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#he CANNOT be killed he IS famed across the land he can come out of a 1V20 match with barely a CONTUSION

honeybeezx · 3 years

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Armor - Oberyn Martell x Reader x Ellaria Sand - Part 1

Author’s Note: Hey everyone! So this is the first fic I’ve ever posted on tumblr, low key kinda scary😄 But this man and his paramour have been on my mind for the longest. This is a self insert fic, but I don’t really use “Y/N”. Hope you enjoy and any feedback would be great!

Summary: You are an assassin hired by Tyrion to act as extra security alongside Bronn. He brings you back to King’s Landing just as the boy king Jeoffry Baratheon plans to marry the cunning Margaery Tyrell. But with all the guests roaming around, you begin to wonder who is a friend and who is a foe. No one makes you wonder more than the famed prince from Dorne and his captivating paramour.

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: mentions of murder, allusions to sex

—————

You never knew anything in the seven kingdoms could make you feel so small. It wasn’t as if you’d ever let it show. You held your head high, walking alongside Tyrion as both of you entered the great hall of the throne room, Bronn on the opposite side of your employer. The Red Keep was even bigger than you had imagined it to be. The throne room was the tallest room you had ever seen. Against the dark ceiling the columns looked as if they stretched up into the night sky.

Every eye in the palace was on the three of you, and you felt no one’s eyes more than Cersei’s. You held her gaze. A woman who lived in luxury her whole life did not frighten you. She may have influence, but you had experience, strength, freedom, and skill with your bow that you were now acutely aware was strapped to your back. Having the protection of Tyrion’s influence and connections and Bronn’s strength and skill with a sword brought a sense of comfort, allowing you to remain calm under such scrutinizing gaze.

“Brother.” Cersei greeted with a soft smile that failed to hide all the vileness in her heart. “You come with friends.”

“Oh no, more like bodyguards. We have so many enemies now a days sister, I like to know I’m protected.” Tyrion smirked, leaving Bronn chuckling. You, on the other hand, would not let your intimidating demeanor fade, remaining as stoic and unyielding as the stone columns that held up the palace you wished to see fall. “May I introduce Bronn, Lord of Highgarden and-“

“Yes, I know all about the Silver Hawk from the North. I wonder if you are half as good as they say you are.” She mocked, her tone anything but genuinely curious. “I am told that you can hit your target 200 meters away and steal their breath before they even know what hit them.” If you didn’t know any better you’d think she was impressed, even if she did look at you as if you were the lowest creature she ever beheld.

“Perhaps I will have an opportunity to display my skills while I am here, your grace.” You’ll see first hand when my arrow is aimed just above your crooked neck.

“Perhaps.” She replied, feigning as much sweetness as a ferrel cat.

The both of you narrowed your eyes at each other. There was no outright exchange of harsh words or petty language, but the furious tension between the two of you was enough to fill the entire hall with uncomfortable silence. You hoped your unyielding gaze scared her. You wondered how many people actually defied her, you wondered how long it would take to get under her skin.

“Yes, well.” Tyrion interrupted, knowing you were bubbling with anger. Cersei was too, and although you allowed her to see your own emotions, it please you a bit to know you could anger her just as easy. You hated Lannisters almost more than anything, but you also knew Cersei’s time would come. She would pay for her crimes, fate would decide her end. You knew that fate had not brought you here to slay the queen regent, as much as you despised her. “As much as I love chatting with you sister, I simply wanted our arrival to be known. We have much unpacking to do and much to discuss.”

“Be careful, little brother.” She warned. “Your guard has little reserve and it seems your little silver hawk has a silver tongue as well. You would be wise to remember that people have been killed for that and less.”

“I’ll be sure to keep very close watch over them.” Tyrion retorted sarcastically before turning on his heal and exiting the great hall. You and Bronn followed, the later unable to contain his amusement.

“I’d say that went well!” He quipped, smiling at both you and your employer.

“She didn’t call to chop off our heads, that is some relief.” Tyrion noted. “But you both must be careful, especially you.” His scrutinizing gaze met yours.

“What? You expected me to just let her try and hold some dominate power over me? Just because she is draped in finest jewels in the seven realms and hides behind the her father’s influence does not mean I will tremble like a child before her.”

Tyrion sighed. “You must, for now, hold your tongue. Your wit does you credit, that’s why I like you, but you must check yourself. My sister is more dangerous than you can imagine. Don’t tremble, but don’t overstep either.” You remembered that Tyrion had been playing the game his whole life, he was basically born into it. He knew his sister better than anyone, and that meant he knew how to get around her better than anyone. You made a note to observe exactly what made Cersei tick, what made her preen under her usually reserved demeanor.

Despite the warm tones of the palace, you felt as though you were walking on ice. One wrong step and you were dead under a frozen tundra. You didn’t like this at all. Tyrion promised your freedom would not be at risk, yet you felt the freedom to speak your mind, the freedom to do as you pleased slip from you more and more. You were being watched here, you weren’t stupid. Every move had to be calculated, every word like honey laced with poison. The faster the boy king could marry, the less people there were for you to worry about. It made you uncomfortable not knowing who was an ally and who was a foe. The one thing you could appreciate about Cersei was that you always knew where you stood with her.

“I will try to remain civil if she approaches me, otherwise I will avoid your sister to the best of my abilities. But she would be wise not to challenge my reserve.” I huffed, earning a laugh from Bronn.

“Your reserve, little hawk, will be undone, whether it be from your words or your arrows.” He teased. You gave him a shove and he stumbled a bit, but not much. The last thing you needed was the oaf calling you “little”.

“The sooner we are out of this horrid place the better.” You huffed.

“I agree,” Tyrion agreed, nodding in understanding, “but don’t hold your breath. There is so much to be done before my nephew’s wedding and I will be relying on both of you to help me. While I am arranging more intimate details with my family, you two will be protecting me, but also doing some side tasks that I will not have time for. Bronn, for the most part you will be either at my side or Shae’s. If the palace discovers her they will use her against me. She can’t be found.”

Shae, Tyrion’s lover of sorts. You had grown close to her on your travels. You were wary at first. Your job was to protect Tyrion, naturally, you were cautious of anyone who might try to hurt him, to get close to him only for information or power. But it was a tough business, out spying a spy, and all your instincts told you to trust Shae. She had not left any of you astray thus far, and though the couple had not named their relationship, you could tell Tyrion and Shae cared immensely for each other. But Tyrion was right, she could be used as a pawn against him, especially if Cersei found out.

There was a sort of kinship between you and Shae. You were both strong, clever women, and she had tended to the few wounds you found yourself with on your travels. She seemed like a sister, and you were grateful for the company and friendship she provided.

“As for our favorite archer, you will be assisting some guests, getting information. I want to know the people attending this wedding, I want to ensure that this wedding goes smoothly. The Tyrell’s are a powerful ally, we cannot lose them.”

You nodded in understanding. Tyrion hired you to protect him, yes, but archery was not your only strength. You could be quiet, and you could listen as well as you could speak. You knew he would ask that of you with all the guests roaming around. You were curious to know what King’s Landing was really like, and even more interested in knowing the people who came here. “Ask it of me and it will be done.”

“Aye.” Bronn agreed.

“You are the most trusted of friends.” Tyrion gave the smallest of smiles. You were hesitant to even be in his service when the lord found you and offered you a job, afraid of losing your freedom. You knew the Lannisters, you knew their foul and power-hungry disposition. Being in their service seemed to you signing your life away. You were surprised to find he did not wish to take such things from you. He hired both you and Bronn to protect him, yes, but he would do the same for you both. You were an odd sort of family, but a family nonetheless. “Get settled and rested for the evening, we’ve had a long journey. We will reconvene later to discuss further plans.”

You nodded and left to your new chamber, one just across from Bronn and down the hall from Tyrion.

The trio was still not aware of the Red Viper slithering about the halls.

——————

Days passed with little to do. You hadn’t seen much of Tyrion. Since your arrival at King’s Landing your employer had become hand to his nephew king and married the pretty Stark girl you later learned was named Sansa. Still, you found ways to spend your time, keeping eyes and ears open for any useful information. You were particularly interested in Joffrey. It was astounding how a little boy could hold so much power, so much evil. You figured he inherited his terror from his mother.

Sansa was an interesting girl as well. Your heart broke for her. She was nothing if not resilient, staying loyal to her betrothed if only to keep herself alive. She was smart, you learned, but not useful when attempting to gather information. She did not deny her loyalty to Joffrey, even to those she liked. You were grateful that Tyrion stepped in to propose to the poor girl, if only to save her from the tyrant king. Both you and Shae kept close eyes on her. She was as smart and clever as Shae and yourself. You had a sneaking suspicion that she could be a close ally, if only your little family could get her away from the palace.

