open in surprise and disbelief, including your Aunt Sohee. Her penciled eyebrows arch comically high, her smoothened forehead wrinkling infinitesimally (a feat in itself, for you were sure she had long since lost any ability to move the skin on her face.)

“I beg your pardon?” she whispers, staring daggers at Seokjin.

Then beg, you think to yourself. Judging by the way the corners of Seokjin’s lips lift slightly, you have a strong feeling that he was thinking the same thing to himself. Instead, he says, “Yes, Aunt Sohee. You see, I come from a long line of businessmen. Ever heard of Kim Enterprises.”

Her face turns pale. “You mean… the Kim Enterprises? The one that owns—”

“South Korea’s largest chain of department stores? I’m flattered that you’re familiar,” he winks. He leans forward, gesturing for your aunts to come closer, like he’s imparting state secrets to them. “My older brother, who has been married for quite some time, has chosen to remain childless at the behest of his wife. For that reason, my father put me up to the task of producing an heir for the company.”

“An heir?” your aunt repeats, dumbfounded.

Seokjin nods, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “Yes, it’s quite unfortunate, but it’s a responsibility I’m willing to take. My family is notorious for planning our lives, even for the next 50 years, so I am forever grateful to have Y/N who is willing to bring me multiple potential heirs to my family.”

“Multiple heirs?” Your aunts shriek in unison, causing a few nearby guests to look over at your table in curiosity. You wave at them awkwardly in apology, hoping to get them to ignore the absolute clusterfuck happening right in front of you.

You feel Seokjin kick you gently in the shin, urging you to say something as well. You clear your throat, channeling all the pent-up Seokjin energy that you had indirectly absorbed over the years of being his friend. “That’s right… My Jinnie has always been so lonely, living in his gigantic mansion with his piles of money. He may have never felt the loving touch of his father, but I’m certain that we’ll be great parents to our children. Why, we’re almost like a pair of rabbits when it comes to—”

Aunt Sohee clears her throat abruptly, a deep flush coloring her cheeks as she glares daggers at you. She looks absolutely peeved, and it takes all your mental fortitude to restrain yourself from jumping up in triumph. Take that, wench!

“I have to admit that this is somewhat… unexpected,” your aunt says carefully, pointing a tight smile at Seokjin. He beams back, positively delighted.

“Y/N is quite the catch. I’m grateful to have her in my life,” he says, his tone growing soft by the end. He looks at you then, and you find a mysterious emotion floating in his eyes that you can’t quite name. When you blink and try to get a closer look, his careful façade is back in place.

Eventually, your aunts lose interest in you once they realize they can no longer bully you, not when you had an incredibly rich boyfriend to back you up. “Must be nice being a rich boy, huh?” you snicker, teasing the blushing boy beside you. Thanks to his hair growing longer than usual, the tips of his ears are miraculously hidden away. When you brush his hair back, they are as red as a baboon’s ass.

“Oh, shut up. You know I hate flaunting my dad’s money,” he whines, pouting cutely. He fingers the watch on his wrist, staring at it uncomfortably. “This isn’t even my watch. I had to borrow one from my brother.”

“Well, you did it for me, so I suppose it’s not all bad,” you laugh, pinching his cheek lightly. “Plus, it was funny watching my aunts shut up for once. They’re just mad that you’re richer than the groom.”

“Really? What does he do?”

“He’s an entrepreneur.” You snort, emphasizing the word with air quotations. “Honestly, he just calls himself that while he waits for his self-made business to pop off or whatever. No such luck so far, if what I heard was right.”

“Lucky for you, you’re stuck with my devastatingly handsome face and stinkin’ rich bank account,” he jokes, contorting his face into a funny expression until you’re left snorting at his antics. Little does he know, you still would’ve l***d him even if he wasn’t any of those things, but that’d be too cringey to say. What are you, some sort of romantic lead protagonist?

It takes a little bit over an hour for dessert to start getting served, by which point the bride and groom decide to make their rounds to greet the guests. “Don’t you think this is the perfect time to put our plan into motion? The dance floor is open and we should be able to make it to the center without anyone noticing,” he whispers, his breath tickling your neck.

“Yeah, let’s go,” you say, but just as you’re about to get up from your seat, a flurry of white blocks your path in an instant. You startle slightly, falling back to your chair and hitting Seokjin in the chest with a soft grunt. “Shit, sorry about that Seokjin—”

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t my dear cousin,” a voice cuts you off, the disdain in their voice dripping like acid down your ear canals. Your blood freezes instinctively, years of past trauma crashing down on you as your childhood bully stands just inches away from you, her blood-red lips stretched into a broad smirk.

“Kairi,” you greet.

“Y/N,” she responds.

“Seokjin!” Seokjin adds helpfully.

Your cousin turns to him slowly. “Quite right,” she hisses, eyebrows pinched together in thinly-veiled annoyance. “I’ve heard through some whispers that my baby cousin finally managed to snag a rich kid for a boyfriend and I just couldn’t help but let my curiosity drag me over here.” She looks you up and down, snorting at what she sees. “You would think that having a chaebol as a boyfriend would mean you could at least afford a proper dress.”

You glance down at your dress: a hand-me-down from your mother because you couldn’t be bothered to buy a new one, not when you’d rather choke on Satan’s hot fiery balls for all eternity than spend any amount of money just to attend your cousin’s wedding. Despite this, you can’t help your cheeks from heating in embarrassment, an automatic response after years of bullying and torment from that spoiled bitch.

When you don’t reply, Kairi’s smirk widens. “Oh? Cat got your tongue? Sugar daddy couldn’t even be bothered to buy you a dress? While you’re at it, maybe you should ask for a new car too. I’m surprised you even made it here alive in that old metal deathtrap of yours. You’re lucky you were just late to the reception instead of dead on the street.”

You can sense Seokjin staring at you from your right. Your fists are clenched tightly on your skirt, your nails nearly tearing the fabric in your searing rage. Slowly, carefully, Seokjin slips his hands underneath yours—he pries your death grip open until he can lace his fingers in between yours. At once, your anger melts at his tender gesture, your focus pulled away from your cousin and back to him. He thumbs the back of your hand, as if assuring you that he’d handle this himself.

He smiles at Kairi, not a single ounce of kindness in his eyes. “Yes, indeed. It is my mistake entirely for not ordering a dress much sooner. Y/N is so incredibly humble; she’d rather wear a vintage outfit than wear one of those paper-thin dresses from YesStyle that you and your bridesmaids seem to favor,” he sighs, pretending to be pained.

“Paper-thin? YESSTYLE?” Kairi screeches, her voice breaking the sound barrier. You watch in fascination as her skin turns an unflattering ruddy shade.

Unperturbed by her murderous aura, Seokjin prattles on. “Quite right,” he mocks her with her own words, smirking ever so slightly. “Though, I must apologize for being late to the reception. That was my fault as well. My father had a general meeting this morning for all the employees at the company, as he had wanted to announce that I would be the Vice President starting next Monday. We tried to leave sooner, but everyone had been too busy congratulating us,” he apologizes, though not apologetic in the slightest.

Your cousin could cosplay as a walking crack pipe with how much steam was puffing out of her ears. She’s livid, so much so that her fury was preventing her from formulating any sort of comeback. “You—how dare you—I swear on my—” she stutters incomprehensibly, her vulture-like nails tearing her dainty paper-thin skirt into shreds.

Just as she looks about ready to blow, her father comes around to your table. He places a hand delicately on his daughter’s shoulder, immediately understanding the situation when he sees you. “Kairi, I think it’s time for you to greet the rest of the guests. Uncle Iverson said he has a gift for you that simply cannot wait,” he says, doing his best to appease you. He gives you a genuinely regretful look; you shake your head, waving off his concern.

“It was nice seeing you, Kairi. I hope you and your husband will have a wonderful year together,” you say. You gasp exaggeratedly, holding a hand to your heart. “Oh, sorry. I meant to say I hope you have wonderful years together. Pardon my mistake.”

Before the scant amount of brain cells in your cousin’s brain could process your words, her father pulls her away, dragging her to the next table over. Once they’re out of earshot, you heave a sigh of relief. Beside you, Seokjin lets out a laugh that he had been undoubtedly holding in the past few minutes, sounding like a fish gasping for air with how much he is shaking with mirth.

“Fuck, that was hilarious. Did you see how angry she got? Beautiful,” he says, wiping away a stray tear. “Love that for us!”

“Damn. I knew you were good at bullshitting, but even your acting skills almost convinced me,” you whistle lowly, impressed. “You sure you’re not a con-artist in disguise?”

“All good businessmen are con-artists, my young padawan,” he snickers, winking at you. He shrugs. “You get used to dealing with assholes like her when you attend enough rich people parties. Besides, all good lies are rooted in the truth, after all. That’s what my father taught me when I was seven.”

“You must have been a terrible child, then.” You laugh, before realizing what he had just said. “Wait. Rooted in the truth? What does that mean?”

“Oh. Well,” he clears his throat, giggling nervously. He rubs his neck, embarrassed. “I am the vice president of dad’s company now. I just lied about the meeting being this morning. He announced it a day ago or something. Not that it’s a big deal or anything…”

You gawk at him, speechless. Not for the first time in your life, you are once again stunned by the absurdity of the man before you. How did men like him exist outside of cheesy k-dramas? He’s handsome, rich, funny, AND well-mannered? It’s almost like some love-crazed author had penned him into existence for their entertainment.

Seokjin breaks you from your reverie, tapping you thrice on your shoulder. “Shall we go? The dance floor is still empty. It’s now or never.”

You nod excitedly, standing up to head towards the center of the hall. This time, there is no one stopping you as the two of you make your way towards your destination. The lights near the dancefloor are still dimly lit, as most of the lighting is currently focused on the guests as the bride and groom make their rounds to greet everyone. Even if Seokjin got onto his knees right now, only a few people nearby would notice, so you’d have to do something to catch people’s attention.

“This is going to be moderately to highly embarrassing for a few moments, but I think that’s the atmosphere we’re going for, isn’t it?” Seokjin whispers, his mouth embarrassingly close to yours as he holds you gently by the waist. There isn’t a need for him to stand so close to you, but you have to admit his presence is mostly calming—minus the fact that he’s been your crush for five years and he’s going to be fulfilling one of your deepest fantasies in front of your entire extended family. No biggie.

“I suppose so. What are you gonna do to get their attention?” you ask, palms beginning to sweat. Despite this, Seokjin still takes your hands into his own, a small smile on his lips.

“Just watch,” he whispers, before slowly getting down on one knee.

Ba-dump. Here we fucking go.

“My dearest Y/N… The apple of my eye, the straw to my berry, the con to my dom,” Seokjin says, projecting his voice so that it can be heard even above the music. One of the violin players is even startled long enough to stop playing, further causing more heads to turn in their direction. You hear a gasp coming from your left, but you force yourself not to look. Instead, you stare right back into Seokjin’s sweet brown eyes, your heart beating a mile a minute.

This isn’t real… This is just a prank, bro. Get over yourself, you hiss internally, but your heart refuses to listen.

“You’ve been in my life for almost half a decade, and not a day goes by wherein I don’t wonder what it would be like to live the rest of my days with you. In many ways, I wouldn’t be the person I am if it hadn’t been for your presence in my life,” he says. If you look deeper into his eyes, you can almost trick yourself into thinking that they looked wetter than they had just a moment ago.

“Y/N, you are the person I’ve loved for years now. I used to think you didn’t like me as much as I liked you, so I was always scared to pop the question. I had many opportunities to ask, but I suppose tonight just felt like the right moment. I was afraid that if I didn’t do it now, I might never get the chance to ask again, and I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you slip away out of cowardice.”

For some reason, his words seem almost too real, like he was speaking the truth. You have never doubted his acting skills, but would you be willing to wonder if there was even a small possibility that there was some truth to his tale? You swallow thickly, the need to ask just dangling on the tip of your tongue.

He rifles through his jacket pocket, procuring a small velvet box. He thumbs it almost reverently, his hands shaking slightly, but you can blame that on the nerves from hundreds of people watching you. He takes a deep breath, opening the box with a soft click. “My dearest Y/N… Would you give me the honor of spending the rest of my days with you?”

You feel your breath get knocked out of you in an instant, the genuine adoration in his eyes too much for you to handle. You stammer slightly, too busy staring at him to properly register the loud claps, screams, and hollers all around you. “I… Seokjin… This is…”

“MAKE THEM STOP! SOMEONE KICK THEM OUT RIGHT NOW!” You dimly hear your cousin screaming obscenities somewhere, but you are still too caught up in the moment to care. The world only consists of you and Seokjin—nothing else matters right now.

When you look down at the box in his hands, fully expecting to see a comically large ring pop nestled in its cushions, but instead you find—

You gasp, nearly doubling over in surprise. “Oh my god, Seokjin. Is that a real fucking diamond ring?!”

He shrugs, smiling wryly. “Only the best rocks for the girl who rocks my socks off every night,” he jokes, but his nervousness is palpable. He’s sweating, a drop trailing down the side of his face despite the strong air conditioning.

Oh shit. It hits you right then that his proposal is real. The damned idiot is fucking proposing to you in front of your most hated family members, and he’s proposing to you for real.

“Kim Seokjin, please fucking explain yourself—”

But before he can have the chance to open his mouth, you feel rough hands grab you by the shoulders, pulling you away from him. “I’m sorry I have to do this, ma’am. Bride’s orders,” one of the waiters says, awkwardly escorting you to the exit. When you turn back, you see another waiter pulling Seokjin away as well, the box with the ring still clutched tightly in his hand.

The two waiters deposit you outside the hall, bowing stiffly before heading back into the room. You’re still breathing heavily, the adrenaline coursing through your veins. Seokjin isn’t any better, bent over with his hands on his knees. From your vantage point, you can see how red his entire neck is, his blush reaching even past the collar of his shirt.

“Seokjin…” you trail off, unable to say another word. You’re completely flabbergasted, elated, annoyed, and mostly just mind-fucked because when on earth did Kim Seokjin ever have a crush on you?!

“I’m sorry. That must have been quite a shock,” he coughs out a laugh. He rubs his face, embarrassment rolling off of him in waves. “I just… It was sort of a last-minute decision I made. I’ve been into you for years now, and I know I’m kinda putting you on the spot by proposing like that, but I knew if I didn’t do anything soon, you might just slip away before I can say anything.”

“Wait. So are you really… proposing to me?” You squeak out the last bit, your face mirroring his reddened state.

“No!” He shouts suddenly, before covering his mouth with his palm. “S-sorry, what I mean to say is, it wasn’t really a marriage proposal. It was more like… just a general proposal? I do want to live with you forever, but I know that thought must be daunting and—oh god, I don’t even know if you like me like that, so this must be incredibly weird and out of line. Please excuse me while I shove a cactus up my ass—”

“Seokjin,” you interrupt, silencing his rambling. He clamps his mouth shut. “Are you… asking me out?”

He nods his head. “Yeah…”

“And what you said is true? You actually like me?”

“No, you don’t understand. I love you,” he says, before getting shy again. He looks down at the ring box. “Fuck. This isn’t a real engagement ring, by the way. It’s more like a promise ring, so you don’t have to feel bad for rejecting me.”

“Oh my god, I’m in love with an idiot,” you groan, pulling him into a hug. You nestle into his chest, giggling hysterically into his shirt. “I fucking hate you.”

“Wait, I’m getting mixed signals over here,” Seokjin says, gasping when he feels how tightly you embrace him. He doesn’t complain, however. He returns the gesture in kind, nuzzling deep into your neck. “So, does that mean the feeling is mutual?”

“Yes, you idiot. Now give me my ring.”

“My pleasure, princess.” He laughs, drawing away slightly so that he can slip the ring on your finger. The diamond shines brightly under the fluorescent lights, but nothing brings you more joy than having the boy you love in your arms.

As the two of you are sharing a sweet moment, it takes a second for you to realize that the commotion from inside the venue still hasn’t stopped. When you crane your heads, you spot one of the doors had been left ajar, allowing you to slip your heads through the crack just in time to see Seokjin’s beautiful bare ass being projected onto a large screen.

The musical notes of Rick Astley’s most popular song play loudly on the speakers, drowning out the sounds of the bride screaming bloody murder as the IT people tried their best to sort out the mess. The Seokjin on the screen slaps his ass in time with the tune, his glorious moon-shaped globes shaking mesmerizingly for all to see.

When you look to Seokjin for an explanation, he merely shrugs his shoulders. “They really should do background checks on the people they hire for these things. Taking that one video editing course in university really does pay off, huh?”

“Sure does,” you grin, linking your arms together. “Now let’s get some fucking McDonalds.”

And so, you lived happily ever after—the end.

665 notes · View notes

demonslayedher · 3 years

Note

I'm glad you reactivated the questions, here are some flowers for you: 💐 Seriously speaking I'm sorry that because of a question I asked you a few weeks ago you watched a series of videos of psychopaths 🥲It made me laugh at first but then I felt guilty 💔 it's all Muzan's fault for leaving us all with curiosity (imagine his parents' reaction once they realized there was something wrong with him even as a human)

Yay, flowers (which I shall kill with my black thumb)! And no, no, it’s fine, I had hoped it came off funny! I like listening to stuff like that while I draw anyway because I’m a nerd anyway and I found it very interesting.

Speaking of being a nerd, you have innocuously unlocked the following essay about Heian period nobility and wisteria flowers: There is nothing to state so in canon, but I find it highly reasonable to say Muzan might had been of the very powerful Fujiwara clan. Step inside my office, Anon.

Okay. So. The Heian period, simply put, was a time of cultural flourishing and beautiful pastimes, the origins of a lot of Japanese style aesthetics, and a romantic courtly like of romancing everybody else in the court. This is assuming, of course, that you were at the very, very, very, very top of society. Otherwise, the vast majority of people were poor and sick and starving and ew, in young Muzan’s world, we do not wish to associate with that. In the Heian court, Kyoto basically is the whole cultural world. Even though there were other cities that could rival Kyoto, the emperor was there, so it was essentially the cultural center of the country. The nobles who lived there got money from owning land in far-flung provinces, but actually having to live in those provinces? What a drag! Having to live away from Kyoto for work, even if it wasn’t an official banishment, often felt like a punishment to the nobles and their families who were used to the social scene at court. And, like affluent courts around the world throughout history, understanding all the intricacies of style and “Heian Rumors” was key to having social clout, and popularity was power. And yeah, nobles would be vicious to each other. While clan dynamics and history are complex and not something I’m getting into here (I don’t consider myself well-versed in it enough), the Fujiwara clan is a BIG DEAL. Basically, in Heian times, children were typically raised in their mother’s home, thereby heavily influenced by their mother’s clan, so besides a young man’s parents, his in-laws also would had been hugely influential in his life, as they will have a long-felt influence on his progeny. The Emperors typically married Fujiwara daughters. This, in addition to other positions of influence of the Fujiwara clan members usually held with influence over the Emperor, means that politically, there was no messing with them. Now, just because I say Muzan might had been a Fujiwara clan member, I don’t necessarily mean a member of the main branch of the family. Often, due to inheritance management, different branches of various noble clans might be given different surnames. The Fujiwara clan does have different branches, some of which did go one to have close ties with the imperial family even after the fall of their power at the end of the Heian period and all the way through the Taisho, and some branches carry some impressive family legacies but otherwise live like normal or high-class common folk in modern-day. (I know one such Ojousama from a renamed Fujiwara branch; she’s a sweetheart and never brings it up herself but every time I hear other people say things about her family, I’m like, dang.) We can venture from Muzan’s likely expensive medical treatment, multiple marriages (meaning other clans sought to be connected with his family even by marrying their daughters to a sick man), and even preparation for cremation as a baby that he was of a very, very high status.

Being the sick son of a prominent family may have warped his personality in multiple ways: first, he was probably already used to a culture of popularity equated political power. We see in Muzan’s dealings with humans in the Taisho period that he can be exceedingly charming to get what he wants (a psychopath trait, haha), so he was probably pretty aware of the complex ways of socialites in the court. But, even being aware of that, it probably frustrated him to no end that he was too sick to take part in the social pastimes where he’d gain clout. It’s also possible that he was a bit of a bargain husband for his wives’ families who were seeking to a make ties with his family, as they must not had been politically useful enough to be married off to other powerful matches. This may be some of why he was so ruthless to them, for he never saw them as useful to him in the first place. This probably got a bit worse once he became a demon. Now to be lewd, but he probably got more vigorous in his pursuit of more powerful lovers, and knew how to slay the women’s hearts as he liked (you know, popular Heian pastime, everybody had lots of lovers, it was the norm, though political marriages and legitimate children were still important). That new sense of power probably went to his head. But, ultimately, he must had been limited in clout since he couldn’t take part in any daytime activities, thereby limiting his access to more powerful spheres of influence. His reputation from having grown up sickly must had followed him too. It’s anyone’s guess how much affection his parents had for him and how happy they were about his health at first, and if and when they might had noticed his changes. He was a full-fledged adult by the time he turned into a demon, so who knows how closely they even associated with him. They likely had healthier children who they devoted more care and attention to, and invested more family resources in while assuming Muzan would probably die young.

Who knows what the final straw was in Muzan leaving court? Was it frustration at not being able to walk in daylight that made him flee to the Kanto area in pursuit of the blue spider lily (from near where the doctor lived) long before Kanto became politically affluent? Or was it the rumors at court about how he didn’t age, and that he was eating people?

Of note, a lot of the early legends of demons in Japanese culture take place in the Heian period.

In his book “Japanese History of Demon Slayers,” retired Shizuoka University professor Tetsuo Owada capitalized on the success of Kimetsu no Yaiba to dive into a lot of ties between the series and what it may pay homage to throughout Japanese history and culture. While this was published last September and a handful of his theories have been disproven by the second fanbook published last February, and while I think a lot of his theories are stretching a little too far to make strong connections, it’s still deeply, deeply interesting stuff. He goes into some specific comparisons of demons, like Minamoto-no-Raiko and his posse of four big bad warriors taking on the Tsuchigumo (giant spider demon) terrorizing the mountains north of Kyoto harkening to the case of Rui’s family (and, ding ding ding, this was the primary focus of the official Kabuki/Kimetsu crossover last November), as well as takes little questions left in canon and dives into them a bit deeper. One such question is, why were wisteria lethal to demons? According to Prof. Owada’s research, there is no historical basis for this. Some of the talk online is that: 1. Wisteria are in fact poisonous, and consuming too much of them would cause vomiting and diarrhea (though I’ve also seen people make jam out of them because of the fragrance, so, like???) 2. Beans are thrown around at Setsubun to ward off demons (like so, Feat. Muzan and Kimetsu Beans), and wisteria are of the bean family 3. Wisteria like sunlight, so perhaps like Nichirin, they soak up some of the sun’s properties that are lethal to demons 4. In the language of flowers (Hanakotoba), wisteria symbolize kindness, welcomeness, refusing to leave someone’s side, being drunk with love, being straightforward and truthful, not losing the humanity in one’s heart, thereby containing a lot of meaning contrary to the conduct of demons Interesting, but some of its kind of a stretch. While still finding it a stretch to apply it to wisteria being poisonous to demons, Prof. Owada goes on to say that since ancient times, while the wisteria has some negative connotations of how it was sometimes written with characters meaning “doesn’t heal” (不治) and growing downward with smaller and smaller flowers like symbolize the slow downfall of a family line, it conversely also carries positive connotations of longevity and flourishing family due to the fact that its vines grow upward.

Now, you might picked up at some point that the Japanese word for wisteria is “fuji.” Not to be confused with Mt. Fuji (that’s written differently), it IS the same fuji as in “Fujiwara”: 藤.

Prof. Owada goes on to explore the association with the use of Wisteria crests in Kimetsu no Yaiba, especially on the houses of supporters of the Demon Slayer Corp. His recurring thesis is that the pandemic is partly responsible for Kimetsu no Yaiba’s popularity since demon legends have long since had origins in epidemics, and he supposes the Wisteria crest has a protective effect on the houses, similar to a talisman used in a lot of real life rituals for warding off illness and then often displays in or on the entries of houses to protect the family every year (I have one such item gifted to me, it stays by my doorway, along with a couple sticks of charcoal (but the culture of charcoal is a post for some other day)). The talisman is in reference to a god of Hindu/Chinese origins being treated with hospitality by the So clan, so although other families perished in disaster/disease, he promised to always protect the So clan descendants, so the talisman says “Descendants of the So Clan” so that any household may try to claim that divine protection. The gratitude-exchange of hospitality and protection and sure sounds familiar! Prof. Owada isn’t done yet. While the crest design used in Kimetsu no Yaiba isn’t an actual family crest in in real life, there are lots and lots and lots of family crests that use a wisteria design and have the character for “wisteria” in the name. Any time you hear “—tou”, like Satou, Saitou, or even Gotou, you can typically assume it’s 藤. It’s very common nowadays, but the first family to be granted the use of this name was the Fujiwara clan, when one of the pre-Heian and very powerful emperors granted their clan head this surname, which was a major honor, and it marked the start of the Fujiwara clan’s political dominance (there was already influence leading up to this, but meh, we like clear-cut stuff to simply centuries of history, don’t we?). Furthermore, although we often think of the Fujiwara clan for their influence at court, and we might think of the Minamoto clan for warrior heroes who fought demons, Prof. Owada concludes his argument of wisteria’s protective influence by pointed out a long list of Heian period Fujiwara warriors who also were the heroes of demon slaying legends, stating that their name has also long been tied with demon slayer culture. SO!!! Let me go on with my theory here. Muzan is from the same family line as Ubuyashiki. At some point (I assume after Muzan is long gone from Kyoto), the family is told while their children keep dying, and they accept their mission to bring an end to Kibutsuji Muzan and clear this curse on their family line. My thought is that their ancestor was a full blood sibling of Muzan, one whom was more invested in than sickly Muzan. While perhaps already an off-shoot of the Fujiwara Clan and thereby not entitled to the same sorts of inheritance, they probably maintained close ties with them. But, as it was already not direct by that time, the other Fujiwara clan branches were not affected by this curse. To further spare the clan the effects of this curse, this was probably when that sickly branch took the name Ubuyashiki. (And yes, I have things to say about this name and its possible mythological origins which I find a highly, highly interesting connection. Prof. Owada supposes it is tied with Izumo Taisha Grand Shrine and that is why there are nine pillars, but as much as I love Izumo Taisha and its giant pillars I base my argument in separate Shinto (but also Izumo!) mythology and accept that there are not always supposed to be nine Pillars specifically and Gotouge simply chose that number based on the number of strokes in the kanji for ‘Hashira’ (柱) BUT I DIGRESS). So, the Ubuyashiki Clan is it’s own thing, but is sort of like a cousin to the other Fujiwara branches and thereby continues to enjoy Fujiwara support throughout the Heian period, like some of the Fujiwara warriors going out there and slaying some of Muzan’s early demon experiments, and using their influence to bring in other warriors to the demon slaying cause (pet

theory: Genpei War warrior Kumagai Naozane was a member of the proto-Corp and using Kasugai-garasu was in practice since at least late Heian period). While the Ubuyashiki Clan probably already their own inherited land (and funds that came from it), throughout their history, their cousin clans might also have provided financial support to the Ubuyashiki Clan. But, they probably distanced themselves from the clan due to the curse and not wanting to be tainted. When you bring back in the wisteria associations this puts the contrary associations with a flourishing and dying family line in a new light. Furthermore, the “not healing” way of writing “fuji” also means a lot more in the context of Muzan’s, and later the Ubuyashiki clan’s illness.

#KnY nerdery #Kny fandom theories and meta #kibutsuji muzan #ubuyashiki kagaya #Kimetsu no Yaiba #Demon Slayer

60 notes · View notes

mostlycompetentwriter · 3 years

Text

Start Line (Part One of Two)

M/F Pairing: Fem!Reader x Bang Chan (SKZ)

Warnings: Language

Word Count: 7.2K

Genre: Boys over Flowers AU! Strangers to enemies to potential lovers!

Summary: Starting a new school is never easy, but the four rich and popular boys who pretend like they’re above the rest of the student population? Well, that makes everything even worse.

A/N: You don’t need to watch the show to understand, but it might be fun! AKA this is a Kdrama recommendation.

Also, I’m super sorry to the anonymous user who asked for this and probably impatiently waited for me to get a grip!!!

Tagging @skzwriternet

For my entire life, I’ve had to work harder than everyone else to secure the things that I wanted the most.

Which is why nothing could enrage me more than the sight of the four boys sitting on the bleachers together in my new school’s gymnasium.

I had just recently transferred into the school on a swimming scholarship, and a young student assistant offered to give me a tour of the facilities before my first day of scheduled classes. Her name was Suzy, and she had enough intel on the school’s population that even the CIA would be jealous.

I wasn’t normally one for drama, but Suzy’s warning about the school’s infamously named “F4″ was enough to leave me feeling cautious: “You see those guys over there?” she had asked when we sat down together on the bleachers. “It’s fair to say that they run the school, so most people try to avoid pissing them off.”

The boys in question were all starters for the school’s accolade-heavy basketball team. Apparently, that meant a lot in this affluent and well-endowed community, and I could tell that they considered themselves with the highest regard. Especially the oldest, a handsome blonde whose killer accent was surely the ruin of any one of those poor girls who flocked around them like they were desperate for attention.

“Bang Chan,” Suzy informed me. “He’s the leader, and his family owns an entire line of luxury hotel chains.”

“I guess that means something special?” I remarked, and Suzy gave me a curious look.

“His family owns the school, but if we’re talking worth, then his parents pretty much own this whole town.”

“So, he takes advantage of that,” I noted, and Suzy nodded her head before indicating to the other three boys.

“They’ve all been friends since they were kids, but everyone knows that Chan and Changbin are super close.”

“Changbin?” I questioned, and Suzy pointed to the introspective and sullen-looking student who was ignoring all of the other girls with narrowed dark eyes.

“His parents died when he was young,” she explained. “He lives with his grandfather.”

“Oh?” I wondered, and I looked at Changbin again with a fresh perspective - as someone who had experienced trauma that would follow him for the rest of his life.

“Felix and Minho are the real fuckboys,” Suzy continued. “They’re notorious for the weekend rule.”

“The weekend rule?”

“Find a college party, hook-up with a nameless girl, and then leave her before she’s too attached.”

“Fuck boys,” I grumbled in agreement, and Suzy sighed as if she had personal experience...but I seriously doubted that someone of her caliber would stoop so low knowing full well what kind of reputation she was dealing with.

“The entire school is at their beck and call,” she said. “They do whatever they want, and nobody ever questions them.”

“Well, I’m here to graduate and find a good college for swimming,” I said, meeting Chan’s gaze from a distance. “I don’t have time for games.”

The ominous faction leader smirked as he held my stare, eyeing me up and down with a flicker of interest that I chose to ignore when Suzy asked if I wanted to finish the rest of our tour.

Day One

On my first day of classes, Suzy was kind enough to stick close to my side, although I was beginning to see that she wasn’t very popular, and we were mostly ignored by the rest of the populace. Which was just fine with me.

“Check it out!” she exclaimed. “Our schedules are almost identical.”

“I’m glad,” I said, ducking my head to avoid a couple of rough-housing football players who were “playfully” knocking each other into the lockers. “I’m pretty sure you could get lost in here.”

“Well, ideally, most students start here in Elementary school, and they stay all the way through High School,” Suzy said.

“A pretentious education at its finest,” I remarked, wondering how much money was literally walking by me with every Luis Vuitton bag and Gucci-made uniform that passed in opposing directions.

“Do you start swimming after school?” Suzy asked, making easy conversation as we entered our first classroom - advanced biology.

“Yeah,” I said, following Suzy to the back of the room. “There’s a tournament this weekend.”

“Already?” Suzy gasped, and she plopped down into one of the desks next to me. “Will you have enough time to practice?”

“I’ll be fine,” I reassured her, reaching for a spare notebook as the teacher walked in to begin one of the most intense lectures that I had ever attended.

But the school’s Academic reputation was no joke, and I imagined that they hired the finest teachers that the school’s infinite endowment could afford - a budget that would eclipse the remainder of the public schools in the district. Yet, no one seemed to blink an eye at how obviously unfair that was, as if these well-off students deserved a high-class education simply because their parents made more money than they could spend.

My new socio-economic environment was becoming more and more apparent, and I was suddenly feeling every part of the outcast who wandered into the wrong part of town with good intentions. But a moralistic attitude would get you nowhere in life if everyone else refused to acknowledge the fact.

I learned quickly that the students at this school were only looking after themselves, but the lesson was hard to accept. Which might explain my uncharacteristic heroism when it came to defending Suzy later on that afternoon when she agreed to give me a ride home after swim practice.

I was outside, sending a message to my mom, when I noticed a black SUV careening backwards at a speed that was far too fast. Meanwhile, Suzy had settled down inside the car to start the ignition, messing with the dials on the radio, when a powerful jolt sent her jerking forward. “What the hell?” Suzy shrieked, turning around in her seat only to startle with that “deer in the headlights” look of absolute horror.

“Shit!!” she cursed, and I watched her get out of the car before taking a deep breath and joining her on the opposite side of her smashed trunk where a huge crowd of students had started to gather around us.

They were talking rapidly amongst themselves, and I figured out why they were so interested the minute Bang Chan and one of his friend - Felix, perhaps? - walked up to Suzy with a bored expression. “You do this often?” were the first words I ever heard from Chan. “I can’t believe you got in my way.”

Suzy immediately bowed her head - submitting to the older Senior. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, but I couldn’t stand to watch her expose her most vulnerable position.