But today was different. Today you left your quarters to explore the palace a bit. You wanted to know what sort of battleground you were working with. It seemed surprising that a palace that was so heavily targeted was so...open. It seemed like light could illuminate any room. Even the gloomy and foreboding throne room could not escape a few beams of sunlight. If you didn’t despise every Lannister crawling about the palace, you had a mind to stay. The palace was only under the allusion of being warm and charming, the people who inhabited it ruined any chance of it being a lovely place. You noticed that the open windows and balconies made perfect outlooks should you need to eliminate a threat with one of your silver arrows.

But for now, the open windows became your place of peace as you ate a bowl of berries, just watching the rest of the sunrise. You saw the sun just barely grace the city with its light before you were called into Tyrion’s chambers. You arrived promptly, Bronn stumbling in a few minutes after you. You rolled your eyes at his lack of punctuality, which only earned you a playful nudge from the Lord of Highgarden.

“Behave you two. I swear I am dealing with children.” Shae huffed, but you could tell behind her sharp features was an air of mischief. Still, you straightened up and diverted your full attention to Tyrion.

“Well, much has happened. Prince Oberyn has arrived in The Capital. I visited him yesterday morning and he made it very clear that he wants to kill any Lannister that he sets his sights on. My father apparently ordered the death of his sister and her children. Our goal, for now, is to keep him happy, to keep him entertained. Bronn, your job will be to appear inconspicuous as you keep a watchful eye over my quarters, make sure no one goes in or out.” He ordered.

Shae huffed. “I’m perfectly capable of handling myself thank you.” She huffed.

“No one disputes that my dear.” Tyrion chuckled. You remember watching Shae stab a man she did not want for laying a finger on her. “I’m not worried about you. But my sister and my king nephew are very powerful. They will know how to use you against me.” He explained. Shae still was not pleased with the idea, but she relented.

“As for our hawk,” he turned to you and gave you a list with names you did not recognize, “you will present these girls to Prince Oberyn in my place. You will tell him that royal duties as the king’s new hand have prevented me from revisiting him, but you hope he enjoys the whores as a welcoming gift to King’s Landing.”

“Excuse me?!” You snapped your eyes narrowing in on your employer. “I am not a squire whose job is to bring in girls for spoiled princes!”

“Do not think of it as that.” Tyrion poured himself a glass of wine, knowing that he should chose his next words very carefully. He could feel your eyes burning into him. “Consider it a diplomatic mission. Besides, the prince wishes to meet you. The legends of the Silver Hawk have reached so far as Dorne and he is eager to make your acquaintance. This is the perfect opportunity for the both of you.”

You still weren’t pleased. “So I am now to serve as entertainment for the prince of Dorne.” You sighed and shook your head. “I am only staying long enough to bring him the girls, then I’m leaving.”

“Fine,” Tyrion relented. “But you will be cordial to the prince. Don’t be deceived by his charming words, he stabbed one of my cousins for a few unkind, brutish remarks. I don’t want to know what he’ll do when he hears your fire-laced words.” If it weren’t such a serious situation, Tyrion might have been amused to hear you use your wit against a prince, but the prince’s history with the Lannisters was anything but a joke.

“I’m sure she can handle herself. Hawks have talons after all.” Shae teased, but squeezed your arm affectionately. You offered a kind smile, but you still loathed this plan.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Tyrion rubbed his temple like the very thought of you getting into trouble was enough to send him over the edge.

You relented and chuckled a little before placing a hand on your friend’s shoulder. “I will be on my best behavior, but only because you will worry yourself ill.” You teased. “It can’t be too bad if I just deliver your message and leave. I better get going though. Can’t leave a prince waiting.” You snorted. As if you cared what a prince thought.

————————

Oberyn Martell lied in his temporary bed at the brothel, Ellaria Sand at his right, a blond haired boy on his left. He was the picture of lustful bliss, his golden chest glistened as the small rays of light entered the sinful den. But the prince was quiet deep in thought as he started out into the empty space before them. All the pleasure the brothel had to offer could not break his focus.

“Your thoughts are too loud, my prince.” Ellaria chided as she placed a kiss to his chest. “Tell me.”

Even then, Oberyn still could not break his thoughts of you, but he ran a hand through his paramour’s raven curls in acknowledgment. “I think I found our third partner.”

Next Chapter

#pedro pascal #oberyn x reader #oberyn martell #oberyn x reader x ellaria #game of thrones #ellaria sand #prince oberyn #oberyn x you #oberyn x you x ellaria #game of thrones fic #oberyn martell imagine #pedro pascal fic #got #armor

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bleachbleachbleach · 3 years

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Fic: Away, Away

This was written for Day 13 of @hitsuhina-week! If you prefer, you can also read this on AO3. Which is my preference, because Tumblr keeps eating my spacing whether I use Rich Text or HTML so it looks absurd on here. >.>

Aftermath / Going on a Trip Together Hinamori Momo + Hitsugaya Toushirou Pre-Series

This will be the last time.

(Whisper it, so he won't hear.)

Every spring, Junrinan finds its way to the western mountains. (The souls of Rukongai wander.) There is no grand procession: They disperse across the vast range, often alone and sometimes in twos. They are always careful not to cause disruption, because while one soul in a forest full of spirits generally isn't worth the effort, seven is a meal.

They are three.

Soon, they will be two. Hinamori can't stop whispering her new name, hi na mo ri. It's early to be out here, but the snows were mild this year and new growth is already peeking from beneath the thick, rich leaf rot. She feels an affinity with this year's tender saplings, a feeling that grows hotter with every whispered repetition of her name. Her grandmother had given it to her, showed her how to write it. She'd studied her name harder than she had the exam.

Hinamori has an acceptance letter. In April, she is leaving.

Hinamori nearly walks straight into a nettle spirit--the hair-eating kind--draped across the game path plain as day.

"Do you wanna be bald?" Toushirou grouses as he yanks her back just in time. "I guess it fits. You're acting like a blind old man."

Hinamori blinks, brushes imagined hair from her face. It's the fifth time she's tried to walk straight through a spirit in as many days.

"Studying is bad for your eyes," says Toushirou. He doesn't care for moony Hinamori. Momo had paid a lot more attention to what was in front of her. But she's Hinamori now. At least, that's the only name she'll write, dragging her thin stick through the dirt outside the house. So that's what he calls her.

Toushirou squeezes through a bumble of pot-bellied mushroom spirits and Hinamori follows him, stepping carefully into his tracks.

"You'll need to keep reading even when I'm not around. It'll go if you don't practice," she says.

Toushirou makes a noncommittal sound.

"I'll send you letters full of kanji and quiz you on them when I visit." I'll learn how to write them pretty, she promises, just like Baachan does.

"Will you write me back?" she asks.

"Probably not."

This hurts her. But Toushirou plans to go the rest of his life without writing a single thing. It's not personal.

"Why would I need to tell you what happens in Junrinan?" he says. "You already know."

And if I forget?

Life in Junrinan doesn't change. That's what Toushirou was promised. The winters are quiet and slow, and in spring they go to the mountains. Summers are for farming, and autumns for harvest. Then winters are quiet and slow again.

Spring passes with bracken and angelica in hand. It is counted in the spirals of ferns as their number grows in the baskets. Some are dried; some are steeped. Mostly, they are sold. Many of the men in Junrinan spend springtime waking before dawn to sprint to the mountain, forage the lowlands, and return to the village for evening revelries, but Toushirou and Hinamori and their grandmother have always spent the whole of the season between the trees. The mountains prefer it when you stay.

This will be true no matter how long Hinamori is gone.

April 12th through July 20th, then our first break, she says, scratching numbers in the dirt. But Junrinan doesn't have dates the way the Academy does. She draws the way the trees will change. The change happens in a long straight line, and beyond July 20th there is an emptiness rather than a repetition. How do you draw an unwritten future?

Hinamori writes her name again.

In the spring, everything is full: Toushirou enjoys the wet green of it, the late snows and vernal flooding. The water flows down from the mountains ice cold and the forests are loud and thick with spirits.

The spirits have no names that are written and no faces that have ever stayed the same, unremembered but immemorial. They are loud. Most of them respect the borders of his body. They brush against his legs with thick wet fur or scrape his cheek with leathery wings. They coil around his throat, treating him like a tree or rock. Some of them are trees and rocks. They are the mountains and forest, just like the wandering souls of Junrinan. They all belong here, more or less.

Toushirou can see most of them. When the blurry ones pass through you, it's feverishly unpleasant for the split-second it happens and then is nothing at all. The blurry ones, Toushirou figures, aren't actually in this forest. They are like shadows at sunset, cast long and far from their bodies. Their true bodies roam a different world entirely.

That's what Hinamori wants to do.

Hinamori used to clamor for shinigami stories any time one of them passed through town. She'd been told one time that all travelers carried stories and now expected it.