“Hey!” I shouted, walking around Suzy’s crumbled form to stand toe-to-toe with the infamous Bang Chan.

“You must be the new girl,” Chan remarked, eyeing me up and down with vague interest. “I kinda expected something more when I saw you the other day...”

I seethed when his gaze fell lower, as if pointing out something that only hormonal teenage boys would care about. “I’m not here to impress you,” I replied, and he arched one brow.

“I don’t need to be impressed,” Chan said. “But your little friend disrespected me, and I think she should apologize.”

“You’re the one who wasn’t looking!” I snapped. “Anyone with eyes could see that you were too busy on your phone to pay attention!”

There was a collective conversation from the crowd, and Chan studied the growing conglomeration of students surrounding our confrontation. “Do you have proof of that? Or, is it your word against mine?”

“Someone with any sense of dignity wouldn’t act this way,” I countered, and Chan immediately started laughing.

“Oh? Isn’t that cute,” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You have a lot to learn around here.”

“The only thing I’ve learned is to stay away from you,” I said, and Chan rolled his eyes like it was the dumbest thing he had ever heard.

And the torment only continued.

“Hey!” I snapped when he knocked his shoulder against mine, coming to stand in front of Suzy again with disdain.

“Pay for the damages,” he ordered. “And then apologize to me.”

“Chan-” Suzy started, but I grabbed his shoulder and forced him to turn around.

“I wasn’t finished,” I said, and our noses almost brushed from the minimal distance I allowed between us.

“I don’t want to hear anything else about your idea of honor or whatever,” Chan sneered, but he paused when I held up my phone, pressing the play button on the video which provided convincing evidence of the incident.

“What about this?” I asked him, and I could practically see him come undone.

“Give that to me!” he demanded, but I took several steps away from him, returning my cellphone to my pocket.

“But I’m sure the police would be interested in seeing it.”

Chan’s eyes perceptibly widened, and I felt a surge of triumph in knowing that I had the upper hand. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me,” I taunted him, briefly glancing over my shoulder at his friend who had started snickering - like he was enjoying our fight.

“Fine,” Chan huffed. “What do you want?”

“You’ll pay for the damages to my friend’s car,” I said. “And...”

“And?” Chan snapped, clearly impatient.

“You can apologize to her instead,” I finished, and there were several consecutive gasps from the student population.

“Is he gonna do it?”

“There’s no way Chan will give in!!”

“Someone film this!”

My smile continued to widen at the jeers of my classmates, and Chan was finally at his wits end, spinning around on his heels to growl an imperceptible attempt at an apology to Suzy who could only look at him in awe. “We’re done here,” Chan said, and I shrugged nonchalantly, watching him storm away with his friend in tow behind him.

I sighed once they were both gone, feeling a sense of profound justice after proving that even the great Bang Chan could be defeated, but then Suzy appeared in front of me with a grave look in her eyes that told me this whole ordeal was far from over. “Y/N,” she whispered. “What have you done?”

Day Three

The next morning, I walked to my locker feeling every gaze turned in my direction. I frowned at each of them, wondering if this was the aftermath from the incident with Chan and his stupid friends. Yet, when I finally paused in front of my locker, an uncomfortable sensation of dread sent me into a cold sweat when I saw what was taped to the front of the door.

It was a red card with a black skull at the top and the infamous “F4″ written across the bottom.

“She got the card!” someone announced from off to the side, and it didn’t take long for other students to rush in my direction.

“The card?” I whispered to myself, remembering Suzy’s previous warnings concerning the exploits of the F4 boys. It wasn’t an accident that I had received this ominous warning, and I knew that I was in trouble.

Quickly, I darted through one of the exits leading outside, placing me somewhere on a small veranda where I leaned against the bannister overlooking the school’s athletic fields. “What the hell is wrong with this place!” I screeched, projecting my voice across the fields, and I didn’t expect anyone to hear me...

“Why the hell are you screaming?”

I paused at the sudden question, widening my eyes when I realized it was closer than I expected. “You come up here often?”

I staggered backward at the interjection, spinning around to locate the voice that had uttered the simple question. “Hello?”

There was a sigh, and then a familiar sweep of brown hair appeared from around the corner. “This is my spot, you know?”

“No,” I said, cringing at my tone. “I’m sorry, I had no idea.”

The recipient in question was none other than Changbin, one of the four members of the school’s notorious F4. His dark black hair was wind-swept across his forehead, falling in thin strands over attentive brown eyes while he leaned against the wall of the small patio sectioned off from the rest of the veranda. “Lesson learned,” Changbin continued, swaggering up the stairs to stand next to me, looking out over the playing fields. “I guess I can’t come here anymore.”

“What do you mean?” I found myself asking without really thinking about what it might look like to show that I was concerned. After all, he was a member of the same F4 that had just terrorized me with their stupid calling card.

“You’re here,” Changbin replied as if the answer might suffice. “I have a feeling this place will be too loud.”

He sighed then before starting for the exit. “W-wait!” I stuttered, unable to put together a logical sentence before Changbin was already walking back inside.

But Changbin’s unexpected appearance proved to be the least of my problems.

For the remainder of the afternoon, I faced an onslaught of humiliation courtesy of my classmates. Everything from jeers between classes, to more insulting pranks like decorating the desk on my homeroom classroom with vulgar language and pictures.

Yet, worst of all was coming face to face with Bang Chan himself who smiled some kind of sickening smirk at me before quietly asking if I had had enough of the torment. “This is nothing,” I growled at him.

“Oh? Well, it’s only gonna get worse,” Chan promised, and he left without another word, leaving me to stew over a powerful combination of anxiety and frustration.

However, Chan’s idea of worse was, indeed, inexcusable. And I nearly screamed when I went to swim that afternoon, only to discover the pool littered with trash. But there was nobody around to help, and I spent the entirety of my scheduled practice time cleaning up with water, wrinkling my nose at a few questionable banana peels.

“I guess he went through with it,” a familiar voice interrupted my trash session, beaming through the haze of disgust lingering with every brush of my fingers across sodden newspaper or moldy plates.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded of Felix and Minho - the infamous duo who were practically glued to Chan’s side.

“We just wanted to meet you,” Felix said, and I watched through narrowed eyes as they brought over chairs from the side to sit down at the poolside.

I frowned. Couldn’t they help? “Why are you interested?” I asked instead, bringing another load of trash to the edge.

“Well, it’s been awhile since anyone stood up to Chan,” Minho explained, and there was a playfulness in his gaze that left me feeling uneasy in concern to their real intentions.

“Doing what’s right shouldn’t make me a martyr,” I said.

“But it does,” Felix replied with a cheeky smile. “He’s gonna keep up the torture, you know,” he continued, waving his hand around to indicate the trash still floating on top of the chlorine-caked water.

“Forever?” I grimaced, hating that the word had slipped free without really thinking about what it would mean to admit such things to Chan’s friends.

Minho smiled, looking up at something over my shoulder. “I’m surprised to see you here, Changbin?”

I turned around as if it was instinctual, watching the same person from earlier on the veranda walk inside from the locker room. He seemed even more out of place than Minho and Felix, studying the pollution of trash swimming with me. “She’s interesting,” Changbin said, and I was surprised when my stomach did a few somersaults at his confession.

“I agree,” Felix inserted, leaning back against his elbows with his shirt sleeves rucked up high on his forearms. “It’s been a while since Chan has been this invested in something.”

“It would be nice if he could stop,” I grumbled, and I met Changbin’s sincere gaze as he knelt down next to the poolside.

“He’ll give up when he thinks you won’t back down,” Changbin finally decided, and I watched as he started gathering the trash floating in his direction.

Day Seven

In hindsight, my imagination ran wild with scenarios that were more insane with each progressive image that crossed through my head.

But what could you expect from someone who had just figured out that she was being followed by three burly men wearing suits like they were the Men in Black.

Each time I started to walk faster, they would also do the same. Until it got to the point where I was zigzagging around corners, doing my best to dodge out of their sight, only to find myself once again confronted with the strange men who had no intentions of leaving me alone.

Eventually, I paused on the sidewalk outside of the school’s entrance. I was running late that morning, which meant nobody else was around to witness this madness. But I was a strong, independent woman with a a no-nonsense attitude that compelled me to project my voice across the well-polished front lawn. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” I began, holding up my hands when they grew closer. “What seems to be the problem?”

“We have orders to bring you to our boss,” they said, which only confused me even more.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know who you’re talking about?”

“Our apologies, miss,” the first man continued. “We were informed that you might try to resist.”

“Like I’m just gonna skip school and leave with a couple of strangers who have no conception of personal space,’ I glowered, but when I tried to spin around on my heel, I found myself colliding with an enormous chest, and I sighed, realizing that they had clearly been distracting me long enough for the third guard to sneak up behind me. “Fine,” I muttered, rolling my eyes when he grabbed my arm, leading me to the sleek black car running at the front of the school.

From there, my day only continued to grow even weirder, especially when I found myself walking up the steps of a gigantic mansion that looked like it could grace the cover of Vanity Fair magazine.

“Where am I?” I tried to ask, but the guards ignored my question, bringing me inside the house where I felt a twinge of misplaced guilt for treading my dirty sneakers across the pristine marble floors that practically shined with my reflection looking back at me.

“Greetings, miss,” a friendly tone greeted me, and I studied the older gentleman who dismissed the guards with a wave of his wrinkled hand. He was dressed impeccably in a suit with a long coat-tail, balding gray hair styled atop his head in a delicate swoop.

“What’s going on?” I demanded, but the butler was silent as he indicated for me to follow him. Down the crowded corridors, decorated with large, extravagant paintings, and down the granite staircase descending to the floor in a circular pattern.

Down a stretch of never-ending hallway that led to a bedroom at the end where two younger women - identically matched in uniform - greeted me by name before ushering me inside.

“Can you at least tell me where I am?” I asked the butler who followed us inside, giving out instructions as I was forced onto a stool in front of a vanity mirror, wincing when the woman immediately started to yank a brush through my long hair.

“This might take a while,” she said, and I frowned at her tone, coughing when a fresh puff of powder was streaked across my face - compliments of another girl who had a palate of make-up balanced on her hand like it was a paint tray and my skin was her canvas.

“I’d like to know something,” I insisted, but I was met with silence, crossing my arms across my chest as I resigned myself to the unexpected makeover since it was a thousand times better than my earlier scenarios where I envisioned myself dying from a James Bond-esque death.

It was only a half-hour later when the women declared themselves finished, standing back to admire their work while I had a staring contest with the girl looking back at me in the mirror. Because it was hard to believe that it was me with neat ringlets decorating my scalp, and sticky globs of mascara and foundation hiding the blemishes on my face.

I looked amazing, but it wasn’t really me. Still, I wasn’t given much time to study my new appearance, and I hesitated when the butler extended a black dress in my direction. “Our boss wants you to wear this,” he informed me, and I hesitantly accepted the expensive fabric.

“Who’s your boss?” I tried once more, but the butler simply smiled at me before waiting outside for me to get dressed, and I squeezed myself into the exquisite gown that swept the floor at my feet, hugging my curves and accentuating my figure in ways that my sweatpants and t-shirts couldn't.

When I finally walked back out, the butler smiled at me in approval before waving his hand in a grand fashion. “He’s waiting in the living room.”

I swallowed hard, following him once again through the maze of the house while wondering who I might be meeting. A rich donor? A potential Sugar Daddy?

They were all grand ideas that proved to be far better than the truth, and I could only gape in surprise when I was led into the living room, only to meet Chan’s eager gaze from across the expanse of white, designer-brand carpet.

“You!” I hissed in an accusing tone, watching the butler leave from the corner of my eye.

“Were you expecting someone else?” Chan asked, eliminating the distance between us with a few calculating steps. “They were right about the dress. You actually clean-up nice, Y/N.”

I scoffed at the backwards compliment. “Are you serious?” I nearly growled. “You kidnapped me for this?!”

Chan looked at me in disbelief, and I wondered if it was the first time that he had ever been rendered silent. “Do I not get a thank you?”

“A thank you?” I repeated. Incredulous.

“I brought you here,” Chan said, but he was clearly hesitating. “I thought you might like the attention? The clothes aren’t to your taste?”

“Shit, you’re dense,” I muttered. “Why the hell would you think that?”

“It’s obvious,” Chan said. “Talking down to me the other day, pretending like you aren’t affected by the F4 card...you just wanted my attention. And guess what, Y/N? I’m willing to give it to you.”

I blinked once, trying to understand his ridiculous train of bullshit. “What?!”

“You can be my girlfriend,” Chan said, shrugging one shoulder. “It’s a pretty big deal, but I’m sure you know that. I’ll even let you hold my hand between classes, and maybe come to your swim meets or whatever.”

“Chan...” I started, but then I broke off with a sigh because nothing I could think of seemed like an appropriate response. “I don’t think there’s even a remote chance that I would want to be your girlfriend.” I shivered, releasing a groan just saying the title. “Whatever you think is happening…it’s totally warped inside that screwed up head of yours.”

“Y/N-”

“Please,” I interrupted him, holding up one hand. “I’ve had enough, okay? I just want to go home.”

“But...” Chan tried to protested, stuttering around his words when I yanked off the expensive heels, chucking them off to the side. “How could you not want this?” he asked. “The outfit itself cost over $1,000 dollars.”

“$1,000 dollars?” I repeated, widening my eyes when I thought about how many hours my parents would need to put in at our local laundromat business to even make close to the amount he just threw away like it was nothing. “Chan, I might not live in the same world as you, but where I come from? You don’t make friends with money...you make them from the heart.”

“Impossible!” Chan protested, even as I turned my back to him. “Money can buy anything!”

“Is that why I’m leaving?” I returned, reaching down to hold my dress in place while feeling a small sense of satisfaction at having left Chan completely speechless.

Of course, in hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have tossed the shoes because the cement was hot against the soles of my feet, and I had attracted more than one curious look as I stormed down the street in search of the main road to take me back home.

“Stupid moron,” I huffed, practically jogging down the road with bare feet and my dress hiked up my legs to prevent me from tripping over the train. It was probably a sight for sore eyes when it came to the rich socialites who populated the neighborhood.

But like the sun’s rays penetrating the clouds on a rainy afternoon, I heard the sound of a motorcycle growing closer from behind me. Until the bike was right next to me, and the driver removed his helmet to expose a familiar bush of brown locks.

“Do you need a ride home?” Changbin asked, and I swallowed hard as I met his steady gaze. It was a simple question, but the fact that he didn’t even question me about why I was here? Nor could I detect any judgement in those impenetrable brown eyes that held all the allure, sending my heart knocking against my breastbone once again.

“Yeah,” I agreed, taking the extra helmet from him. “It’s been a shitty day.”

“I know how that feels,” Changbin said, and I was surprised by his easy conversation, planting myself on the seat behind him.

“Thank you for this,” I said, wrapping my arms around his waist and shivering at the thick smell of his cologne.

“It seems like you might be worth the effort,” Changbin remarked before kicking his bike into gear, and my heart did something strange that might be considered very dangerous when it involved the F4.

But I couldn’t help it, and I had never been more at ease this close to someone else.

Day Ten

Despite my adamant protests, the school insisted that I needed to take a physical education course, which meant that I was forced to pretend to enjoy dodgeball with the rest of my classmates. Hiding out at the back while most of the other girls did all the hard work. But I was only meant for one sport, and dodgeball was as far from swimming as one could get.

It helped that Suzy had gym at the same time, and we talked between games, with Suzy leading most of the conversation.as she offered introductions for most of our other classmates. “Mandy,” Suzy grumbled at one point, indicating to a tall blonde with long legs and a permanent sneer. “She thinks that she somehow has a chance to be with Chan, even though he’s kinda made it obvious that he doesn’t think anyone here is good enough.”

“Really?” I snorted, seeking Chan out from the corner of my eye, playing basketball on the courts with the rest of the F4.

“It’s a running thing here,” Suzy continued. “But most people don’t even try since they don’t want to get on Mandy’s bad side.”

“Whatever,” I replied, averting my gaze when Chan’s eyes met mine. “He’s not even worth it.”

“Most of our classmates would disagree,” Suzy said with a shrug, nudging her shoulder against mine when one of the instructors ordered us to begin the second round.

As usual, I lingered at the the sidelines away from my team, making a half-hearted attempt to play along, especially since I seemed to be a recurring target, using other bodies to protect myself from stray plastic dodgeballs. “What the hell,” I grumbled, wondering if that stupid F4 card was to blame for my classmate’s sudden desire to single me out from everyone else.

I crossed my arms at the thought, finding myself once again looking back over at Chan...Did he think it was funny to make me a target of ridicule? Well, at least Changbin was being surprisingly nice, and just the mere mention of the older boy was enough to do crazy things to my poor heart.

But lost in my daydreams, I failed to notice that Mandy and one of her friends had stalked to the edge of the court, rearing back to throw their dodgeballs at me while I was distracted. “Y/N!” I heard Suzy’s voice scream from across the field, and I looked away from Chan only to find myself frozen in place while a dodgeball flew in my direction.

The sickening CRACK! of the stupid thing hitting my nose was audible, and I immediately tasted blood on my upper lip. “Go clean yourself up, Miss Y/L/N,” one of the instructors said, but I was furious that she was treating the situation so nonchalantly.

It was all Chan’s fault. Even if he hadn't thrown the ball, he empowered his classmates to belittle me at every opportunity, and I was tired of being the school’s metaphorical punching bag. And I hated the tears threatening to fall, refusing to show any signs of weakness as I stormed past Suzy for the girl’s bathroom.

“Fuck,” I cursed as I leaned over the sink, splashing some cold water on my face as I looked at my bloody and mangled reflection in the mirror.

This was the worst incident so far, and I hated that the situation had escalated to something physical, gripping the edge of the sink tightly as I closed my eyes to regain control over my breathing.

“Here,” a voice whispered from behind me, and I turned around with a glare already contorting my expression when I was forced to face Bang Chan once again.

“It’s your fault,” I replied, snatching the paper towel from him as I dabbed at my nose. “What the hell are you doing in the girl’s bathroom?”

“I’m sorry,” Chan said, but I refused to believe it was sincere, turning back around to check the damage of my nose in the mirror. “You didn’t deserve that.”

“You can’t be sorry after the fact,” I snapped. “You had every chance to make things right and leave me the hell alone.”

“Well, I can’t do that now...” Chan trailed off, and it was surprising to see him suddenly look so unsure of himself. “I'm just trying to help...”

“And who asked you to do that?” I returned, looking at him from the corner of my eye. “Even if you were the last person on Earth, I would never ask for your help!”

My exclamation was punctuated by a rather harsh sound after I shoved the paper towels into the trashcan, preparing to leave the bathroom before Chan grabbed my arm to turn me back around. “What do you dislike so much?” Chan whined. “I don’t understand...I’m rich, handsome, smart...”

“All of it!” I interrupted with a harsh tone, and Chan immediately stumbled back against the sink. “You must not realize, but do you think those things matter to me? Because I can’t even consider them when your entire personality is unattractive! Your arrogant attitude, your stupid face, and that ridiculous curly hair!!”

“Are you insane?” Chan asked, and his bewildered expression would be funny under any other circumstances.

“I’m not done yet,” I sharply interjected. “It annoys me that you guys are allowed to do whatever you want at this school, and the whole red card deal? Where you give everyone a free pass to bully other students? Like it’s nothing? That’s the absolute worst thing about you!!”

“Y/N...”

“Do I need to repeat it?” I interrupted once more. “I hate everything about you!”

The harsh exclamation was met by silence as Chan continued to stare at me, and I decided to leave him alone in silence to think about everything I had said, rejoining my classmates with a sense of relief at having stood up to someone who considered himself as better than everyone else.

Day Fourteen

“You should come with me,” Suzy remarked one afternoon, sitting next to the poolside with me as I swam my regular laps.

“I’d rather not,” I said, pausing at the edge of the pool to consider her request - a night under the stars, as the school’s dance team had proclaimed it, and it was one of the biggest school events of the year.

“Why?” Suzy whined. “The F4 revoked your red card, and you can meet some more people...maybe even score some connections.”

“Right,” I scoffed, thinking the idea absurd, but I guess it wouldn’t seem so outrageous to the ones who had been dealing with these politics for their entire lives. “I’m not really that outgoing.”

“It’s okay,” Suzy reassured me, and I could tell that she really wanted me to come with her, which is probably why I felt compelled to agree. But her smile and cheering was worth it, especially considering just how good of a friend Suzy had proven to be during the past two weeks.

And that’s how I found myself walking up to the school’s gymnasium that weekend, wearing an uncomfortable black dress that Suzy had agreed to lend me for the occasion. “You look hot, Y/N,” Suzy said, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her that my reflection reminded me too much of the time when Chan had brought me to his house to play dress-up.

“I can hear the music all the way out here,” I said, following Suzy up the gym steps.

“Yeah, this event isn’t regulated by the teachers, so it’s basically a free-for-all,” Suzy explained, and I desperately wished that I could find the appeal in that statement, especially once we entered the building, washing us in neon colors of purple and pink. “Let’s dance!” Suzy immediately cried, pulling me to the dance floor despite my protests.

Thankfully, I only had to awkwardly navigate the party scene for one song before Suzy became preoccupied with a very cute Senior boy from our homeroom. I was able to sneak away to the punch bowl, ladling some of the red liquid into my cup before bringing it to my lips. “Hmm,” I wondered, eyeing the drink because it tasted so familiar...”Oh well,” I said, shrugging as I proceeded to drain several more cups before sinking down against the wall, never noticing that a pair of eyes had been watching my every movement until a pair of Versace-toed boots stopped in front of me.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Chan remarked, and I was shocked that he had the guts to talk to me after honoring my request to be ignored for the past several days.

“What do you want?” I grumbled, reluctantly taking his outstretched hand to help me stand again because my vision was unusually blurry and my stomach was churning.

“The punch was spiked,” Chan said, chucking at my disheveled state.

“Spiked?” I repeated, finding myself totally incoherent as I leaned most of my weight against him. “When did that happen?”

“The Seniors do it as a prank,” Chan said, and his gaze seemed to soften as he held me close. “Do you want to sit down?”

“That would be nice,” I slurred, allowing him to guide me over to the bleachers where I dropped down with a thud!

“Damn, you’re pretty wasted,” Chan said, looking me over with an uncharacteristic amount of concern.

“I didn’t know...” I trailed off, pointing back at the punch bowl. “It tasted so good.”

“I bet it did,” Chan said, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he cleared his throat. “I saw that you came with your friend, but maybe you might want some company?”

“Sure!” I said, patting the space next to me. “You’ve caught me in a good mood.”

Chan grinned - a genuine smile that I could hardly recognize - as he sat down with a sigh. “This doesn’t really seem like your type of scene.”

“Not really,” I agreed, narrowing my eyes when the room started swaying. “But you’re not my usual type of person.”

“Right,” Chan agreed, chuckling awkwardly as he messed up his hair - straightened instead of curly. “Maybe we could go somewhere else?”

I frowned because, even though I might’ve been a little more than tipsy, I still remembered that I didn’t like Chan, and there was no reason for me to go anywhere with him. “Are you intentionally ignoring everything I said from the other day?”

“No,” Chan murmured. “But I was hoping that I could give you space...and maybe a chance to prove myself?”

“Really?” I snorted. “How much have you changed since the last time we talked?”

“Probably not much,” Chan acknowledged, much to my surprise. “But after everything you said, maybe I’d like to? And I feel like you’re the only person who can be honest enough to help me.”

“Oh,” I replied, slightly disconcerted by Chan’s abrupt change in attitude. “Still, after everything you did...”

“I know I don’t deserve it,” Chan quickly agreed. “But I think you’re one of the rare kinds of people who believes in second chances.”

I exhaled loudly at his words, and in part to keep myself from throwing up after all the alcohol I ingested. “Where would we go?”

“What about a date at the diner downtown?” Chan asked, swallowing hard. “With me?”

“Let’s not call it a date,” I grimaced, and Chan agreed, even though it seemed to be a reluctant remission on his part. “But, yeah, that actually might be nice.”

“Perfect!” Chan said, and he was already on his feet with an energy that was impossible to ignore. “I’ll have Changbin tell your friend. Wait right here, and I’ll come back.”

“Okay,” I muttered, clutching my stomach as I watched Chan run off into the crowd. “Jeez, Y/N,” I groaned. “What are you doing with this guy?”

It might be one of the worst decisions of my life, but something he said struck a nerve deep inside of me. He might be unbearable, but he was right about one thing: people could always change, and I was the type of person who allowed second chances...just as long as someone was willing to earn it and prove themselves.

“Are we taking your car?” I asked, staggering against Chan’s hold as he brought us outside the gym.

“Yeah,” he said. “We can take my car, and you can sober up on the way.”

“Good idea,” I agreed, regretting the decision to drink so much of that stupid punch with every swaying step towards Chan’s expensive sports car.

He had the decency to open the door for me, and I fell inside with a grunt, waiting for him to turn over the ignition before he started fussing over me. “Do you need anything? Something to drink? Are you hot or cold? Should I turn on the music?”

“Don’t ask questions,” I gritted out - a response to everything while I leaned my head against the window.

“Got it,” Chan said, and he dutifully followed through on his promise, never speaking again until we pulled into the parking lot of the diner he had advertised earlier. “Do you feel any better?”

I nodded, an honest response. Because the drive had taken close to twenty minutes, and I had found a water bottle in the floor, downing the contents to settle my stomach and the wave of nausea that only alcohol could bring. “We can go inside,” I said, rolling my eyes when he made a show of coming around to help me out of the car, grabbing my arm despite my protests. “What is this place?” I asked when we walked inside, choosing an empty table near the back.

“My friends come here a lot,” Chan replied. “It’s quiet.”

“Quiet?” I laughed. “There’s no way it’s quiet if the whole school comes here.”

“They don’t,” Chan said, surprising me yet again. “Nobody knows we come here.”

He gave me a meaningful look, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that he was risking a lot by entrusting me with their secret. “Got it,” I said, miming myself closing a zipper across my lips (perhaps that was the drunkenness affecting my judgement).

But Chan still laughed, and then he went to the counter to order, leaving me to contemplate what the actual hell I was doing with the school’s literal celebrity who treated most people like shit, including me for a short while at the very beginning.

At this point, I really couldn’t blame the alcohol. So, what was wrong with me? Why was I doing this?

“Here,” Chan said, dropping a mug of something sweet down in front of me, effectively interrupting my internal conflict.

“Hot chocolate?” I asked, and I was definitely caught off-guard as Chan shrugged and sat down in front of me.

“I thought you might prefer this,” he admitted.

“Oh...” I started, searching for a good response. “Thanks?”

“You’re welcome,” Chan said, and he smiled as he watched me taste the foam resting on top. “Is it good?”

“It’s nice,” I admitted, and Chan had the appearance of someone who had just landed an acceptance to their dream college.

“You’re different from the others,” Chan said, switching the topic. “I like that about you, and it makes me regret everything I’ve done even more.”

“Yeah,” I huffed. “That red card shit needs to stop.”

“I agree,” Chan said, bringing his mug even closer. “My friends have wanted to stop for a while...”

“They’re way smarter than you,” I said, tilting my head to the side as if it might give me a different vantage point of the confusing boy sitting in front of me. “Did you really want to come here with me?”

Chan nodded, eyes gleaming. “You’re interesting,” he decided, mirroring the exact same thing that Changbin had said to me a while back. “I think I like you a lot, which is why what you said to me at my house and in the bathroom really made me reconsider a lot of things.”

“Oh?” I questioned him, amused by his reasoning, and possibly even endeared by his regretful expression. “I might learn to like you...” I trailed off, laughing at his puppy-dog eyes as he looked at me with obvious desperation. “If you learn to behave.”

“Is that so?” Chan remarked, and his smile was perfectly sincere. “Well, I think you’re the best person to teach me.”

And despite our complicated history together - unwinding after such a brief amount of time in one another’s company - I was more than willing to try for the very strange boy who was starting to show me the intricate layers underneath all the wealth and arrogance - a mere façade for something better, the potential for good if a brave enough person was careful enough to find it.

End of Part One

#bang chan fanfic #stayverse #skzwriternet #stayracha #chan fanfic #stray kids chan #stray kids chan fanfic #bang chan imagines #stray kids imagines #bang chan scenarios #stray kids scenarios #bang chan oneshot #stray kids oneshot #boys over flowers au #skz au #skz x y/n #chan x y/n #mostlycompetent #requested

244 notes · View notes

namjooningelsewhere · 3 years

Text

The Prince Charming!!

Pairing : Yoongi x reader

Genre: 18+

Warnings: Absolutely nothing!!!!

Summary- You are forced to attend a prestigious homecoming ball which you wanted to avoid but also which you couldn't, you didn't make in any plans on avoiding until you actually meet someone interesting and suddenly everything just seems perfect. Comfortably perfect!

The big thingies weren't quite your scene, specially when all you had to do was look like a freaking doll and stand in poise and behave and watch what you said. Naah please you were done with it.

And today happened to be exactly that kind of day. It was ball at the most affluent family of the city, The Mins. Seems like the so called prince charming had returned to his kingdom after a sabbatical and to celebrate the return his parents had hosted a ball, actually quite grand one at that.

You never wanted to go home because you knew your mother would be waiting with her battalion of stylists, beauticians to make you look like a diva, which obviously you were not. You had features that were standing out but you thought you needed to shine from within to shine on the outside.

You crept inside your own house like a thief tiptoeing to avoid any noise that would attract the attention of your mother. "Rebeca where you think you are going?" Your mothers voice boomed through the corridor. She was your mother alright.

"Give me one good reason why you haven't tried the dresses I've sent to your room? One good reason why you haven't pushed it for the fittings yet?" Umm maybe i came just now, Maybe i was busy trying to prepare for a interview that can get me something real?" You scoffed.

"Very funny, now go to your room and try the dresses and show it to me?" She said. I walked slowly to my room displaying ample amount of disinterest. "Faster now woman, The balls in the evening not tomorrow" you heard your voice once again. How does she know everything? You still couldn't uncover this mystery, You checked if hallways had cameras but nope nothing nada.

You try a lot of dresses but a red one catches your eyes. You try the red one it fit you beautifully amplifying every curve at your body and with a thigh high slits making it look picture perfect. Which also made you look perfect for the gram;).

You finished with a little bit of makeup and a shimmery nude gloss which made your lips look even prettier. You arrived at the ball with your parents and it looked it was more of a met gala type event.

As you walked to the hall you could see girls in all kinds of designers making it a high society designer store, looks like the so called prince charming had a lot of options to choose from.

You were greeted by a cheerful greeting and you grinned by the ear, you knew who it was. Hobi your bestfriend waving right back to him. You gave him a friendly hug, and he gasped for a second "Look at you gorgeous, looking enchanting!! He chimed.

Oh boy didn't have much of a choice you see! You exclaimed. The event turned out to be extremely boring with occasional dances here and there. All everyone was doing was to try finding the guy in question.

You moved to the hallway to use the powder room all you could hear was the gossips about the prince charming, "Where is he ?" I've heard he's hot!! Imagine how will he be?" You were absolutely disinterested in the prince charming and the only reason you had your ass in the room was your mother. That woman was capable of throwing you out of the window if you didn't do what she said. She was someone you would never mess with.

You scanned the room for Hobi, this guy was nowhere to be seen. And somehow you exactly knew where he would be at this moment. You fumbled for the phone but let him just be, At least he was having fun.

The ball was going in full swing yet there was no sign of the prince charming, wishing that man would appear somewhere and this ball would end, so you looked at the exit so that you could have a breath fresh air, you found a exit to a open space down towards the parking.

You moved ahead and went near the garden, and just spread your hands the air felt cold and specially it felt even cold with the strapless dress you had on. "Bored already?" You jumped at the voice behind you.

You turned behind to see a man, a magnificent man. Dark hair on his forehead dressed sharp a tux and those rings in the fingers was the highlight and his sly smile made me loose my breath for a second. Who was this you thought to yourself.

"A lot actually, but I don't seem to have a choice" You sighed. "And why would that be?" He asked. "You friends with the Mins?" You asked in a cautious tone. No he said. "Just that I find such events exhausting not to forget my mother bought me here all dolled up because she thinks I might find a good match and that's downright stupid. You exclaimed.

You could clearly say he was amused. He chuckled and that made you zone out to a parallel universe. "Oh I forgot I didn't get your name?" I didn't give it out yet you chuckled. Rebecca you replied stretching your hand in forward to a handshake.

"Lovely name" he said. Before you could say anything out heard footsteps approaching and next thing you knew he pulled you by the hand and started running towards what looked like a lake house.

I'm sorry people would have misinterpreted and this is a small group of the people here you know, they talk he explained awkwardness quite evident in his voice. "I can understand all these people do is talk. And I'm the last one to be involved. I have a quite fierce of a mother who will not tolerate any such nonsense of this sort" he laughed at my exasperated comment.

"Did someone tell you are dramatic?" He chuckled. "Yeah but then i told them not to mention it again" you laughed. "What are you doing here? Friend of the prince charming?" You asked curiosity taking over you.

"Prince charming?" He asked amused. " Yeah since he has a gazillion girls here who are here for him, must be a charmer I guess you say. He looks like he wanted to have a laughing fit, but didn't do so. "What if he was a charmer? I mean the guy has money, power, mostly looks and what if hes sexy too? Don't you find it appealing?"

"That's not what's all appealing, I mean i cant just doll up and compete for someone who i don't even know and besides my kind of love is more of a personality not the wallet or the pants or the looks. You argued.