The shinigami never expected her. Unless commerce was involved they didn't tend to acknowledge souls, or even look at them. So they always seemed surprised by Hinamori, like it hadn't occurred to them that they'd meet a real, full person out here. Which is fair enough, Toushirou grudgingly allows--there are plenty of souls in Junrinan so old and staid they cannot move, nor speak. (Don't touch them. It's unlucky.)

We don't talk about those.

The shinigami talk story: The story of black dye. The story of a tall bathhouse. The story of grilled meat on sticks. The story of the time they saw a noble. The story of a big fish. The story of a bigger fish. The story of the bullet train. The story of my sister, who isn't very interesting but is the only thing that comes to mind right now sorry. The story of 19th seats should be paid more. The story of the soul who wanted a story.

Almost none of the stories are about death.

"Little girls shouldn't go into those mountains," one shinigami once said, which is as close as a story ever came to it. "Nasty stuff in there. They're called Hollows, you know. Real bad guys."

The shinigami patted the sword at his hip. He'd just told Hinamori a story about the third son of a lesser noble whom everyone loved and thought deserved better than the shadows of his elder brothers. And how preposterous is it, really, that he should have to prove himself when his brothers never did? Pushed out here into the boonies, seeking honor and fame. He really feels for the guy. Don't you? Don't you?

"You seem to know a lot about 'this guy,'" Toushirou offered.

"I'm a master storyteller," said the shinigami.

I've killed a Hollow before, you know, boasted the master storyteller. He'd led a unit of twelve men into those mountains out there, which were so quiet you could hear your own heart beating. When you can hear your terror--that's when you're on the cusp of valor. His eyes lit up. I was the one who cut the mask, he said.

Twelve is obviously far too many (seven is a meal), and those mountains have never been quiet. Toushirou didn't think he'd really been.

In the spring, though, there's a dark scar where once there'd been a copse of trees. Shattered branches and burned ground. His grandmother says it smells like Hollow.

"They see things differently," his grandmother half-explains, of the shinigami and their Hollows and the silence of their mountains. Of course this would seem a different place to them.

"They're idiots," says Toushirou, though suddenly he's not sure. The scar is hair-raising, and his stomach roils. Maybe they really shouldn't be out in the woods.

"The shinigami know more than you," says Hinamori, taking his hand in hers. She grips it tightly, reassuring, or maybe annoyed. Both. She has a lot of school spirit for someone who hasn't even been yet.

But she doesn't let go of his hand, even after they've returned to the cover of the live trees, kitsune fire nestled in the brambles at their feet.

Toushirou makes the mistake of noticing a spirit that tends to linger just out of sight. It feeds on your instinct to look, and it grows higher and higher the more you crane your neck, so sure you'll be able to sneak a glimpse of it. By the time you realize the trick, you've always been had. It's very annoying.

This will be the last time.

(Scream it.)

"It's so dark out here," says Hinamori, in spite of the kitsune and all the rest. Lots of spirits glow. She is still holding his hand.

Toushirou thinks of the small lamp Hinamori had bought to study by, the wild shadows it cast on the interior walls and the way it had made all hours bright. He thinks of all the hours she hadn't slept. All because some shinigami had told her a story about a school.

Anything would seem dark by comparison. He can't remember the last time she hadn't had her lamp on when he went to bed.

Hinamori is going to snap the bones in his hand. He yelps. Tears prick in his eyes. "What's wrong with you?"

She doesn't let go, and then she doesn't let go.

"It's so quiet," she says faintly. Her free hand wavers over her heart protectively.

It's so dark. It's so quiet. Quiet enough to hear your terror.

Except it's not. It's not dark.

It's not quiet.

The forest is full, air thick with chirrups and buzzing, screeching, hooting, chittering. Bodies clack and bones shudder. Reeds whistle and something large makes a whomping, resonating tone. Foxfire hisses as it makes sparks, throws phosphorous motes that dance high above. A heartbeat glow marches up the ridged spine of a lizard spirit. The forest is as it has always been.

Toushirou's eyes widen.

"You can't hear them anymore."

To Hinamori, it is all darkness and silence.

She sinks to the ground, burying her head in her knees as though to hide from the quiet. From the black. She drops his hand.

"Momo--"

She shakes her head. She opens her hands to the sky like she's waiting for a bird to land. For a split second, a small warm flame billows from her palms.

Then the entire forest catches.

The thought had been innocent enough--to be her own light in the darkness, conquer her fear. But the forest only hears the conquering. It's the kitsune who don't take kindly to Hinamori's light. Their fire screeches up and outward and then all the spirits are in frenzy. A meal! scream some; and others, a threat! A danger to be expunged. A strange thing not of this forest, these mountains.

Outsider! the world around them hisses. Away.

away, away

Hinamori screams as the flames leap forward--the claws, the vines, the terrors and all in between. She throws herself in front of Toushirou.

Toushirou can't find his voice at all. The wide whites of his eyes feel the propulsive gust of the forest coming down on them. On Hinamori. No! he can't shout, cold fear coiling over his frozen legs and pricking at his shoulder blades. Something serpentine rushes past him and he's on the ground. His head smacks hard against a writhing tree root and he tastes bile, feels nothing.

Hears everything.

away

When he wakes, snow is falling, wet and sloppy. Kitsune are nibbling at the singed edges of a hanafuda. Hinamori is in her grandmother's arms. She's crying.

Before Hinamori started studying, with her bright lamp and her long nights and her feverish poetry scratched into the ground, before the hunger came, she'd woken one morning to a futon streaked with her blood. Her grandmother said that this was womanhood.

"The tea will stop the bleeding," she assured a tearful Hinamori as they scrubbed at her futon, pinking the waters. Toushirou beat at the stain with his feet, splashing everywhere.

"You don't have to touch it," Hinamori had said quietly, her eyes fixed on the water. "It's my mess."

"Baachan said I have to help," Toushirou objected. "Besides, am I supposed to just sit here and watch you bleed?"

Just one last time.

Hinamori isn't hurt, but she is in pain. The forest doesn't want her anymore. (She is leaving.)

"The forest sees them differently," his grandmother says, the other half of her earlier explanation. "Them," meaning shinigami. "Them," meaning Hinamori, now.

Shinigami see and are seen differently. They belong differently. Toushirou had only ever distinguished them by their black clothes, and sometimes their attitude. But his grandmother talks about reiryoku, about reiatsu, about the realms the shinigami travel through and the spirits they are blind to. The spirits that belong to different worlds than theirs, even when they're side by side. Some worlds are bound to one another, tied by fate and duty; others are repelled.

As Hinamori's reiatsu blossomed with her womanhood, slowly folding outward past her skin, beyond her body, her worlds were chosen for her. Like the bleeding, there's a tea to help this, too, but it's not the same.

There is no going back.

"What're you looking at," Toushirou scowls at her. He's not sure what to do with her pain. There's nothing he can do for her pain. But she's looking at him differently, a little less like Hinamori and a little more like the rest of Junrinan does, and that scares him.

She asks him if he'd felt anything. Something cold.

She's asked him before. Every day since the incident, she's asked him.

His answer is always the same. No. Just fear.

He should be helping his grandmother. They're here in the forest for a reason, and that hasn't changed; they have foraging to do. But he doesn't want to leave Hinamori alone.

"Don't be afraid of it, Shiro-chan," says Hinamori. Hinamori, who's now afraid of the dark.

Hinamori, who is leaving.

She doesn't have a choice. When her power comes into her she knows there is only one place she can go. It's a place she has always wanted to go. (She has always wanted to go places.) But now she has to.

She smiles.

If she is going to go, she's going to fly. She will love, and yearn, and cry. She will give all of herself to the future before her, even when it means that precious things can be only memory. If there is something Hinamori leaves in him when she goes, it's flight.

Someday, Toushirou will remember to remember that.

"Will you write me?" she asks.

(You will be written.)

She returns for the summer, then is gone again. Winter, then gone again. But she doesn't come home for the spring. They'll be going to the realm of the living. They will fight Hollows, just like the Gotei 13. She explains the meaning and stroke order of the characters, go tei, though she doesn't explain what the Gotei 13 actually is. That part must already seem obvious to her. Shinigami stuff. That's all Toushirou will ever need to know. Seems pretentious.

When Junrinan returns to the mountains this year, Toushirou and his grandmother stay behind. "It's dangerous," she says. She squeezes his shoulders.

It's dangerous now.

There is no going back.

Junrinan may not change, but life does, and by the second summer, Hinamori has mostly forgotten the shapes of the forest spirits. Toushirou is forgetting them, too.

The difference is, Hinamori has found replacements. She talks about incantations and sword stances, friendships and histories. She has been to the realm of the living. It's only been a year, and already they have nothing in common but their memories, ever-receding.