"I'm starving!!" he says with a cute expression. Why don't you find something to eat inside I'm sure they have a plethora of options."I said "Nope food inside feels boring, Lets go out." You had your jaw open to the ground at his offer, How were you even supposed to leave this god damn place without your mother knowing.

You planned a hundred scenarios but nothing concrete came to your mind but some voice in your head asked you to throw caution to the wind and go with the tux guy. "Okay you said but there is one thing you have to do for me," You look at him innocently hoping he would agree. "Anything" He replied.

"Can you get me a pair of sneakers? I am going to have my feet cut off if i stay in these heels for one more min." He burst out laughing at your request, "This is the most unique thing someone has ever asked me to do", He chuckled.

He ushered you to the parking lot and opened a car boot to hand you over a pair of white sneakers and you unknowingly threw your heels in his boot. ?He closed it and pulled you towards his bike, You had your eyes out of your head for a minute. "Care for an adventure?" He smirked.

"Haven't you been noticing I'm wearing a gown all this time? You asked amused at this persons innocence. "Oh come on sneaker girl i know you can manage and for all you know this might be the most adventurous night of your life? Be a sport!"

You still could not believe you were doing this as you wore the helmet but it seemed thrilling and you thanked the designers to have kept the slit big enough to manage. The ride was filled with an adventure you have never tried before and most of it for the part that he was a complete stranger and still you felt the urge to trust him like it was inbuilt.

You decided to eat kimchi fried rice avoiding his amused looks for choosing something simple when you could have gone more for a gown and tux place but for what it was worth it turned out to be one of the best meals you and he had in a while. The time was passing by in mere fractions as you planned your last stop on a hilltop, starlit and quite a scenic view of the city.

The wind was blowing in your face calming all the excitement of the night it had really been an interesting one for sure. "did you dance at the ball?" He asked . "No why? You know its a shame that you are wearing such a beautiful dress meant to be to a ball but you didn't dance. I smiled at his thoughts believing that coming to this ball was a decision that was totally worth it. Even worth of getting myself killed by mother the moment i step inside the house. But it seemed worth it.

"Who said we cant change it?" he said. You were shocked when he played the song that was the most perfect fit for the night and pulled me in for a dance. You swayed in his arms like you belonged there and he danced as if you were some queen he was having a dance with. You moved as if it was just meant to be and in that moment strangely everything seemed perfect.

The ride back was just you and him discussing your and his interest and just normal things, just as normally as a night could have ended except he didn't let you go till you handed him your number. "Thanks for saving me from the ball and i had an amazing time really" you said unsure of his reaction.

"Likewise" He replied but with a peck on your cheek. He left you at the door bidding a goodbye. As you stood there in two minds, relishing your encounter of the stranger whose name you had forgotten to ask and second what was the lioness inside the house going to do with you?"

You Froze on your spot when you received a text message:

Sneaker girl, FYI I'm not a prince charming!!!

Something inside you told you this wasn't the last time you were meeting this prince charming.

#bts #bts fanfic #bts x you #bts x female reader #bts min yoongi #bts min suga #suga x reader #suga fanfic #yoongi x you #yoongi x reader #bts fluff #bts scenarios #yoongi fluff #yoongi scenarios #suga scenarios #suga fluff

39 notes · View notes

wrienne · 3 years

Text

My Cheating Amnesic Fiancé

Chapter 2: Confrontation

Okay, you took that back. His mother was actually a nice lady. It was his father that was the problem.

Still, it didn’t change the fact that Jeon Jungkook, your fiancé, had a girlfriend.

Park Yi-Jae approached the sink next to yours and began washing her hands gingerly. Her pale skin looked even whiter than it did on the advertisements, though you couldn’t judge if it was due to good genes, make-up or the pallid glow from the ceiling lights. Public bathrooms always had horrible lighting.

You had to admit, however, that she was still pretty.

In fact, she was prettier in real life. Advertisements peeled off a sliver of humanity from the people starring in them and even dramas had managed to dull a bit of her glow. Or it was perhaps her “imperfections” that enhanced her beauty. The slight crook of her nose, the slight droopiness of her ears, the slight imbalance between her upper and lower lip - every slightness.

Jungkook’s jacket was a thick denim jacket but with sleeves and a hoodie made of that typical cozy, oversized gray sweatshirt material. You remembered that it had been fitted on Jungkook, but on Park Yi-Jae, it was several sizes too large. She had even folded up the sleeves, revealing thin wrists and fingers. She had a slender, graceful neck - like a swan’s - and around that neck, curving after the shape of her clearly visible collarbone rested the thin golden chain necklace you had bought Jungkook. You were absolutely certain, for you had spent hours upon hours contemplating its unique design, and stared at it for even longer after you had had it forged to make sure it was according to your liking. It had been the first present you had given him after your engagement, and you had wanted it to be special. Something he would remember.

And here it was, in the possession of another girl.

Jealousy raised its ugly head and told you to snap. You managed to ignore it. Honestly, you weren’t exactly in love with Jungkook or anything. You rather despised him. But you were not going to stand him cheating on you. Not when you two would eventually have to get married.

Though, was that even an option any longer? If your parents found out about this, the engagement would definitely be canceled. Was this, in a way, your ticket out of soon-to-be-horrible-marriage town? Was this good for you?

Noticing you staring at her, stuck in your swirling thoughts, Yi-Jae glanced at you and smiled politely. “Finally finished for the day?” she asked in a light, fluttery voice. “You and the rest of the coordi-unnies have all worked very hard and deserve at least a week of rest.”

This caught you off guard for a moment, and you were just about to open your mouth and tell the “truth” - that you were simply there to grab your keys - when an idea popped into your head. “Yeah,” you replied quickly, mustering up your friendliest smile. Surprisingly, it hurt to smile at her. “I’ve been here since early morning with a few others. I’m exhausted.”

Your smile must have looked as painful on your face as it had inside your chest, because she gave you a sympathetic look. “I bet. The boys are lucky to have you. At least you’ll get some rest on your flight overseas.”

“Yeah,” you repeated, not knowing anything about a journey overseas.

You continued to wash your hands, rubbing and scrubbing them in a way that falsely indicated that you had gotten something sticky on them. You waited until Yi-Jae was done washing her own hands before you followed her toward the hand-drying air machines. When she was content, you remained at the machines, praying fervently that the plan would work.

“Want to head back together?” she finally asked, raising her voice over the violent whooshing of the machine.

You nodded and then followed her toward the door when you remembered the security guard that had escorted you around. He would probably not be fine with you following her, since he knew you weren’t a… had she meant a coordinator? What even was that?

“Wait,” you blurted as you halted.

“What is it?” she asked, turning around with her eyebrows raised in surprise.

“There’s this guy,” you began, hoping your lie wouldn’t sound as outrageous out loud as it did in your mind. “He’s in security and he has been harassing me for my number all day. He’s waiting just outside the bathroom right now. I’m kind of scared he’ll follow me on my way home or something. If you could just do something to help me get away from him, I’d be really grateful.”

Yi-Jae’s eyes widened in dismay. “You sure you shouldn’t just report this to the manager?”

You shook your head. “I’ve only just begun working for him, I don’t even have the ID card yet.” Inwardly, you made a fist-pump at the brilliant idea of mentioning your obvious lack of identification. Outwardly, you were trying your best to portray the young, timid intern. “I don’t want to get in trouble already.”

“It’s not being trouble, you should know,” she said softly. “But I understand the need to prove oneself, and girls need to stick together.” She gave you a wide smile. “What will you have me do?”

She was really sweet. You almost felt bad for her. Almost.

“If you could perhaps tell him that you would like to talk to me backstage or something,” you answered, “I can take that chance to slip out of here through one of the back entrances. Make it sound like you’re really angry at me or something, like I’ve misbehaved or insulted you. He’ll probably stay away from Park Yi-Jae. You’re kind of famous, you know.”

She giggled. “Sounds like I’m some kind of mafia boss.” She quickly gathered herself into a sober expression. “But if he tries to bother you again in the future, you need to seek out the manager. Promise me?”

Okay, you were kind of getting a bad conscience. In another universe or timeline, you two might have made good friends. Fortunately, with a single glance at the necklace on her skin and his jacket on her torso, your determination was renewed.

“I will,” you said, managing what you hoped looked like an anxious or at least shy smile. It wasn’t really difficult to muster, since what you were doing practically was trespassing, and that, under the cover of false employment. This was probably illegal. You could already imagine the media slaughtering your family’s name and the brand that had made your late grandfather so very affluent, should you be caught.

“Come on,” Yi-Jae said as she pushed the bathroom door open.

With a nod, you followed her out. The security guard, who thus far had deadpanned you, wore a confused expression when Park Yi-Jae hooked her arm around yours and began dragging you in the same direction you had come.

“I need to speak with her,” she told him coolly. “If you would be so nice as to return to your post.”

He opened his mouth to say something but Yi-Jae interjected. “No protests. She’s mine for the moment.”

“If you’re sure,” he said hesitantly, not really relenting.

“I am.” She strode away from him. When you two were far enough away that it was safe to speak, she muttered: “Creep.”

“Thank you,” you blurted, feeling genuine relief washing over you.

"But of course,” she said cheerily, letting go of your arm. She continued down the hallways, surprisingly quickly considering her short stature, and you had to strain in order to keep up with her. “Do you have a ride? It’s kind of late for a girl to walk home all alone.”

“Actually, I don’t,” you lied with artificial sheepishness. “Would you mind…?”

“Not at all!” She smiled. “I need to take good care of the coordi-unnies, since they take care of my honey and his group members. Ultimately, I take care of him.”

“Oh?” you managed.

“You’re new, I forgot,” she said, before lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Everyone’s been really good at keeping it hidden and private, which I thank them for. But inevitably, the media is probably going to get a hold of it sooner or later, and our managers have agreed that those working close to them might just as well know.”

“Know what?” you asked stiffly.

“I… am in a relationship with one of the members,” she said, and blushed.

You felt your heart grow cold. You had known it almost as soon as you had spotted her, yet it felt worse hearing it somehow. You managed a singular nod. “And who would that be?” you asked, trying to sound curious but not like you were trying to pry.

“Well...”

By then, you two had rounded a corner leading into a thin hallway with a pair of double metal doors - not unlike the ones at the women’s bathroom - at the end and on the western wall halfway across it. It said backstage above the doors at the end of the hall, but the fact that you had somehow reached your original destination wasn’t what caught your attention.

It was the train of people that was exiting those doors - in particular, the seven people you just recently had watched perform on stage that were walking in the front.

They had changed into more casual clothes, and wore jackets or coats with various caps and masks covering their mouth and nose. But even in an opaque, full-coverage bodysuit, you would discern Jeon Jungkook as long as he was able to speak. Frankly, even if he couldn’t, you would probably have a better chance than most of spotting him. You had known him for so long, you even recognized him in the way he walked and moved. He would need more than a white mouth mask and a black Puma cap to hide from you and your furious gaze.

Perhaps he felt it, too. For as soon as your gaze landed on him, he glanced toward you and Yi-Jae. His brown, familiar eyes widened in shock and you could see movement underneath his mask indicating that he had, in fact, opened his mouth in surprise. He had even stopped so abruptly the guy behind him had bumped into him, causing him to stumble slightly. Had the day been a different one, you might have felt joy at this display of bewilderment from one of the most infuriatingly perfect people in the world.

But you were pissed, and had every right to be.

“Jungkook!” Yi-Jae called in an overly sweet sing-song. “Why, were you boys all trying to leave without saying goodbye? I was just at the bathrooms with...” She looked at you. “Er, what was your name again?”

You had forgotten her presence and reflexively shifted your focus to her. You noticed a glimmer of something in her eyes, but it disappeared before you could ascertain its nature. Instead, you did your very best to stay exactly where you stood and continue your charade of being a shy intern. Perhaps Jungkook would do the same and pretend like he didn’t know you. He was clever, he caught up on things very quickly. He would play it smooth and remain calm, and you would, too.

To your amazement, however, and admittedly in a morbid mixture of satisfaction and fear, Jeon Jungkook reacted in a completely different manner.

Drilling his eyes into yours, he tore off his mouth mask and cursed loudly. Before anyone in the hallway, including you, could speak or react, he snarled his next few words in the same cold voice you had heard countless times before.

“What the hell are you doing here, (Y/N)?”

#wrienne #ao3 #bts fanfiction #MCAF

12 notes · View notes

k7l4d4 · 3 years

Text

Plane Shift: The Boiling Isles, Brief Character Portfolio

Hello all, today I am going to go into some measure of detail for the characters in this crossover between the Owl House and Dungeons and Dragons 5e. Everybody clap your hands!!

Now, to give a little heads up, the way this portfolio is set up is based on the following Format:

Character Name

Defining Quote/Motto

Alignment Inclinations

Favored Classes/Known Classes

Brief Profile

Okay, now that the format is listed, time to get into the nitty gritty!

Luz Noceda

“Limits? What are those!”

Chaotic Good/Neutral Good

Primary Class: Wizard, Subclass: Order of Scribes. Secondary Class: Artificer, Subclass: Battle Smith. Tertiary Classes: Paladin, Rogue, and Bard.

The young daughter of the famed Plane Warden and Cleric, Camila Noceda, Luz has always had her head in the clouds, longing for adventure and friendship. Upon entering the Adventurer’s Academy, she proceeded to rock the very foundation of Plana and adventuring by choosing not one, not two, but FIVE classes to train in! She would’ve tried them all, but was talked out of it when they professors made it clear it would be physically impossible for her to take them all, and that the number she had selected would push her to greatest of limits. Luz lives life without limits or regret, and while her extremely impulsive nature has resulted in a rather poor social life, she is greatly beloved among the street dwellers and lower ranks of local organizations and groups of her home.

Amity Blight

“Perfection is impossible. That’s why we seek it.”

Lawful Good/Neutral Good

Primary Class: Warlock, Subclass: Undetermined. Secondary Class: Artificer.

The youngest child of the affluent Blight Family, recently displaced from her home dimension, Amity holds herself to a strict standard of decorum. Her methodical nature, dedication to study, and respect for authority has made her a divisive figure within the Adventurer’s Academy, as while her new instructors find her dedication admirable, they also worry it will disallow her from living a healthy and happy life. Amity regularly runs afoul of Luz, but the human girl’s friendly nature, genuine endearment, and appreciation for magic and learning has served as a bonding bridge between the two. Hints of something deeper within her heart grow clearer all the while.

Willow Park

“Nature is a blessing to us all. We have a duty to care for it, and each other.”

Neutral Good/Chaotic Good

Primary Class: Druid, Subclass: Undetermined. Secondary Class: Barbarian.

The only child of the Park family, Willow is a quiet, gentle child all around, but within her lurks a frightening power over nature itself that constantly threatens to break free if not for her ironclad self-control, and kind nature. Once friends with Amity Blight, circumstances forced a rift between them, and she holds that pain as a torch within her heart, always wary of letting it burn her down to nothing but unwilling to let go. Willow’s incredible connection with Plants has made her a rare talent among the Druid classes, and she is constantly called to demonstrate her power before her new peers, much to her delight.

Augustus “Gus” Porter

“So much to learn! So much to experience!”

Neutral Good/Chaotic Good

Primary Class: Wizard, Subclass: Undetermined. Secondary Class: Bard.

A young prodigy who skipped several grades in his home dimension, Gus is still an outstanding figure when it comes to both technical skill and application of magic. Excitable, kind if somewhat insensitive on occasion, and with a fierce need to prove himself, Gus often finds himself in difficult situations, both socially and dangerously, but he never allows it to affect his optimism. He’s rapidly built a bond with Luz over their shared passion and energy, not to mention his excitement over befriending “an actual real-life human!”

Boscha Triplet

“I saved the day! Why? Because I’m a Star of Course!”

Lawful Neutral

Primary Class: Monk, Subclass: Undetermined. Secondary Class: Artificer.

An athletic star with an incredible ego, Boscha is by all accounts an unpleasant individual, yet since coming to Plana, she’s gradually shown signs of a more vulnerable personality, one she vehemently denies and buries within herself, much to the chagrin of others. While she initially chose Monk as a joke, thinking it of a blow-off course or something similar, the relentless physical training, and the brutally humiliating smackdown dealt on her first day have served to motivate her to continue and succeed in the Class she chose, if only out of pure spite. The philosophical aspects of Monk training seem to go over her head, yet her friends and foes alike have noted her occasionally seem to verge on saying something mean or crude, only to stop herself and stare off in contemplation.

Skara Levine

“Just go with the rhythm. Everything will work out, right?”

Lawful Neutral

Primary Class: Bard, Subclass: Undetermined. Secondary Class: Sorcerer.

A young girl who lived at the top, Skara had many halmarks of being a potential problem child, often being easily lead and influenced by those deemed her friends, Skara is typically very sweet and outgoing, but for all her social butterfly moments, they are undercut by her poor interpersonal skills, frequently stumbling onto sensitive topics without any inclination she understood why she shouldn’t bring them up. She is a paradox, being both kind and cruel, nice and mean, in equal measures, the parallel nature of her behavior often befuddles those around her. She’s recently begun stating that she hears things suddenly when no one is around.

Emira Blight

“Don’t worry, I can handle this on my own.”

Chaotic Good/Chaotic Neutral

Primary Class: Rogue, Subclass: Undetermined. Secondary Class: Fighter.

The oldest daughter of the Blight family, Emira is a mischievous girl with a fondness for mayhem. Nonetheless, she cares for her family and friends, even if her methods occasionally leave much to be desired. Of the Blight Children, Emira is the most independent, often resentful of any perceived restrictions, but calm enough to find workarounds rather than lash out. She frequently professes that looks forward to the day she can live her own life, and enjoys teasing her sister along with her brother.

Edric Blight

“We got this, we just got to stick together.”

Chaotic Good/Chaotic Neutral

Primary Class: Rogue, Subclass: Undetermined. Secondary Class: Bard.

The lone son of the Blight family, Edric is Emira’s twin, and is in many ways both her equal and her mirror. While sharing her sense of mischief and love of tricks, Edric is far more flighty and whimsical, often hyper-fixating on animals and whatever shiny thing catches his eye, often projecting a childish air about him. He is the most insecure of the Blight siblings, though he hides it well, and dreads the idea of being alone, particularly from his twin.

Viney Arkswood

“Animals are our friends. They have just as much capacity for good as we do.”

Chaotic Good

Primary Class: Ranger, Subclass: Undetermined. Secondary Class: Druid.

One of three students sentenced to the Detention Track for their mixing of magical disciplines, Viney has a caring heart and a love of people and animals that manifested in a rather strange way, in that she attempted, and technically succeeded, in training her pet griffin to be a nursing assistant. Viney is genuinely unsure if she wishes to return, with the lone benefit in her mind being to see her parents again.

Jerbo Underslack

“I might be nervous, but that doesn’t make me incompetent.”

Chaotic Good/Chaotic Neutral

Primary Class: Cleric, Subclass: Nature Domain. Secondary Class: Druid.

One of the three Detention Track students, Jerbo’s love of plants and his fondness for the idea of loyal aides combined in his creation of plant monsters that trashed the gardens of his school. Jerbo is the most suspicious and leery of his friends, often being slow to trust and even slower to act, he nonetheless is a kind soul, and used his admittance into the Adventurer’s Academy to try and kind some new meaning in his life.

Barcus Howsberry

“Your soul glimmers with the joy of a newfound toy in the arms of a lonely child.”

Chaotic Good

Primary Class: Wizard, Subclass: Undetermined. Secondary Class: Artificer.

Last and oddest of the three Detention Track students, Barcus’ unusual body and strange speech make him truly bizarre, and his cryptic demeanor doesn’t help. Barcus enjoys both the art of Potions and Prediction, and frequently seeks to join the two. Upon arrival, and confirmation that yes he is a sapient being, Barcus was checked by Camila, and was determined to have a hereditary curse bound to his being, and when offered to have it removed, his comfort with his form initially made him refuse, only to be told that the speech impediment and oddness of his form would destroy any chance of him being able to integrate into society, causing him to compromise and have the curse suppressed instead.

Camila Noceda

“To bring goodness and love in this world means I can rest easy, knowing I left it in the hands of those I love.”

Lawful Good

Primary Class: Cleric, Subclass: Life Domain. Secondary Class: None.

Mother of Luz Noceda, Camila is the current Plane Warden of Plana, being entrusted with guarding the city from extraplanar threats and to help guide and aid those lost between realms. Camila is a loving soul, but the strain of her job has worn on her over the years, with the sole reprieve being her precious daughter. Camila often adopts a motherly role for the displaced children now in her care, offering both advice when needed, and discipline as necessary. Camila also frequently aids and offers advice to the adults now sharing her living space, hoping to help them adjust to their situation.

Edalyn Clawthorne

“I’m the most powerful witch in the Isles, but it never meant a thing until I found someone to use that power for.”

Chaotic Good

Primary Class: Sorcerer, Subclass: Undetermined. Secondary Class: Wizard.

Fiercest Wild Witch to grace the Boiling Isles since Belos’ ascension, Eda marches to the beat of her own drum, no exceptions, but she still holds a beautiful heart for those she cares for, and people in general, no matter how much she denies it. Eda was genuinely shocked to learn that Camila could, and did, heal her curse, effectively if not easily, and feels a deep sense of obligation towards the woman a a result, not to mention her all around soft spot for Camila’s daughter. Eda genuinely has no desire to return to the Isles at this point, beyond maybe a chance to reconcile with her mother and retrieve Hooty and all her stuff.

Lilith Clawthorne

“I am far from perfect, and have made many mistakes. This is the least I can do.”

Lawful Good/Lawful Neutral

Primary Class: Paladin, Subclass: Undetermined. Secondary Class: Wizard.

Lilith Clawthorne, elder sister to Eda, means well, but is both painfully naive and far too trusting for one her age, as well as disturbingly childish and immature. For all that though, Lilith holds a good heart and thrives in a structured and ordered environment and system. When she received the knowledge that Eda’s curse had been cured, Lilith was nearly left catatonic, as the curing of Eda rendered all her efforts meaningless and her life without true purpose. When Eda bluntly stated that even with her curse cured she will NEVER join a coven, Lilith forced herself to accept it, no matter how much it hurt. Since that day, Lilith has attempted to find a new direction in life, and to help others as best she can.

Odalia Blight

“Like it or not, one’s word is their bond.”

Lawful Neutral/Lawful Evil

Primary Class: Wizard, Subclass: Undetermined. Secondary Class: Bard.

Matriarch of the Blight family, and a near-Karen level individual, Odalia is both incredibly goal-oriented and driven by a desire to succeed. Domineering and controlling, Odalia exerts a highly unhealthy and toxic level of influence over her childrens’ lives, though she does truly love them. Odalia enjoys having the upper hand, and will do anything to allow her children and family to not only survive but thrive, and is very much fond of disproportionate retribution against her enemies.

Alador Blight

“This could prove interesting.”

Lawful Neutral/Lawful Evil

Primary Class: Artificer, Subclass: Undetermined. Secondary Class: Rogue.

Patriarch of the Blight family, and all around bizarre individual, Alador cares for little in his life aside from his inventions, his wife, and his children, in that order. Often dazed and easily distracted, Alador is highly curious and constantly seeks new inspiration for his devices and creations, no matter how dangerous the circumstances. He cares little for his wife’s antics and schemes, but in no way does he find them unacceptable, he often acts as a stabilizing influence upon her, and is perfectly fine with calling her out on her behavior when she genuinely goes too far.

Hieronymus Bump

“Dedication and Focus are important, but true passion and joy for what you do makes all the difference.”

Neutral Good/Lawful Good

Primary Class: Wizard, Subclass: Undetermined. Secondary Class: None.

Principal to the famed, some would say infamous, Hexside School of Magic and Demonics, Principal Bump loves to teach and help others learn, and is perfectly willing to play the system to ensure he can do so. While he genuinely loves all his students and wishes them to succeed, he is willing to admit he is old-fashioned to a certain extent and can have trouble keeping his views on a topic unbiased, and can occasionally act in unethical ways if it means finding a solution to a problem, though he does not enjoy such measures. He aids Camila in searching for a way to return home for him and his fellows, and often acts as a reasonable authority figure for the students who came with them.

17 notes · View notes

peachyproserpina · 3 years

Text

Wickedly Domestic - Roommates and Puppies

Now that I am back on tumblr I figured I might as well upload my John Wick x Fat!OC fic here as well. Maybe I'll find the motivation to write it as well.

TW: Alternate Universe Canon Diverence, Mutual Pining, Slowburn, Sex

If I miss anything please let me know!

There is a consistent thunk, thunk, thunk of her roommates bed hitting the wall. Despite a whole floor separating them she could still hear the sounds of her roommate getting fucked into next week, literally. Usually Maria wouldn’t care that her roommates late at night shenanigans would run into the next morning but, there was more at stake on the agenda today than usual. Maria pressed her pillow over her ears and looked at her phone; it was almost 4 am Monday morning.

There was a meeting in downtown New York that she had to attend, which the commute was a little more intense then she usually had to deal with. Living and working in a suburb outside of New York City allowed for a stress and traffic free drive to work, usually 15 minutes or less, but driving into the city always was a hassle, that drive tends to be close to an hour. Maria rubbed at her eyes and unlocked her phone, she still had 3 hours before she had to be downtown. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, this meeting was with the CEO. Those kinds of meetings either ended up in promotion or termination, she buried her face into her pillow. She could still hear the thunk and a few giggles from her roommate and company. Considering she was already up and too anxious to go back to bed she might as well get her workout in now instead of later.

Heaving herself up and out of bed with a groan she let out a yawn before looking around for her workout clothes. Pulling on her leggings and finding a clean shirt she fished around her room for her headphones. Despite living in New York state for a little over 3 months now she still hasn’t completely unpacked. Moving boxes were still stacked around the room and there was a stack of art needing to be hung up.

She wasn’t planning on moving when she did, the roommate who was busy getting fucked, offered her a place to stay. All she had to do was pay utilities and cook for the house once a week. The home had been a surprise to her roommate Cooper. An estranged great Aunt had willed it over to her, Cooper was already living in New York, and the full ride she received was barely enough to cover the dorm she had to split with 2 other people. When she was contacted by lawyers telling her she is now a proud homeowner and didn’t have to worry about student loans for the rest of her life.

One of the first things she did was reach out to Maria. Cooper was well aware of the tension at home, brewing in Maria’s family since they met in high-school. Unfortunately she had first hand seen more tear stained faces and frustration that Maria was put through. They spoke often and were close, promising to push each other to do amazing things. Sometimes amazing things means moving across the country but their love and friendship didn’t diminish over the distance. So offering the room

All Maria had to do was fund the move and drive 30 hours across the country. Dying to get out of the town she has spent her whole life, as well as always loving the east coast, she packed up, put in her two weeks at her current job and submitted an application to anywhere within a 10 mile radius of her new address. She thanked the stars when a local bank picked up her application and allowed for Skype and phone interviews, giving her the job before she even moved out there. She was introduced to her coworkers through a group chat and she fell into her role easily before she even met them in person.

The hardest part had been leaving old friends, leaving her family on the other hand had been a blessing. Her father and his side of the family had always been hard to please and any relationship with them over the last couple of years had been more of a formality than anything else. Her mother was a different story, tears were shed and a few fights were had due to this hasty decision on moving across the country. Maria’s mother had always wanted more for her daughter than what she currently had but packing up and leaving across the country in less than a month gave her mother bad feelings. Her mother backed off and gave Maria her blessing once she got her job, knowing how stubborn her daughter is once she puts her mind to something.

Her siblings had felt the same way, constant calls and texts were exchanged during the long drive while everyone was proud and knew she would be better for the move. It still hurt, promising to visit during holidays and letting them stay over if they ever visited. But it was like ripping off a bandaid. It had to be done or else it festers and could lead to infection, staying stagnant had been driving her crazy.

Once changed and headphones found under some papers she had been reviewing at her desk, she slid them over her ears and made her way upstairs, closing the door and making sure it was locked behind her. Her cat had the habit of running outside and getting lost or turning up at the local shelter and the last thing she needed was to also be worrying about her cat while she was working in the city.

She jogged down to the gate and opened it before she got into her car and made her way to the nature preserve just a few minutes away from her home. She could have ran there but she wasn’t quite ready to commit to the workout while the air was so chilly. By the time she has parked and started her stretches the world had started to wake up around her, birds chirping and the distant sounds of honking while she tried to figure out what playlist she wanted to run to. Deciding on something beat heavy she started down the trail that would lead over the swamp, it had been a while since she had run outside, usually opting to do her cardio in a class setting or on a treadmill while she binges whatever series she is watching on Netflix at the moment.

She was only half a mile in the trail before she had to stop for a moment. Her “ultra support” sports bra did not help as much as she hoped, having big tits was a blessing and a curse. They made working out hell on earth but it got her more free drinks at the bar then she would like to admit. But it also kept her from being able to run as much as she would like to before she has to stop and readjust.

She pulled out her phone and checked the time, quarter past 5 am, she still had time. She could do a mile before she went home and showered and get ready for a grueling day. She paused her music, taking deep breaths before she started up again, she thought she heard rustling behind her. Which despite being close to the city the swamp held more wildlife than she thought it would. She sat and listened, chancing a glance behind her. The sun was nearly up but running by herself in public always put her on edge. There was always the chance of someone grabbing her and doing whatever they would like to her, she shuddered and unlocked her phone, sending her location and a text as to when she would be back to the roommate group chat. Just in case she were to get snatched up at least her roommates would know where she was last.

She started up again, turning her music up all the way to drown out her heavy breathing and the sound of her feet hitting the trail. It wasn’t until she was almost across one of the many bridges in the nature preserve stretching her calf muscles when she felt something warm and slimy against the skin of her leg. She screamed and pulled her head phones off, looking down to see if she had unknowingly picked up a slug or if some creep had managed to sneak up on her. Letting out a sigh when she saw it was a small Beagle, whining and licking at her leg. She crouched down pet the dog who was whining at her feet.

“Hey baby, where are your parents?” She picked up the dog and looked it over, she saw a name tag, “Daisy- that’s a cute name. Matches my tattoo,” she flipped over the name tag and saw an address, thankful she wouldn't have to drop the dog off at home and try to find her owners later. Daisy fell asleep in her arms while she walked the pup back to her car, the thought on finishing her run gone from her mind. Once the dog was rested safely in her front seat and plugged the address into her phone. It was a quick drive back to the owners house thankfully, it was getting dangerously close to 6 am but she couldn’t not take the sleepy baby home.

She knew if her cat went missing longer than usual or her roommates dog she would be worried sick. No parent should be worried about their baby, that was the biggest motivator for her as she snaked through the neighborhood following her GPS until she pulled up to one of the biggest houses she had ever seen. She knew she lived in affluent part of the state but pulling up the gravel driveway of what was basically a mansion she started to sweat. The bouncing of her car woke the puppy up, who was happily wagging her tail, grateful to be home after wandering away in the early morning. Maria smiled, happy that the pup was glad to be home.

“Lets go baby, let's get you back home.” Daisy ran up the door and pawed at it. Maria knocked and waited a moment, when she didn’t hear any movement in the house she rang the doorbell. Daisy was sitting by her feet waiting patiently for the door to open, it felt like hours while she stood in the massive door hoping someone was home to take the pup in. In reality It had probably been only 5 or so minutes, she chanced a glance around the driveway and didn’t see a car. Figuring that whoever would have been home was gone she turned and started walking back to her car, calling for Daisy, she could take her home and try again after work. Knowing her roommates would be sympathetic to the lost puppy and take care of her until she could try again. It was then she heard the large door open. She turned and nearly lost her balance when she caught a glance at the man who opened the door.

#peachy writes #wickedly domestic #john wick x oc #john wick fic #slow burn #I hope yall like this #it's been my baby for years #im getting to the smut promise

19 notes · View notes

missturtleduck · 3 years

Text

The Girls of Ba Sing Se - (Sokka x f!Reader) Pt.2

Part One│Part Three

“Not yet a man, he had bright eyes, pleasing to look at. His grin was contagious, though what he was smiling at was beyond her.”

Dinners at the Beifong household were uncomfortable. Both girls had confided this in each other as they pinned their hair back earlier in Toph’s room, the price of beauty and status being the pain of a scraped back hairstyle. The imminent coddling of Toph was made all the more awkward since Y/N had witnessed her decimate fully grown men with little hesitation.

“Was that the first time you’d been defeated?” Y/N asked, voice muffled by the hair grips she held between her teeth.

Toph scoffed. “How could you tell?”

“I’ve never seen you so mad.” Y/N said, wincing as she felt the strain of her bun, “But you know that was the Avatar, don’t you? He cheated you to win.” The girl huffed, tugging at her long white sleeves. Purity – that was what the Beifongs wanted to see when they looked at their daughter. Purity and innocence, because what else could their blind daughter have if she could not have her sight?

“Are you sure it was the Avatar?”

Toph’s question brought Y/N out of her thoughts and from her careful painting of her lips. Her heart pounded with what could only be anger. "Quite sure.” She furrowed her brows as Toph snorted. “Well, I met Twinkle Toes earlier today.”

Eyes widening, Y/N turned to her friend, who seemed completely unbothered. So far, they had managed to avoid the war in its entirety, Gaoling untouched by any direct attacks. Ba Sing Se, where her mother had sent her from, was equally as safe. But the Avatar coming into town? No matter how good his intentions, the war followed him, the destructive force of a tornado circling the eye of the storm. Whatever business he had with Toph, it better have been important.

Kuai at their heels, the girls headed towards the dining room where only Master Yu stood patiently behind his chair. The man smiled tightly in greeting at the two – not that Toph would know that, Y/N thought – scowling at the sight of the dog they had brought in with them. Not too long passed until Lao, patriarch of the family, entered with his wife Poppy in tow.