Sometimes she wakes up screaming. She doesn't say why.

Toushirou dreams of a chill ripping through him. He dreams of a place where there are no mountains as far as the eye can see.

He wakes to Hinamori.

#hinamori momo #hitsugaya toushirou #hitsuhina week #bleach fic #IT'S FOR THE CULTURE #I wanted to play with the idea of the districts of Rukongai having their own cultures and practices apart from what we know of the Seireitei #I thought it would be interesting to imagine that it's because these things are not legible/perceivable to our shinigami narrators #because their existence is tied more closely to other worlds and realms #So just like there are things that humans can't see wandering their world there are things that shinigami can't see either #👻👻👻👻👻👻#yes this is the angery fic that hates me but its deadline is today so now it is done!

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codedredalert · 3 years

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thoughtful wedding gifts that will leave him speechless [One Piece, fantasy au] – Vinsmoke siblings

Whumptober 2021 No. 3 - taunting | insults | Who did this to you?

1195 words, lawsan arranged marriage fantasy au

tags/warnings: sibling violence, arranged marriage

( On Ao3 )

===/\===

to marry a prince, the bargain was made

and the maiden's voice taken in trade

His brothers pile into the bridal carriage, shit-eating grins on their identical faces, and Sanji is instantly on edge.

"Excited for your big day?" Ichiji asks.

"Bet you never thought you'd be useful to the family, huh?" Yonji laughs, clapping Sanji on the shoulder.

"You're getting their crown prince, y'know," Niji reminds him, as if Sanji could forget. "Not a bad deal for an artificial mage who can't do magic. Lucky for you he likes worthless blondes."

The three of them laugh like that was some sort of clever joke. Sanji sighs.

"Old news," he says, willing them to leave. Of course, no such luck.

"Actually, there's a new twist." Niji leans forward. "Apparently, he likes blondes but it's a see and not hear kind of deal. And e haven't gotten you a wedding gift yet."

"You can get out and stay far, far away," Sanji suggested with just the slightest touch of false cheer. "That'd make a great gift."

They laugh at his joke, which is never a good sign.

"How d'you feel about jewellery, bro?" Yonji asks. "Jewellery that goes 'kaboom'."

Grins stretch eerily wide and suddenly Yonji's hand holding his shoulder is pinning him to the high back of the seat and Niji has his other shoulder, and one knee across Sanji's lap to stop him from kicking. They grab his hands and pin them against the seat back. On the seat opposite, Ichiji sits back and grins.

"Get off me!" Sanji shouts, struggling, but they're stronger, they've always been stronger and they're actually mages. "The hell are you doing!?"

Green sparks to life around both his wrists, a ring of not-quite formed power, and then deep lightning blue joins it. Sanji tries to yank his hands away, but they have a good lock on him. He twists and headbutts Yonji and they both hiss. Yonji flinches and his shoulder shoves into Niji, whose head knocks into the wall where the driver sits outside. The magic around Sanji's wrists flickers unsteadily.

"What's going on in there?" the driver's voice calls.

"Keep driving!" Ichiji orders, a touch of power behind his words. The driver hesitates as he places the voice of one of his princes, even as Yonji curses and Niji backhands Sanji across the face.

"Yes, your highness," the driver says.

Sanji's right leg is free. He knees Yonji in the sternum, and then snaps it up at the knee for a high kick to catch Niji in the back of the head, sending him crashing into the driver's partition again. Niji's elbow lands on the tender part where Sanji's neck, ear and jaw meet, sending Sanji down onto the seat with a strange ringing in his head. He flails as a blow comes down on his eye, and nose, and then there's an outraged noise from Ichiji.

"You kicked me," he says, furious. He slams a boot down on Sanji's shin, and Sanji feels the bone crack. His knee comes up to catch under Sanji's jaw, where Niji's hand in his hair holds it in place.

"Get in here, bro," Yonji says. He has Sanji's arm in a joint lock now, one where he could snap Sanji's elbow the wrong way. He pulls and something wrenches, bruises, but doesn't quite break. "C'mon."

Ichiji's hand wraps around Sanji's forearm, and the other hand over his mouth and nose.

The magic flickers into shape around Sanji's wrists again. Green, then blue, and now neon red. They swirl into one, and then metal lays heavy and strangely alive against Sanji's skin.

"Listen, worm," Ichiji hisses. "One sound out of you, and these bracelets explode with enough force to take out this whole procession. Any non-augmented human will be blown to bits."

Sanji's eyes widen, then narrow, calling Ichiji's bluff. His brothers wouldn't kill him. They'd have nothing to deliver when the procession reached Dressrosa. Ichiji sees it.

"You count as augmented, dumbass," he says. "But it's still enough force to blow your hands clean off. You can kiss your beloved servant's work hobbies goodbye. Got it? Ah, no, don't answer, just nod."

Sanji swallows and nods. Ichiji pulls away and the other two follow his lead, leaving Sanji sprawled half on the seat and half on the floor. They sit to admire their work and Sanji glares at them, but doesn't move. At this point, he knows it'll be over faster if they gloat and leave.

"Hey," Yonji says after a moment as he and Niji get their breath back. "Maybe we should add a failsafe, for screaming and shit. For when he's getting—" he leers and makes an obscene hand gesture.

Sanji's face burns against the seat cushion and his brothers laugh but then pause to think about this.

After a moment, Ichiji half-stands, leaning over Sanji to avoid hitting his head against the roof.

"Hm," Ichiji hums, looking down at him through his dark glasses. He taps his finger on his arm once, twice in thought. Sanji doesn't dare to breathe too loud in case that sets off the bracelets.

"Nah," he says. "Too much work."

Yonji and Niji snicker.

"Yeah, true."

"Good point. You hear that, Sanji?" A blue-gloved hand pats his cheek in a mockery of affection. "Just don't scream like a little bitch and you'll be fine."

They hop out of the carriage, laughing before taking off, the sygaldry in their armour lighting up as it activated. With a step each of them vanished off to terrorise the rural Dressrosan countryside, taking a mile with every step. Sanji lays across the seat and floor, breathing slowly. The bracelets are simple silvery bands that catch too much light and have an almost pearlescent quality to them. There is no opening or join or clasp on them, no point of weakness or removal.

A few times, Sanji tries to pull himself up, but with the jolting of the carriage, and the broken shin, it's all he can do to stay quiet without moving too much. He waits for his accelerated healing to take care of his new injuries, and with nothing to do except stare at the inside of the roof, 'accelerated' felt slower than ever.

At some rest stop or another, the procession halts, and the door opens.

His sister's voice gasps.

"Sanji, who did this to you?"

Sanji doesn't answer, of course. He shakes his head slightly as she helps him back up on the seat and checks his injuries, a frown across her pretty pink-painted lips.

Her eyes catch the new bracelets, and the iridescent sheen of the tandem magic that real mages struggle so much with and the Germa princes are famed and feared for. It doesn't take a Germa spymaster to figure out what must have happened.

"Oh, Sanji," Reiju sighed, her eyes shining with almost-pity for him, for the closest thing that could pass for pity in the Germa royals.

But she is the Germa princess, and spymaster, and diplomat. She will not let him go as she once did, so long ago, and he does not ( cannot ) ask.

===/END\===

( On Ao3 ) ( patreon ) ( kofi ) ( paypal )

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thepencilnerd · 4 years

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– a budding romance | part 1 –

➵ After moving into a new apartment, Min Yoongi stumbles across a flower shop down the street who’s radiant bouquets and even brighter personality catches his eye. What happens when two completely different worlds collide?

➵ pairing: min yoongi x reader

➵ genre: fluff, angst, slow burn, strong friendship/family dynamic, strangers to lovers, barely a soulmate AU

➵ word count: 16.8k

➵ warnings: swearing, very heavy angst, alcohol consumption, discussions of mental health and past emotional trauma—if you are in need of help, please please seek out professional care. there is hope out there and people that are here to help you. you are not your illness and always remember that you are not alone.

➵ a/n: I finally decided to get back to writing since I was on spring break for a short period of time (and because staying home is cool :) this story was inspired by my newly developed passion for houseplants, of which I’ve amassed a collection of over 30 in the past few months and totally don’t have an addiction to... This chapter turned out to be a very filler-heavy introduction to the universe it takes place in; although there’s not much romance in this part, I’m very happy with how the friendship dynamic between our main/secondary characters and their backgrounds turned out, so I please forgive me ^^

I’ve missed you all so freaking much, and I cannot thank you enough for showering Melophile with so much love throughout the past year. Thank you for being patient with me during my hiatus, and I hope you and all of your loved ones are staying safe, healthy, and happy ❤️enjoy, and please stay tuned for part two ❤️

“Where do you want the shelf?” the mover asked while holding one end of the wooden bookcase.

The sleep looked up from his seat by the kitchen island and “Right by the window,” Yoongi directed, guiding him to the west-facing window that opened up to his balcony. “Thanks.”

Tipping each of the movers, he thanked them once and bid them goodbye, shutting the door. The whoosh of the door closing left him alone in his new apartment with nothing but hastily arranged furniture, the quiet murmur of traffic outside, and of course, his thoughts; he was finally moved in.

Yoongi had thought about moving out for years now, but never brought up the topic until Seokjin, Taehyung, and Jungkook were traveling out of the country more. By the time university had started, he and the guys had all agreed to move into a duplex a few minutes away from campus for time, money, and friendship’s sake. It was only a matter of time before the three boys were scouted off the street by the head of a modeling agency. Might he add that it was a late Friday night, post-finals season of senior year, and all the boys were more than inebriated, so how the man decided that giving contracts to three loud, wild, and utterly wasted uni students was astounding. Either way, the three stooges dropped out to pursue a career in modeling faster than you could say ‘show in Europe.’

After graduation, Namjoon brought up the idea of moving into a smaller building, to which Jimin and Hoseok disapproved of with arms crossed and pouty faces. Taehyung and Jungkook tried to come to an agreement and schedule what times of the year they’d be in town, but with their unpredictable schedules, it was a pointless compromise. Seokjin—the oldest of the seven—was expected to move out before any of them, so it wasn’t much of a surprise when he eventually offered to share a place with Taehyung and Jungkook. They were still employed under the same agency and manager, so understandably, they would all share similar shows, shooting schedules, flights, and time spent in and out of town. It was also pretty close from here, so the seven would still be able to spend time together when they had the chance to.

Yoongi was the first to offer moving out so the four of them wouldn’t have to be crammed into a small condo. He had booked a few producing jobs here and there while still at university, so he practically had a contact list of full-time connections. Plus, Jimin had decided to enroll in a master’s program for traditional dance while teaching at a nearby dance studio, Namjoon started his first semester towards a postgraduate degree in literary criticism (again, how the boy had even passed his G.E. chemistry class in sophomore year was beyond anyone’s wildest imagination), and Hoseok had landed a solid job teaching hip-hop classes at the same studio Jimin was at.

“You’re sure you’re okay with it?” Jimin asked Yoongi with worry laced in his voice. The four were lounging in the living room of the quiet apartment. Seokjin and the two younger ones had moved out earlier that morning, and they were probably still getting settled. It was only a ten minute drive from Namjoon, Hoseok and Jimin’s new place. Thankfully they’d all be living a relative distance to one another even after moving.

Patting him on the head, Yoongi’s lips formed a small grin. “Don’t worry about me. At least I won’t have to deal with Hoseok’s late night gas bombs...”

Hoseok’s face burned bright red and his eyes grew wide as a storm of curse words flew out of his mouth. “Hey! Don’t blame me, tell Namjoon to learn how to cook raw food all the way through!"

To this, Namjoon threw his comforter at Hoseok, nailing him square in the face. Jimin held back his giggles while Yoongi stared wistfully. He would miss them more than he thought.

“It’s only a few minutes from your place so I’ll come and check up on you guys every once in a while,” Yoongi sighed, leaning into the couch. With everything packed and sent off the day before, it was the only piece of furniture left in the apartment. A distant memory resurfaced as his eyes drifted to the dented armrest. He and Jungkook had bought it at the thrift store on 5th Street after weeks of Seokjin complaining that there was no place to sit and watch TV; a past time he required to “relieve him of his grievances.”

Yoongi cleared his throat, redirecting his attention back to the present moment. “You know, just to make sure you haven’t all starved or strangled each other.”

The four shared one last month together and even helped Yoongi find his new place eight blocks down. According to Yoongi, the day Hoseok ran into Yoongi’s room with the crumpled piece of paper was a match made by hell and granted by heaven.

Snapping back into the present moment, Yoongi’s watch read 12:45 p.m. He rubbed his eyes at how dreadfully early in the day it was and his body was already begging for sleep. By the magic laws of the universe, the familiar sound of his ringtone reverberated through the barren apartment—his new apartment. Walking to the kitchen counter, Hoseok’s name flashed across the screen and Yoongi swiped to answer the call.

“How’s our big boy doing?” Hoseok immediately shouted through the receiver.

Yoongi scrunched his face in displeasure at the volume but couldn’t hide the slight smirk that grazed his lips. “I’m doing great mom, thanks for checking in.”

“We wanted to know if you needed any help settling in!” Jimin’s soft voice, as usual, offered with nothing but joy. Judging by the distant sound of complaining and forced laughter, he had taken the opportunity to snatch the phone away from Hoseok, and Namjoon was now holding him hostage with the force of tickling.

“I second that!” Namjoon’s voice boomed in the background.

Yoongi allowed himself the barest hint of a laugh. “I already had help from the movers, so the furniture is decently positioned already.” Opening up his fridge, he saw that it was unsurprisingly empty other than a few bottles of water. “I might need to run to the grocery store though. Can I call you guys after I get back?”

“Jimin, I swear to god you’re going to regret sharing a room with me!” Hoseok’s voice echoed closer from the other end.

“Call us when you get back! It’d be nice to get to know the shops around the neighborhood,” Namjoon backed up with confidence but he suddenly yelped in pain. Yoongi pictured Hoseok jabbing him in the side like he always did whenever they fought.

Hoseok huffed as he brought up the phone and was in possession of the device once again. “We’ll swing by your place at 6 with food, so don’t worry and buy some basic groceries. Namjoon, I swear—”

“—and make some neighborhood friends!” Namjoon blurted out. “We’ll see you soon!”

“See you soon!” Jimin added cheerfully.

“Miss you bud!” Hoseok chirped.

“Bye guys,” Yoongi chuckled. "Don’t kill each other.” Clicking off, he sighed once more before admiring his new place. The one-bedroom penthouse came with a decent sized-kitchen, in-unit washer and dryer, and included utilities. Not to mention the extra room that he had already moved his studio equipment into and man, that balcony view. It wasn’t considered budget-friendly for it’s square footage, but for the amenities and the part of town it was centered in? A steal.

Even though a job in the music industry didn’t exactly pay well, Yoongi considered himself lucky to have gotten the exposure he did so early. He had been bound to music for as long as he could remember, and it was during his middle school years that he discovered the editing software that changed his life. By junior year of high school, Yoongi had accumulated hundreds of thousands of followers and millions of listens on his streaming account. After he declared his major in university, renowned musicians from all over the world were flooding his email with requests for new songs, collaborations, editing, and everything in between.

As fame and status quickly began consuming his every waking thought, a dark cloud loomed over him. There had been a period of time when sitting in his studio was no longer enjoyable and felt like pure hell. Slowly but surely, it was the same cycle over and over again: get a request from a record label, make a new song, send it back to the tone-deaf money hungry CEO’s of the music industry, and then get feedback on how it’s not catchy enough or "up with the times.” God, that pissed him off more than anything. Good music shouldn’t have to be labeled as such because it fits into the typical mold of some teenage trend; that’s what makes it good.

That’s all they cared about these days. No meaningful lyrics or real talk about everyday life and how the world goes around—only songs about meaningless sex, regretting one night stands, repetitive ear worm tunes, unrequited and dumb young love, or things that talentless, plastic Instagram models could lip-sync and stick choreography to. It’s hard to pursue your passion in a field that you love when it’s hellbent on destroying itself.

Don’t even start with the controversies Yoongi dealt with on a daily basis. Flashy yellow headlines that talked about who this mysterious producer Min Yoongi was, where he was brought up, who he’s dated/is dating, his sexuality, and even his family members and their backgrounds. All of these were topics that every single news and social media outlet had the audacity to stamp on hundreds of magazines covers and copy/paste on their blogs, yet if given the chance, none would have the real guts to ask him in-person, face to face.

Yoongi found himself falling into periods of constant downward spirals. What would he become if he gave in? Who would he be if just shut up and took the money? If he listened to what everyone had to say and gave them everything they wanted? Would they love him any less or hate him even more?

It was half past one when he realized that he still had to go to run errands. Another 30 minutes of the day spent lingering on things that can’t be changed and don’t matter, he noted to himself. Wonderful.

Despite the chilly weather, Yoongi opted to throw on a hoodie and call it a day. His decision to wear ripped jeans was poorly made, but he refused to admit that laziness was the culprit for not packing some spare clothes into a suitcase before moving day. Before stepping out, he quickly slipped on a beanie and a face mask for privacy’s sake. He was really not in the mood today.

Murmuring a quick thanks to the cashier, Yoongi walked out of the grocery store as fast as he could. Within minutes, people had gathered in a crowd around him asking for pictures, autographs, voice memos, and the works.