The meal began as soon as Lao took his seat at the head of the table. Y/N, gracious as ever, sat arrow straight, each movement strained with the effort of maintaining face. She could see it in Poppy, too; the woman played the role of dutiful wife with such perfection and ease on the surface, but Y/N could see it for what it was. On the surface, she was graceful, but below the surface was the efforts of a woman staying to a strip, constraining her actions into meekness. It reminded her of a Turtle Duck, all image on the surface, but below the water it worked constantly to stay afloat and moving.

That’s what Y/N taught. She taught girls to stay afloat.

“Y/N,” Lao addressed her with an amiable smile. “How is my daughter coming along in etiquette?”

She fluttered her eyelashes in a flattering manner, placing her teacup down with grace. “Mistress Beifong will be ready for high society in no time at all, Sir. Her blindness has been no handicap to her gracious manner and pleasant conversation.”

Lao, obviously not noticing the snort Toph masked under a polite cough, seemed pleased. “Excellent. Where would she be without you? I much prefer your lessons for my daughter than the dangerous earthbending Master Yu subjects her too.”

“Indeed,” Y/N agreed, taking her turn to mask an amused smile.

“My lessons are absolutely safe,” Yu objected. “I am keeping her at a beginner’s level. Basic forms and breathing exercises only.”

‘Ah, yes; Toph, a beginner level earthbender, could only perform basic forms. How quaint,’ Y/N thought as she took a sip of tea.

It was then a servant hurtled into the room, shocking everyone from their drinks and Kuai from napping on Y/N’s feet under the table. The Avatar, he had announced, had come to visit the Beifong family. Why ever wouldn’t he? They were, after all, the most affluent family left in this time of turmoil. Y/N was sure that these thoughts were going through Lao’s head, but Y/N knew better. He needed something, and she’d bet her finest ceramics that it had to do with Toph’s skills.

As they rearranged the table placements, Y/N got a good look at the team going against Lord Ozai. The Avatar looked young, taking her aback. Wasn’t he supposed to be at least a century old? His tattoos deemed him a master, and yet they weren’t overly inconspicuous. How he hadn’t been apprehended made her wonder.

The girl was naturally from the Water Tribe, likely Southern. Despite not being the oldest, she looked like the responsible one, a kind of maternal air surrounding her. If she were ever a student of Y/N, she had no doubt the girl would be masterful in the art of restraint and wit, although there was a subtle rage simmering behind her blue eyes.

And last the boy. Not yet a man, he had bright eyes, pleasing to look at. His grin was contagious, though what he was smiling at was beyond her. It only took a moment for her to piece two and two together, viewing the similarities between the him and the Water Tribe girl; they were siblings. He had growing to do, Y/N thought, though when he grew into his shoulders, he would likely be stunning. From under his robes, she saw two fluffy ears pop out, causing her to stifle a giggle into her hand, feigning a sneeze. Kuai growled as he picked up on the fourth guest.

“Avatar Aang, it is an honour to have you visit us,” Poppy said, her face almost eerie in its pleasant stillness.

“Y/N tells me that the war is likely to be over soon,” Lao announced, diverting attention to the girl for just a moment. “What is your opinion on this, Aang?”

“I’d like to defeat the Fire Lord by the end of summer,” He said, taking some of the soup without roasted duck. “Although I can’t do that without an earthbending teacher.”

And the other shoe dropped. Y/N was correct in her suspicions that Avatar Aang desired to utilise or learn from Toph’s skills. How he found her was beyond the girl however; Toph was the Beifongs best kept secret. The pointed look he gave her only confirmed that, her friend looking thoroughly annoyed with the complete lack of tact he was displaying.

“Well, we have only the best tutors for our daughter,” Lao bragged, gesturing to Master Yu and to Y/N. “If you want to learn earthbending, Master Yu is the finest teacher in the land. He taught Toph from being little!”

“Wow, she must be amazing then. Maybe even good enough to teach someone else!”

The tremor Toph sent to his seat wasn’t noticed by her parents, but Kuai stirred once more from napping on Y/N’s feet, yelping lowly and crawling out from under the table. Despite all logic, Y/N swore she saw the dog glare.

“Toph is still learning the basics.”

Lao nodded at Master Yu, citing her blindness as the reason for her limitations. “I don’t think she’ll ever become a true master.”

“I’m sure she’s better than you think!”

The next few actions led to a catastrophe that Y/N preempted before it began; sending another fissure to disturb the Avatar, Toph hid a grin as she heard his face fall into his soup. He looked up, perturbed, his nose twitching. Y/N was already out of her seat as Aang began to ‘sneeze’, stood over Toph just in time for him to bend the soup outwards at a rapid speed, covering everyone bar Toph in it. Taking a napkin off of the table, Y/N dabbed soup off of her face, smiling so hard it hurt. If she didn’t smile, she was afraid she’d hurt the Avatar instead.

“Well, shall we move into the living room for dessert, then?” Poppy suggested, a thinly stretched smile across her face.

Y/N sighed, her demeanor failing slightly. “May I be excused to change?”

The woman nodded, naturally understanding of the situation. She bowed low in respect before taking her leave, walking out into the hall as if nothing had happened. As soon as she was alone – or as alone as one could be with a dog sat licking soup of off the bottom of your robes – Y/N shuddered in disgust, removing the pin from her hair and letting it fall down her back.

“Hey, erm, Miss Y/N.”

Eyes wide, Y/N turned, trying to smooth her hair into something presentable in front of a guest. “Just Y/N will do.”

It was the boy from earlier, not the Avatar. Perched on his shoulder was a winged lemur, staring at her with big eyes. Kuai growled as it leaned towards them, swiping a finger across her robe to get some of the soup, strange little creature. Seeing him up close, he was more handsome than anticipated. Clearing her throat, Y/N stood as tall as she could, despite the soup, the dog, the lemur, and the cute boy.

“I- uh, I got some more napkins for you.”

As promised, he pulled numerous napkins out of his pockets, some from the table and another that looked to be his.

Giving him a small smile, Y/N took the napkins and headed away as quickly as was polite, ready to clean herself of the meal and of the embarrassment that came with it.

#atla #sokka x reader #sokka #toph #aang #katara #fanfic #the girls of ba sing se #missturtleduck

81 notes · View notes

hottestthingalive · 4 years

Note

If the fake fic titles are still open: id like to suggest “its too quiet” as a fic title (if they arent open feel free to delete this)

ooooohhhhh this is gonna be fun

-It’s quiet when Logan wakes up.

-Far too quiet, he thinks, because he lives in a castle, and there’s always some noise by the time he wakes up, even if it’s just the birds or the wind or the creaking of an old building in the winter.

-He cannot hear any of these things.

-Logan is the advisor to royalty. He did not get this job by having bad instincts, and so he sits up and gets dressed immediately.

-The castle is empty, he thinks at first, because it’s almost past noon (and why oh why did he sleep in so late?) and no one is there. The throne room, the kitchens, the gardens, the library, even the town outside -- not a single person seems to be there but himself.

-And then he checks the rooms, and he understands.

-They’re asleep. Everyone in the castle (and he can guess the town outside, too, and possibly the whole land) is fast asleep, and no matter what he does, he cannot wake them. He does his best, desperately tries to wake King Thomas, but he fails.

-He fails, and it is so, so quiet.

-And then there is noise.

-“Get away from our father, witch!” yells a familiar voice, though one he has never heard quite so desperate, and the twin princes crash into him, dragging him to the floor, knocking his head against the tiles as they stand over him with swords they must have pilfered from the guards and helmets and shields that are too large for them.

-“Roman? Remus?” he says, because he cannot believe they are awake, and the five-year old crown princes’ eyes widen in recognition.

-“Lolo?” Remus says first, and tears up, and he drops his sword to fall into Logan’s arms, already sobbing. “What’s happening? Why is everyone asleep?” Roman joins the hug quickly, and Logan sits up holding them both, and does not care that his tunic is soaked with their tears because he is so glad to see them.

-“I don’t know,” he admits.

-They leave the castle, eventually. Though the food does not rot and everything still works, they are all getting sad and scared and angry staying in this empty palace, and besides, Logan says they must look for a cure for whatever this is. Once they have waited two weeks, and know the sleepers do not need food or water or cleaning (once they have waited two weeks, and have been alone with just each other for so long, the quiet creeping into their bones and hearts and souls) they leave the castle.

-Everywhere has been affected, Logan starts to think. Nothing rots, nothing decays, but every living thing they see in their travels is fast asleep. They take food with them, and when they run out they borrow it from the more affluent homes they pass. Roman and Remus change from their princely attire to clothes better for traveling, and though Logan does his best to seem respectable at all times, he does as well, too. The twins grow out their hair, and he teaches them to braid it, keeping his own tied up as best he can.

-It is months before they meet Virgil and Patton and Janus, before Logan wanders into a pub when the princes are fast asleep to try and get a drink, Virgil popping up from behind the bar with wide eyes, a confused expression, and a sleeping baby in his arms. Patton is a toddler, who calls Virgil “Ver!” and Janus is so young, barely old enough to eat foods other than milk. Logan does not question the scales that cross one side of Janus’ face, nor Patton’s green-tinged skin and webbed fingers, or Virgil’s sharp teeth and purple and green eyes, but his princes do, incessantly. Virgil does not seem to mind.

-“Are Janus and Patton our new brothers?” Roman asks one day, whispering it to Logan as he and Patton play “Patton-cake” (A name Logan despises, for the record) and Virgil rocks Janus to sleep, Remus tracing the scales on the baby’s left side with careful curiosity.

-Logan exchanges looks with Virgil (Virgil who has begun to sit closer to him when the children are asleep, who exchanges stories and points out stars and is a shoulder for Logan to cry on, who he thinks is quite pretty and maybe, just maybe, could be something a tad different from a friend to him) and smiles, soft and sad. “They might as well be,” he says, and the young prince just grins, and takes Patton’s chubby hands in his own, and says “You hear that, Pat? We’re brothers, now!”

-Patton giggles, and says “Ro!” and “Re!” and “Lo!” and “Ver!” and “Ja!” and then “Mily!”

-Virgil looks over, still holding Janus, and frowns. “What’s ‘Mily’?” he asks, stepping closer.

-Logan might have guessed that it had been Patton’s family, before, but Virgil had told him one night, in a hushed whisper, that Patton had never met his parents, Virgil’s brother and his partners, that they had died when he was a baby and Virgil had taken him in. Janus was a more recent addition to their little band, a changeling left to die in the forest before Virgil had rescued him.

-“Family,” Remus says, in the way of his that almost seems unnatural, how he and his brother always seem to know what one is thinking, and perhaps they do. (This correlates to Logan’s theory -- that they remain awake because of magic in their blood. Virgil has confessed that he is a witch, a healer, primarily, that his brother had had the gift too and had thus given magical blood to Patton. Then there is Janus’ changeling nature, and Logan’s own magical descent from a human father and faerie mother. No one knows where the twins came from, just that the king and his partner had adopted them, and they could very well have power running through their veins, enough to know a toddler’s thoughts, or when someone is not looking so they can steal cookies from the kitchen, or to tease Logan about his ‘crush’ on Virgil.)

-“Family?” Logan says, and Patton repeats it; “Mily!”

-They find a way to break the curse, eventually, after three years, after they find the Dragon Witch and she warns them of a sorcerer who had plunged the world into an endless sleep. They have been living in a cottage built by Logan and Virgil and Janus’ budding telekinesis for years, now, the princes nine and strong and fast and brave, Patton six and an unusually fast swimmer and so, so kind, Janus nearly four and in awe of his brothers, toddling along after them at any opportunity. Virgil insists that they need to find this sorcerer, break the curse, when the children have been put to bed and he and Logan and the Dragon Witch sit at the kitchen table. The Dragon Witch (DW, as she insists they call her, refusing to give her real name, wary of Logan and Janus and their fey descent) says it is too dangerous, alone, and he reminds her they are three, seven with the children too. Logan sides with DW, though he sees Virgil’s point, and eventually he is swayed.

-Logan has long since fallen in love with Virgil, though he has not told him. He hopes Virgil knows that the long hours sitting on the bench under the willow tree outside their cottage and the mornings of cooking together and sleepy conversations and the nights spent in the same bed after the nightmares from being alone became too much for them both mean more to him than anything else in the world, save for the children they raise together. Sometimes, he thinks his feelings might be returned, and those are the days he feels like he might be glowing from the inside out.

-And when the sorcerer aims a spell at Virgil, says “If you are so lonely without the human-kind, you may sleep with them!” Logan jumps in the way, finds himself staggering and falling backwards into Virgil’s arms, sees horrified glowing purple and green eyes just before his eyes close. “I love you,” he whispers, and then he drifts away.

-And then he wakes up, and Virgil is clutching his face in his hands, eyes wide with shock, tears wet against his cheeks, and he says “Logan Logan Logan!” like it is a prayer and pulls him into a hug.

-“What happened?” he asks, and Virgil turns a furious shade of red, and DW laughs and laughs. “True love’s kiss!” Patton exclaims, eyes wide and shining with glee, and Logan finds himself blushing too.

-As in every fairy tale, true love’s kiss does indeed break the spell. The king is shocked, to see his sons so grown, but he is also more than happy to accept his new ones. “I do not want to make it seem like you are not their parents, as well,” Thomas tells Logan and Virgil, “for you are, and it would be selfish of me to think otherwise. Thank you, for saving me, and for caring for my sons.” He and Logan are rather good friends, after that, and when Logan is made a lord (and a rather powerful one, at that) it is only surprising to him.

-Virgil lives in the palace with them, and Logan finds himself flirting and holding hands and blushing far too often. They kiss again a few months later. They are married when Roman and Remus are eleven, Patton nine, and Janus five, and the king himself performs the ceremony. Patton scatters flower petals when they walk up the aisle hand in hand, Roman and Remus ties the long black and purple and blue ribbons around their wrists, binding them together, and Janus presents them with the knives they had given each other, as tradition dictates, to put in marriage sheaths at their sides. The Dragon Witch (who has long since told them her name, by now) makes the sky explode in color for them, and watches the children while Virgil and Logan dance together.

-Logan finds his family in the quiet, and yet he loves them for the noise they bring into his life. And in the end, he would not have had it any other way, even for all the hardship, for he cannot imagine a world without them.

I really do have a brand, and it is Analogical™. But I loved loved loved writing this piece, and I might expand on it in the future for funsies because sometimes family is a half-fey advisor to the king, a witch/healer, two slightly magical princes, a small frog child and the witch’s nephew, a tiny baby changeling, the king and his partner, and a dragon witch pretending to be mean who’s really just a big softie.

Send me a fake fic title and I’ll tell you what I’d write for it!

#asks #analogical #romantic analogical #familial drlamp #creativitwins #ts virgil #ts logan #ts patton #ts janus #ts roman #ts remus #ts thomas #ts dragon witch #cinder writes #anon #cinder's prompts #cinder's prompt fills #virgil sanders #logan sanders

136 notes · View notes

velmashaircut · 3 years

Text

Sims 4 Big Brother Challenge

(Under the cut because this is long)

I’ve never done a challenge on the Sims before so when my brother introduced me to the Big Brother Challenge, I was quite intrigued. I’ve decided to give it a go because it looks fun and I have nothing else to do.

My brother sent me this format to use which is great because I have no idea what I’m doing and this page basically explained everything I need to know. I don’t have any mods or cc so I’m just going to stick with eight sims and I’m going to be doing all the challenges suggested in following order. So the line up will be: painting, chess, social, athletic, music, outdoors and then the grand finale. And the winner of the grand finale will be rewarded with 500,000 simoleons!

Anyway, here are the contestants! I gave them all a backstory to add some flavour to them. I also tried to make some of them as eccentric as possible just for the fun of it. I play on Xbox so I can’t take screenshots of the sims and put them into this post so please excuse the low quality of pictures I’m taking on my phone.

Contestant One: Fall the Designer

Fall entered Big Brother because her fashion company was going off the rails after a few bad investments and being recorded falling off the runway during her own fashion show. After being mocked by half the internet through memes, many of her models and designers left Fall’s company Falltastic. Big Brothers prize money will be just enough to salvage Fall’s career, PR manager!

Contestant Two: Levi the Yodeller

Walmart Yodelling Kid all grown up. Levi is a professional yodeller and every Friday at 5:23 you’ll see him on a small hill in a nearby park yodelayheehoo-ing to his hearts content all whilst disturbing all morning joggers in the vicinity. Levi joined the show so he can use the prize money to move to Scandinavia where he can live in the woods with all the reindeers he desires.