Every single time he had to turn down someone’s request for a picture because he could not miss the last bus; constantly hiding in fear of someone catching him and finding out where he lives, or worse: his family members; always trying to leave the house at the most awkward time of day so he could actually walk around and get basic shit done. No one knew it, but he hated himself for feeling like the biggest asshole that ever existed when in reality, he was just trying to live a normal life.

Yoongi loved music, but more than anything, he loved how there were people who truly empathized with his songs and the effort he put into making them. He missed the days before fanbase culture mobbed those who genuinely understood what he was trying to say. He missed going out with the guys and not having to worry about strangers following him home and leaking his address for publicity and likes. He missed having the decency of basic privacy and boundaries. Yoongi was grateful for everyone’s unnecessary unconditional love for his work and lifelong devotion to music, but after all, he was nothing but a human being who needed some space to breathe.

Today was no different. He got lucky and managed to snag enough fruits and vegetables to fit into a single paper bag before the overwhelming screeches and overlapping voices forced him out of the mart.

One of the security guards and a few cashiers were kind enough to hold back a few of the people who tried following him out. Giving them a quick bow before scurrying out, he felt like an even bigger nuisance.

What kind of a prick like me disrupts people’s day-to-day life just to get some food...

Should’ve worn a damn ski mask.

Yoongi was two blocks from his apartment complex when the smell of smog and car exhaust was replaced by a tidal wave of—roses? The fragrance of fresh flowers flooded his nostrils with a vibrancy and sweetness that he had never smelled before. Trying to find the source, he stumbled across what appeared to be hole-in-the-wall flower shop.

Treading carefully towards the vivid assortment of colors and warm light, he glanced over at the array of plants that graced the outside shelves. It wasn’t until he started feeling hot that he noticed a patio heater beside the entrance, which doubled as a lamp.

As he admired the wide variety of colors, leaf shapes, and aromas, Yoongi picked up a weathered terra cotta pot. The gritty surface of the pot was splotched with discolored patches of white, probably from water and rain. It housed a plant with small, plump, ovular, dimpled emerald green leaves, and it was vining up the bamboo stick that was staked in the center.

A delicate shuffle of shoes on hardwood accompanied a soft voice. “Need help finding something?”

Looking up, Yoongi’s eyes met the young woman’s gaze. Even through his mask, her friendly smile seemed to glow brighter than the embers from the patio heater. Underneath her apron, she was wearing a fluffy white sweater and a pair of comfortably loose jeans that were decorated with colorful paint-splatters.

Blinking hard after catching himself staring too long, Yoongi shook his head and put the plant back. “Just looking around. Nice place you got here.” If he spoke any quieter, he’d have a new job singing lullabies to babies.

Knitting her eyebrows with an inquisitive stare, he felt his pulse start to pick up. Did she recognize him? Was she going to freak out? Was there something on his face?

She brought her finger up to her quirked lip and widened her eyes. “Botanophobia is my area of specialty!” she exclaimed with joy. “You don’t have to worry about killing a single plant under my wing.” Picking up the plant he set down, she held it out towards him with a warm grin.

Yoongi won’t be the first to admit that of his absent green thumb. When he used to visit his grandmother, she’d always tug on his ear for picking at the hanging pots draped underneath her patio. He didn’t even have a plant near his vicinity until Taehyung brought home individual cactus for each of the guys. Something about keeping it on their desks for focus and oxygen or whatever.

Needless to say that Namjoon and Yoongi both learned very quickly that cacti don’t like water as much as you think.

“Oh,” Yoongi waved his hands in defense. “ I’m not really a plant collecting type of guy.”

The girl rolled her eyes teasingly and handed him a ball of twine from her pocket.

“Stay here until I get back,” she commanded with a stern look and playful confidence. “I’ll be but a moment.” Retreating back into the shop, Yoongi was frozen in place. Guilty if he leaves, not guilty if he stays—

Right as he was about to put the twine on the shelf, the girl came out of the shop with a paper-wrapped package. “Water it once a month and keep it by a window, preferably brightly lit but not necessarily,” she instructed with nothing less than an energetic smile. “They kind of thrive on neglect.”

He was taken aback. “But—”

She held her hand up to halt his rebuttal and took back the twine. “Think of this as a little welcome to the neighborhood gift. I know all of my locals by heart and I’ve never seen you around before.”

“I can’t just take a plant from you,” Yoongi huffed, slightly annoyed at her stubborn nature. She was determined, he’d give her that.

Shaking her head, her hands didn’t move. “You can pay me back the next time you visit, and if you still haven’t fallen in love with this guy—” her head motioned to the paper-wrapped plant in her hands. “—then I guess I’ll just have to work harder.”

Yoongi bowed his head in thanks and accepted the parcel with a tightly pressed smile. She was definitely not one to give in. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy that there were still people in the world who loved their jobs as much as this woman.

The dimming sky signaled that it was time for him to get back home. Waving goodbye, the sound of his steps grew louder as the echo of her voice faded farther away. “See you around!”

Sure, the pessimist in him spat.

You awoke to the gentle sound of rain pattering against your window. Drops bounced off of the glass as the sound grew harsher, the water droplets ricocheting off of the already-streaky pane and onto the surrounding leaves of the tree whose branches caressed your small windowsill. The freezing cold air whistled through the crack between your window pane and the latch, causing you to shiver reflexively.

Stretching out your limbs, a large and clearly gracious yawn left your mouth, which harmonized in tandem with your outstretched palms and scrunched face. The warmth of your rumpled and disheveled sheets made you groan, your body naturally refusing to leave the comfort of your own bed. Did you really have to go out today? Using the rusty spring of the mattress to swing your legs over the bed, your feet grazed the cold, damp fabric of your carpet—

“Crap.” Partially awake, your aching limbs dashed across your small studio apartment and rummaged through the pile of rubbish in the spare closet, fishing out an old bucket. You ran back to your room and placed on top of the wet patch of fabric just underneath the foot of your bed. The sound of water hitting the carpet soon turned into muffled pangs. The culprit? A leaky spot in the ceiling of your humble abode that you had so graciously discovered months after you’d moved in.

Your landlord/makeshift, of course, said he couldn’t do anything about it. Something told you it wasn’t that he couldn’t, but rather, he couldn’t be bothered to...

The pleasantly dull morning heaviness that weighed your body slowly retreated, and left you fully aware that your feet were still wet and freezing cold. Very, very cold. It was Monday, right? A sigh escaped you as your hand came up to rub your eyes. Definitely a Monday. Stretching once more, you sat silently and found a moment of peace in gazing at the pouring rain that battered your window.

There was something oddly relaxing about watching the water droplets slowly slide down the glass. Whether it was the transparency of the glass against the clarity of the rainwater, or the different textures of sound as the droplets bounced off of the window onto the tree leaves, one thing was certain: overcast skies and the fresh smell petrichor was one of nature’s many great gifts.

Since the day was still immersed in the early hours of the morning, you were compelled to stay inside and burn through a book or two while in the comfort of your own bed. However, your fairytale fantasy was shattered by the reality that was your day job. You washed up, got dressed, and didn’t bother adding any extra layers to combat the cold. It was, of course, the sensation of the icy biting air against your flushed cheeks that made you treasure this kind of weather all the more. The haphazard toss a mini-umbrella into your bag and the clink of a lock and key was quite complimentary.

Ever since you were young, you’d loved flowers. Red roses, to be exact. It was in your best interest as a 6-year old to tag alongside your dad on his trips to the hardware store. Each time you came home, you ended up bringing a 99-cent fern home that ended up dying a week later. No matter how much your little heart adored each tiny gem, it was only a matter of time before you drowned the plant with too much water. In your pre-pubescent mind, taking care of a plant meant watering it. Every day. Little did you know that tending to a garden meant leaving it alone and giving it time to grow by itself.

Hundreds of plant funerals were held from the tender ages of six to fourteen. Years of experience, tears, frustration, determination, and love ended up raising your brown thumb well. Who knew that you’d end up majoring in biology and horticultural studies? Not to mention starting up an independent business as a flower shop and nursery. Now that was something to be grateful for.

It might seem strange to many; working a job that doesn’t pay a ton or have a stable workload, sitting in a humid shop some days with nothing but the rustling of dried bouquets to keep you company, or learning to appreciate the quiet solitude of white noise against morning traffic. It may have seemed like torture for anyone with some ounce of sanity, but to you, it was home.

Nothing excited you more than when you received the bi-weekly shipment of new plants. You were lucky the rain had stopped by the time you made it halfway to the shop. Marco, your go-to greenhouse guy, was just in time. He was wearing a blue sweater and the navy scarf his wife, Lucia, knitted him for Christmas four years ago.

You’ll never forget the gifts they exchanged that year. It was two days before Christmas and Marco was so busy with deliveries, he didn’t have time to get Lucia a present. Of course, seeing him ramble his worries to you while bringing in the day’s shipment made a lightbulb go off in your head.

As he was unloading boxes, you ran inside and whipped up a somewhat-simple but ever-classic arrangement: red tulips, white honeysuckles, baby’s-breath stems, and a mix of myrtle and lemon leaves to balance out the flower to foliage ratio.

Before Marco could leave, you put the finishing touches on the lush bouquet and finished it off with a gold-dusted bow for added holiday spirit.

“All done!” Marco bellowed. Running out of the shop, you handed him the box that sheltered Lucia’s gift.

“Merry Christmas,” you whispered with a giddiness that couldn’t be held back.

“Oh, bella...” His reaction was priceless. With a mouth parted, sparkling eyes, and a wonder-struck smile to top it all off, this was why you loved your job.

“Red tulips for a perfect love, honeysuckles for devoted lovers, and baby’s breath for everlasting love.” The words rolled off of your tongue like a second language.

Marco was still speechless. “You shouldn’t have—”

“Marco, my business would not function without you and neither would I,” you hushed. “This is the absolute least I could do for you and Lucia.”

“Bella!” His deep voice brought you back to the present day. The nickname always made you feel fuzzy. “How are you?”

“I’m doing wonderful, Marco.” Your eyes beamed. “How are Lucia and the girls?”

He laughed, shaking his head with a grin. “As wild as always. Fia and Gianna just started 2nd grade a few days ago. They’re growing up too fast.”

Your heart melted. “It’s always like that, isn’t it? Time flies...” The wistful tone in your voice didn’t go unnoticed. “Anyway, what’s in today’s box of treasures?” Rubbing your hands together like an animated cartoon, your eyes lit up at the sight of all the new varieties that peeked from the boxes.

“Oh you’ll love these!” Pulling out one of the 4-inch grow pots from the boxes, he revealed to you a healthy Hoya bella. The delicately draped stems with spear-shaped leaves and grooved foliage was breathtaking. A few of them even had a few peduncles, which was where flowers bloomed from. Hoyas were known for their delicate, candy-like flowers, and Hoya bella was a prolific bloomer.

If you had to choose a favorite type of tropical genus, it’d most definitely be the wax plant family. There are hundreds of species within that range from your typical waxy, thick and succulent leaves to thin, hair-like sparse leaves that looked like grass. Expensive grass, might you add.

You couldn’t hold back the excitement. “You brought me hoyas!” Jumping up and down with an overzealous amount of energy, Marco bowed for dramatic effect. Today was already off to a great start.

He counted all the boxes one more time, summing up the numbers in his head. “There are also some krinkle 8′s, compactas, variegated and green carnosas, more bellas, australis, curtisii, pubicalyx, burtoniae, lacunosa, and only a couple linearis. You know how popular those are these days.” Each time he listed off another set of species had you spinning. “The bottom boxes have some pothos, rubber trees, ferns, tradescantias, and peperomias.”

“Thank you thank you thank you,” you exclaimed while giving him a big hug. “Don’t count me guilty if I run home with a few of these.”

A hearty laugh reverberated from his chest. “Always a pleasure, bella. I have to get going. Watch the rain! I’ll see you next week!”

Bidding him a goodbye, you reminded him to drive safe before he was off.

The first customer of the day was a regular; you could spot her bright red lipstick and pinup elegance from a mile away. If she hadn’t said anything, you could have sworn she was related to Marilyn Monroe.

“Good morning, Ms. Simmons!” you greeted as the chime on the door jingled. “How are you?”

Her bright red lips curled into a grin that revealed her immaculate smile. “I’m doing very well, thank you dearie.” Did you mention that she had an Irish accent?

Stepping out from behind the counter, you pulled out the freshly wrapped parcel and unfolded the top to show her. Cupping your hand to speak, the words came out in a whisper. “I got the new shipment of linearis.”

At this, her eyes grew bigger and mouth rounded into an O. She’d been waiting for these grass-leaved hoyas for months now and you had made a promise to her that she was the first on the waitlist.

“You are an absolute jewel my love, an unreal star!” Handing you her usual payment method of cash, you made sure to choose the fullest plant for her before she arrived. Also, you may have added in a begonia and African violet or two. All in the name of agape love, truly.

Even though she celebrated her 70th birthday over the winter, Ms. Simmons was a regular ever since you opened the shop. She always made the two mile walk from her home to your shop every Monday and you couldn’t understand for the life of you why. All you could do was be the best at your job and treat your customers as well, if anything, better than they treated you.

“I’ll see you next week, Ms. Simmons,” you smiled, holding the door open for her as she went on her merry way.

The rest of the day was business as usual. Mary, another regular, came in looking for a rubber tree and a peace lily; she’d just moved into a bigger house to accompany their newest family member, and needed some green so the place didn’t look so sterile.

Isaac, the pastor who worked at the local church, was in need of some rose arrangements for this weekend’s sermon. He always loved how full the ones you had out on display were.

Kat was an old university friend you had stayed in touch with and a fellow “hoya head.” She was the sweetest girl and always brought you coffee and a perfectly toasted bagel whenever she visited. The doorbell always chimed at exactly 12:25 p.m. and she never missed it once ever since you opened the shop’s doors.

“You got a perm?!” you gawked. She’d gotten another haircut. Her once long, pin-straight dark brown hair was now shoulder length and curled like Shirley Temple’s signature look. “You look a-freaking-mazing!”

Tussling the curls with one hand while pushing up the bridge of her cat-eye glasses with the other, she reminded you of a revamped 70’s Betty Boop. “Thank you darling, I’ve been meaning to chop it all off for a while now but the weather has had me down in the dumps,” she remarked in an over the top, received pronunciation accent.

Shaking your head and appreciating her choice of clothing, you couldn’t help but applaud at how she always chose fashion and style over basic comfort.

"We got some bellas and compactas so grab ‘em and go before you get a cold.” Her red dress and black cardigan ensemble was an eye-catcher but did not bode well considering the cloudy sky.

She rolled her eyes in an exaggerated manner. “Yes mom, I’ll take those two and a krinkle, if you please.” You will admit, her energy was something you never got tired of.

The wrapping of planters had become muscle-memory now. Wrap around, fold over, crease the edge, tuck in the sides, and tie with some twine. A snip here and brushing off the excess soil there and voila.

Before she left, you handed her the umbrella you brought from home. “Get home before it starts raining!” you nagged. “I only live a few minutes from here so just take it before you ruin your clothes.” Kat definitely needed it more than you.

She wrapped her arms around you in a familiar hug and promised she’d call you back at home. “Love you!” Perfect timing, too. Right as the door shut, the slow patter of rain had started sprinkling the rooftop, and cars started whooshing by with an added splash.

Cradling your warm cup of coffee was a routine on Kat’s visiting days. The rain was now trickling down the ridged shingles of the roof and down the gutter, droplets of water blurring into coiled trails. Absolutely mesmerizing. After making a dozen bouquets that were on today’s order list, Sara, Louie, Timmy, Kyle, and George visited one by one to pick them up. Soon after that, the day started slowing down and the rain showed no signs of stopping like you had anticipated. It was nearing closing time too, so maybe it was a good idea to head home a bit early.

You rushed to bring in the buckets of pre-cut flowers and ready-made arrangements from outside. You ended up wrapping everything up right on time. Even better, a few new faces showed up. All of your linearis and bellas had sold out today (no surprise), and you got to meet some new customers right before closing time. It was nothing but a joyous and success-filled day in your eyes.

Gripping the cold metal, goosebumps prickled your skin as soon as your fingertips rolled down the gate over the store windows. A smile of triumph grazed your lips. The quietest of goodbyes escaped your lips.

Until tomorrow.

The buzz of alcohol and smell of grease wafted in the air as they all got crazier by the minute.

Namjoon had already burned through three bottles of beer and was on the verge of losing his sense of direction. Hoseok was two sips in before his face flushed a bright red. Jimin was prancing around like a fairy after his third shot of tequila. Taehyung and Jungkook were singing and dancing to bad karaoke songs, nearly knocking over the TV a few times.

Seokjin was the only one who was mildly sober. Again, mildly is a word that should be used very lightly. "Since when did you have a green finger?”

The five paused their shenanigans to glance over at the single plant that decorated the otherwise empty bookshelf.

Yoongi chewed silently, unable to come up with any response.

Jimin hiccuped before talking. “Didn’t you kill a cactus a few years back?”

Again, Yoongi chose to stay silent and give an unbothered shrug. Hoseok’s face still looked like he was contemplating the meaning of life, but he managed to nod his head in confirmation.

“Yeah, Namjoon drowned his, too,” the youngest spoke with a ditzy tone. Taehyung giggled like a child at Jungkook’s strangely accurate description and pointed at Namjoon. Some comment about his messy hair or turtle glasses, or a combination of both.