Contestant Three: Nathita the ‘Vampire’

Nathita has convinced herself she is a vampire after deciding Edward from Twilight is her comfort character at the ripe age of 15. She drinks tomato juice and pretends it’s blood of her annoying neighbours. She went on the show as a final, desperate plea to convince Stephenie Meyer to write a Twilight spin-off in Edward’s perspective. If Nathita wins, she’ll use the prize money to hire her favourite fanfiction author to write a 100,000+ paged twilight fanfiction starring Edward and herself. And yes, it’s oc x canon.

Contestant Four: Aden the Privateer

He was originally a full blown pirate guilty of multiple smugglings and pillages against small Caribbean countries. However, the producers of Big Brother told Aden he had to stop committing these heinous crimes if he wanted to be on the show. Therefore Aden became a privateer so he could do the previously mentioned legally. Why Aden audition for Big Brother? So he could hide from a pesky pirate hunter who’s been chasing after him for the past four years. And money. Don’t forget the 500,000 simoleon prize money too.

Contestant Five: Taz the Performer

If you’ve been to any bratty nine year olds birthday party in the past three years, there’s a good chance you saw Taz there, as she is, undoubtably, the best kids magician money has to offer! Both kids and parents love Taz and her magic tricks. However, instead of spending every Friday performing for spoilt kids in some public park, Taz has bigger dreams, like becoming the next Houdini! The prize money from Big Brother will be enough to show the world Taz’s true potential - pulling the coin behind the ear trick!

Contestant Six: Canto the Sound Cloud Rapper

Canto was a kid every teacher would have dreamed of teaching. Smart, kind, creative and well-behaved. However, after he discovered SoundCloud, those attributes were thrown out the window when Canto dropped out of high school to pursue a music career. If Post Malone can get famous off of SoundCloud, why can’t he? His SoundCloud name is: Can To a.k.a. Notorious Top. He changes it every week to stay ‘fresh’. He entered Big Brother to launch his career and finally be able to collab with Lil Pump, his dream.

Contestant Seven: Vikky the Cowgirl

Don’t let her title fool you, Vikky hates everything about the ranch life. Its so stressful and tiring, she feels like she’s about to have a ranch-induced heart attack. Every since she was a girl, her parents dreamed that Vikky would take over the ranch when she was older and pay their debts, which contrasted with Vikky’s dreams of travelling the world. As much as this sounds like a stereotypical horse girl film, Vikky’s struggle is real. So much so, she has to win Big Brother so she can use the 500,000 simoleon prize money to not fund her dreams; but instead save her families farm so she can be free. Hopefully this story ends the same way as those horse films do…

Contestant Eight: Kenji the Time Travelling Butler

1873, England. Kenji was a humble butler to the affluent Lord Black who resided in Liverpool. One morning, Kenji discovered a mysterious package on the front doorstep of his masters home. The package was made out of a material Kenji could not identify, and the label was even more difficult to comprehend ‘For the Lord of time and space’ Kenji pursed his lip, whatever could that mean? Curiosity got the best of the butler; he opened the package to see a small, jewellery-like box. Kenji’s curiosity only grew as he removed the boxes lid to see only an expensive looking pocket watch inside. He picked up the pocket watch and as soon as he did, there was a blinding light and - “Where am I? Is this Lord Blacks mansion? It looks a bit more rustic than usual…I’ll have to notify the builder about that…Who is that strange man, and what is he wearing? Am I contestant for Big Brother..I...what does that even mean…? Where is Lord Black, this is his property! Get your hands off of me - why are you taking me inside the mansion? Is Lord Black in his study? I demand to know what is going on this instant!” Somehow, Kenji has been sent to the 21st century and forced to participate in Big Brother! How and why he got put into this hell hole is beyond him, all he knows is that he has to win the prize money so he can get this now broken pocket watch repaired so he can go back to his time, and find out what Lord Black has been up to…

The first competition to be held in the Big Brother mansion is the painting competition! Which of the eight contestants will win? And which will lose? I’ll post an update soon.

#sims 4 #big brother challenge

4 notes · View notes

profemssor · 3 years

Photo

malcolm spelmann : intro

I saw [MALCOLM SPELMANN] at a coffee shop in [BROOKLYN] today. I forgot how much [HE] looks like [MICHAEL B JORDAN]. They are a [THIRTY FIVE] year old [LINGUISTICS PROFESSOR] who’s been in NYC for [TEN YEARS ON & OFF] now. Every time we run into each other, they are always [ERUDITE & CHARISMATIC] but I’ve heard people say they can also be [ERRATIC & FACETIOUS]. [TALK BY KHALID] reminds me of them every time it comes on the radio. — [g, she/her, 23, gmt]

CONNECTIONS

𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙨 !

full name : malcolm robert spelmann profession : professor at new york university age : thirty five , october 11th 1985 gender : cismale , he / him. sexuality : bisexual / biromantic. place of birth : potamac , maryland current residence : brooklyn , new york city

alignment : chaotic good mbti : enfp - a ( assertive campaigner ) positive traits : erudite , charismatic , thoughtful negative traits : erratic , facetious , unreliable

𝙝𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮

malcom grew up in the affluent suburb of potamac, maryland just outside of washington dc where his parents both worked as professors at georgetown university. his mother taught psychology, his father political science.

they lived ten minutes from the house his mother grew up in, still occupied by his grandparents while his father had slightly humbler beginnings in nearby baltimore.

his childhood was filled with private school and galas and country clubs. still, with the attention his parents put on his education, he never expected to simply grow up and rely on any kind of trust fund. it did, however, give him the freedom to do whatever he wanted with his life.

in the end he followed in his parents’ footsteps, converting a modern languages degree into a lifetime love of linguistics. he loves being an academic but also getting to teach, he always make sure to teach linguistics 101 every year, still holding the same excitement in introducing students to the subject as when he first learnt about it himself.

he has taught at colleges all over the country (and europe) but the majority of his adult life has been spent in new york - close enough to maryland that his parents and grandparents don’t complain, but enough distance that he doesn’t have to engage with the high society of his childhood all that often.

he speaks six languages and is currently learning a seventh (japanese) but his recent work has focused more on dialect - especially the different variations of aave across north america.

he is very serious and passionate about his work, and often launches accidentally into mini-lectures with his friends.

he reads constantly - a mixture of scholarship on language but also a lot of fantasy and sci-fi - especially ones that have created their own languages. he recently got to consult on a movie that need to create a new alien language and it was the most excited he’s gotten about anything.

the new york times crossword is a must must every week, he times himself and keeps a running log of his new pr.

outside of work though, he really isn’t very serious about much else. it’s been awhile since he was in a serious relationship, he moves from rental flat to rental flat every six months, he’s an expert at spinning any serious conversation into a joke. he brings a light-hearted energy to any situation he’s in, it’s rare to see him not smiling.

at heart he’s a very loyal and reliable person but in practice he could miss about anything when he gets caught up in his work - one time he even left his mother stranded at the airport after getting engrossed in a piece of research.

𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙣𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 !

exes ( 1 / a few ): malcolm hasn’t found himself in many long relationships - mostly out of choice - but the few that happened certainly exist around him like shadows (1, 2)

current hook-up ( 0 / 1 ) - a convenient arrangement for the both of them (1, 2)

best friend ( 0 / 1 ) - essentially like a sibling to him - painfully & gloriously platonic, they’ve been best friends for years and winding each other up for even longer. formed in adulthood though they bicker like children. (1, 2 , 3, 4)

friend from home ( 0 / 1 ) - maybe best friends since they were young , or just the one of the few either knows in this city who they grew up with and that’s always kept them in touch. not many others would really know how privileged malcolm grew up, it’s not something he publicises. perhaps they’ve grown apart because of that (1, 2)

mentee ( 0 / 2 ) - could be a former student , malcolm has had a history of important mentors in life and would happily do the same to anyone he saw potential in (1)

colleague ( 0 / 2 ) - anyone who works with him whether as a professor or elsewhere at the university, or maybe they own the coffee shop right next to the linguistics building - a friendly acquaintance who they come across daily

casual flirtations ( 0 / definitely too many ) - if it wasn’t at the local coffee shop then your muse takes the same train every day into the city or they’ve found themselves next to each other on the treadmill a few times

party buddy ( 0 / 1 ) - when all of their friends have started to marry off and settle down, these two always have the other one phone call away on a saturday night (1, 2)

ex-girlfriend - @thatmorgangirl

emotional affair - @agathaolson

#villageintro #( pls like if any of these connections could fit your muse or if you just want to plot! )

11 notes · View notes

salemroleplayhq · 3 years

Photo

❝The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly.❞

MEET…

Jillian Swann

Age: 30

Birthday: August 20th, 1991

Gender/Pronouns: Cis female, She/Her

Hometown: Salem, MA

Length of time in Salem: All of her life, except for the 3 years in which she was away for college and seven months in a mental health facility

Occupation: Freelance Artist & Muralist / Bartender at Rockafellas

Faceclaim: Laura Harrier

THEIR STORY

tw: mentions of major depressive disorder, anxiety, postpartum depression, suicide attempts, fire

An only child, since infancy Jill most closely resembled her mother, though the resemblance didn’t stop there. Her mother was also Jill’s namesake — Jillian — but to avoid confusion the nickname ‘Jill’ or ‘Jilly’ were the names deployed most often to give her a better sense of individuality. She was raised with little austerity. Her mother was a high end jeweler and her father was a therapist. She had a double bed adorned with silky materials of the highest thread count, took long hot showers in the mornings and lavish baths in the evening. Pressure was put on maintaining an orderly appearance. Manners instilled, always. With strict guidelines to be followed within and outside the home — she was a child, thereby she must listen to those above her. Their daughter was to be seen and not heard, not to speak unless spoken to. Whether or not Jill’s quiet disposition is a result of her parents’ ingrained teachings, or if it was in her nature to begin with cannot be determined for certain. To avoid any unnecessary conflict, Jill was cautious never to do anything reckless that would put even a single strand of her hair out of place.

Her family may have been affluent, but even though technology installments were in abundance around the house — from cable TV to being given a personal iPhone at nine years old — she always showed an inclination toward more tangible forms of entertainment. More often than not her spare time would be occupied with long-winded outings to the library, teaching herself embroidery or knitting projects or skipping rope tricks. As an only child, her imagination became her closest companion. Inventiveness kept her boredom at bay, but it also made it impossible for her mind to ever be a peaceful and silent place. She took a liking to fiction and poetry books and art the most. She was thrilled by the way the right set of words could miraculously make sense of the big feelings she felt but didn’t dare speak about. She thrived off of what was obvious; the practical and evidential. Situations with a clear cut beginning and end that couldn’t be mistaken for something else. With art, she was able to embody everything that she had felt inside — what words couldn’t appropriately convey. ‘I don’t belong here. Nobody wants me. I don’t feel normal.’ Accordingly, nothing frustrated her more than having no idea where to begin when dealt with something that wasn’t so readily apparent or visible ( more often than not this equated to one category only: her feelings ). Winging things wasn’t her style — planning and perfect organization was. With poetry and art — with the attractive rhythmics of prose, and the curved painted brushes — she could suddenly adapt to any moment, turning anything that felt too overwhelming into something small and manageable ( destroyable, even — much of her first personally works ending up shredded or burned in the fireplace ). It was a comfort to find that even if an explanation didn’t exist, she could simply make one up herself by inking it down on a fresh piece of paper. This was a hobby she kept private, though she was passionately devoted to it. Each night filling a page or two, whether in a notebook or a sketchbook, until every few months she had a full book and had to start a new one.

Growing up Jill was very level-headed and had a natural talent for leadership. She was never boastful or power-hungry, but taking charge of chaotic situations came like second nature to her. She wasn’t shy of being in the spotlight, not because she ever wanted the attention but because she sought to benefit the bigger picture always. If there was a recognizable error she’d often be the first to analyze it without a bias to intervene with her perception, making her able to step in to adjust it until perfect form was achieved. She was considered mature for her age by most of her superiors — teachers and parents alike — never giving way to thoughtless impulses and seemingly unable to be offended. A teenager who possessed a gift concerning genuine empathy and kindness. Jill and her ego seemed to exist on opposite sides of the spectrum. Critique and praise rolled off her back one in the same. She was a quick learner, always eager to have new content to peruse. She loved questions, for there was always an answer. It was safe territory. As curious as she was in pursuits of knowledge, as a whole she was very reserved and well balanced and not at all spontaneous. She became a safe haven for many of her lost high school peers, but nobody had ever seen the deep inner turmoil she had wrestled with all of her life; that emptiness, that sadness, those thoughts that told her she wasn’t good enough. Despite being plagued by anxious voices, she tried to push on, at times self harming when it felt like it was too much.

When it mattered most, art saved her — especially after the fire. She was a creative through and through, but it was the self portraits of a woman losing her mind that allowed her to look at herself in a completely different light. Though she tried not to think of it much ( she couldn’t remember what exactly had happened even when she consciously tried ), Jill was unsure if she was relieved to have made it out of the fire. To her own life, she was apathetic. Yet, when she finally met Lachlan she had put up a good front — “thank you,” said with a warm smile that failed to reach her eyes; she had recognized him from their school, “for saving me.” As a result, she fell more into her creativity and further away from the her peers. Jill’s artistic talents were obvious to anyone on the outside looking in, expressed in her handiwork in her talent for choosing attractive fashions and creating hair styles at the girl’s sleepovers. Indeed, Jill had a great talent for styling clothing, sewing and braiding her friends’ hair as well as any professional hair stylist. But it was a duty rather than something she felt in her heart. The need to look pristine, whispering urgent nothings at the back of her head. Writing and painting was what she truly longed to do, but making a profession out of something anyone who could hold a pen or paintbrush could do seemed impossible.

Once Jill honed her ability, she began to submit her work into local competitions. Being able to be a freelance artist as a job seemed far fetched, but it was all she enjoyed spending her free time on — using real people as her subjects, sketching what she really saw, and uploading her work in the hopes that it would sell. The inspiration fueling each canvas was endless.

Taking two years to herself after graduating high school — allowing herself to build up various art equipment, a growing portfolio, and history of recurring clients that helped spread her name around — at 21, for the sake of improved credibility, it was with bated breath and hardened determination that she finally felt she was prepared enough to dare to apply to local universities offering a BFA degree in art. When Jill received an acceptance letter from FIT, it felt like an affirmation the direction she was headed wasn’t purposeless. Though usually careful about keeping her emotions withheld, she couldn’t help be feel thrilled at having seemed to have found her true calling.

Until three years into her studies. The stresses of college had overwhelmed her, and she found herself swallowing a bottle of pills in her sorrow. When she awoke, she had been back in Salem, her mother by her side — and Jill had turned her head, letting the silent tears flow down her cheeks out of shame. Moving back with her family had been hectic. Her deep depression and suicidal thoughts lingering but she had promised her parents that she would never hurt herself again. Instead, she spent her days in various forms of isolation, to locking herself in her childhood bedroom for days, to sitting on the balcony quietly nursing a cup of tea. It was the first time that she had purposely avoided writing or drawing.

As all things, with time was supposed to come healing. Over the years, Jill kept up a regular notebook habit despite how pointless it seemed — it was a freeing outlet that calmed her anxious thoughts. Within those pages she catalogued original writings as well as jotting down lyrics, sayings, quotes, and eavesdropped phrases she heard whilst out and about. Clearcut beginnings and ends were her favorite thing. Anytime the she was confused or disturbed by the people around her, she’d retreat to process it silently on a page. Unless she was at work around those her age, she was surrounded by adults. Neither were particularly easy to make sense of, so many a notebook went filled. Though she still managed to maintain her “Jill of all Trades” persona for her relatability and kindness, people had still spoken about her as the deeply troubled young woman as a result.

Her depression left her deeply afraid, and she became somewhat of a recluse most times because she couldn’t bear the whispers. Then she met Gabriel, an older man who had stopped in Salem for business, and it had changed everything. The casual fling began and ended without much fuss. It was a stress relief, nothing different than the glass of wine or smoke she ingested when particularly stressed. Jill preferred living alone, in all aspects. Romance was never appealing, neither was having to belong to someone, or adhere to any sense of domestic behaviors. Long term relationships were foreign territory for her simply because of her deep depression, and it was always a relief to find someone on a similar wavelength. A couple months after their fling drew to a close, Jill found it wasn't as easy to shrug off as past exchanges when she discovered she was pregnant. Something within her knew she wouldn’t abandon the life growing inside, even if it threw off every perfectly crafted plan she had.

Nine months later Jill was the mother of fraternal twins, Gabe always by her side. For a while it seemed like they could make it work out — a possible bond and a growing love for each other. Then the postpartum symptoms had hit, and just like that, their blossoming relationship was thrown right into the garbage after Jill had attempted to take her life once more in the midst of a breakdown. Having been sent to a mental facility some ways out of town immediately after, Jill has just come back to her hometown after seven months — desperate to heal.

PERSONALITY

+ empathetic, personable, creative

- stubborn, perfectionist, naive

Jillian is played by CLEM.

#jillian swann #f #all #oc rp #town rp #city rp #lsrpg

3 notes · View notes

Last Seen Blogs