“I’m old enough to take care of myself so I should be able to take care of some stupid weed.” For some reason, Yoongi’s mouth burned saying those words.

Namjoon rolled his eyes at the comment and got up to grab some water. Of course, his drunk state amplified his clumsiness and caused him to bang his knee against the corner of the kitchen island. Hoseok and Jimin burst out into cackles and snorted as Yoongi rolled his eyes. The alcohol was beginning to pass like water. He should slow down.

“Apparently that one thrives on neglect.” Yoongi finally broke his vow of silence, changing the topic and directing his attention to Jimin and half-there Hoseok. “How’s teaching going?”

Leaning on each other as the alcohol sleeps finally kicked in, they could only raise their thumbs-up with half-lidded eyes.

Coming back with a tray of water cups that remained miraculously intact, Namjoon collapsed down into his seat. “They’ve been working every single day for the past month now. Jimin has his mid-semester show coming up and Hoseok got booked for some choreography with a local theater group.”

Yoongi downed one last mouthful of the bitter drink before calling it quits, enjoying how it burned his throat as it made its way down. “And you guys?”

Seokjin and Jungkook all murmured something about an upcoming shoot in May for the spring catalog.

“Jungkook and Seokjin got booked for a perfume ad and I got an acting gig,” Taehyung explained. The excitement was evident in his voice. Yoongi congratulated the three, cheering them on with another shot.

He turned to the boy rubbing his bruised knee. “And you, Joon?”

It was Namjoon’s turn to shrug. “School is school. Always studying, reading, writing, nothing new,” he droned in a monotonous voice. “How’ve you been handling everything?”

He was talking about all the new deals that Yoongi was offered in the last couple of weeks. Every post on social media was rampant with news of Min Yoongi’s latest tracks and upcoming collabs. Although the boys would never fully understand his stress, their sympathy for him was plenty enough.

“Same old same old. Money hungry bastards trying to get my advice on shitty tracks that have as much depth and complexity as a poptart just to get my signature stamped on it.” Yoongi spoke with painful honesty, causing everyone to sober up and focus on him. He took a final swig of his drink. “Whatever sells, I guess.”

Namjoon and the others shook their heads in agreement solemnly, showing his wordless support and understanding. “You’ll get out of it, Yoongi. Trust me.” He patted his friend’s shoulder in vain, but only Yoongi knew it.

Trying to swallow the words, Yoongi looked over at the snoring bundle that was Jimin, Hoseok, Jungkook, and Taehyung. Seokjin was probably passed out in the bathroom. His upper teeth raked across his lower lip, savoring the dull sensation that felt more real than the situation he had gotten himself into.

“Yeah. I’ll get out of it.”

Spring was always the best time of the year. All of the flowers were in bloom and sunlight was streaming through everyone’s window without being unbearably hot. To top it all off, it was also the busiest time for you and your business. The shop was always flooded with customers marveling at the colors that decorated the exterior. When the inside of the shop finally cleared out, you were able to take requests for individual bouquets, parties, and weddings.

“Need some help?” a familiar someone shouted through the crowd of people.

Your head snapped over to the upbeat and bubbly voice you knew by heart. “Kat!” Hugging her over the counter and bringing her behind the register, you quickly thanked her before running around frantically with a notepad in hand.

This became a routine about two springs after you opened up: people piling in by the masses for a chance at bringing home the freshest roses, tulips, and succulents you had to offer, Kat making her weekly visit and seeing you overwhelmed, weaving her way through the horde of people crammed inside the shop and lined up outside, and finally putting on an apron of her own and managing the register while you paced back and forth getting people’s orders.

“What would I do without you?” you mouthed to her as you formed your face into a meme-worthy cry face.

She stuck her tongue out and managed the register like a pro, fingers pressing buttons left and right at lighting speed. You giggled and went back to jotting down everyone’s orders.

1x assmt/ peace lilies; red and white in ceram. pot

2x 4-inch maiden hair ferns delivered

1 bqt/dozen red roses w/ filler foliage

1 bqt/dozen red roses w/o filler foliage

1x dozen individually wrapped W roses with gld. ribbons

R, W, PRP, PNK tulips w/ queen anne’s lace

Succ. terr. for bday, round jar, colorful

Over the course of one day, you used up three ballpoint pens and couldn’t feel your fingers or your cheeks. Writing and smiling at the same time should be an official sport for next year’s Olympics. Kat fared no better. Slung over the register like a floppy piece of bacon, the only indication of any remaining energy from either of you was the heavy sound of breathing.

Stretching out your hands, you set down the notepad and groaned. “Kat?” Checking to make sure she was alive, she groaned back in response. “Thank you.”

She looked up and rested her cheek against the gold glass of the counter. “Welcome,” she mumbled, flashing her signature smile. It was a quarter past seven but you usually closed the shop by five, so why were you and Kat still here? After the commotion of today, both of you were too exhausted to close up, so you just brought whatever flowers from outside remained and ordered some takeout to eat here.

Standing up, your body needed to step outside and get some fresh air. Kat was knocked out comfortably on the counter, so you decided to leave her alone to nap in peace. The first step you took outside made your body tingle. You were constantly running back and forth earlier, but being out of breath and in a mental flux with all the orders made you feel like you were floating.

You inhaled the cold air as deeply as you could and breathed out with an equal amount of force. The sky was tinted a coral pink color and the sun was barely kissing the horizon. Thank you spring for yet another marvelous attribute that only you can provide.

Right before you were about to step back inside, a familiar masked figure entered your field of vision. “Hey!” Calling out through cupped hands, you prayed he could hear you over the few cars that were driving by. His head perked up and even behind his covered face, you could see that he was surprised. Ducking his head in a makeshift greeting, you waved him hello and goodbye, happy to see his masked face again. No point in calling him over this late at night. He probably had things to do. Didn’t we all?

Jungkook and Taehyung were the first ones to point it out.

“Yoongi...” Hoseok uttered.

“How could you?” Seokjin continued, mouth agape in pure disbelief.

Namjoon shook his head. “I can’t believe you’ve done this. ‘Responsible adult’ my ass.”

“You’ve had it for two weeks and it’s already dying!” Jimin was the one who finally blurted it out.

Yoongi rubbed his sore eyes. It was 11 in the morning and he was exhausted from staying up all night. The deadline for his upcoming track was this Friday and contrary to popular belief, making a horribly repetitive and catchy song was a lot harder than you’d think. The guys managed to find some time in their schedules to come visit him. He never thought the day would come where he wanted them to stay home.

“It’s fine,” he grunted.

“When was the last time you watered it?” Hoseok asked, inspecting the sick looking plant. He was making that weird face. The one where his nose wrinkled at an invisible stench and eyes narrowed into slits.

“Don’t know,” Yoongi shrugged while chugging a few mouthfuls of water and relished the feeling of cool liquid coating his parched throat.

They all surveyed the state of the place. There were crumpled scraps of paper that littered the hardwood floor like confetti. Empty water bottles were spread across the bathroom, music studio, kitchen counter, and balcony shelf—and who could forget the pile of worn hoodies and shirts that were nestled in the sofa corner and had slowly been growing bigger, congregating to form a laundry mountain.

Namjoon was the one to point out that the fridge was still pretty much empty. “Did you even go grocery shopping, Yoongi?” He spoke with the tone of concern now. If anyone knew how persistent Yoongi was, it was Namjoon. This wouldn’t be the first time he’s skipped meals and sleep just to work on a song.

“Yoongi, we can go out for you if you need us to,” Jimin offered as usual. Hoseok and Namjoon voted in support of his idea, already mouthing a list to Taehyung and Jungkook.

“We’ll go to the supermar—” Jungkook was cut off by Yoongi’s sudden spike of anger.

“I’m fine,” Yoongi replied a bit too harshly. He could only hold in pent up frustration for so long before he burst. “I don’t need you to go grocery shopping for me. I don’t need your help. I appreciate it, I really do, but it’s not your job to bear my burden of being a nuisance.”

They stayed quiet. The ball was already rolling and he needed to get it all out.

“You think I don’t want to go out? To step outside for one day and have nobody recognize me?” Yoongi scoffed, voice dripping with venom and sarcasm. “I want—” he paused. “No, no. I crave that more than anything. The anonymity I had in high school when I was a nobody and only had you guys by my side.

“Back when I didn’t have to bury myself underneath hoodies and beanies, suffocate myself underneath scarves and face masks, or wear sunglasses when it wasn’t the slightest bit sunny out.” Yoongi held back a scream and ran his hands through his hair in anger, tugging at the strands so he could feel tense pain nip at his scalp; he needed to feel anything other than this—this thing inside of him. Realizing that he had directed his vexes toward the wrong people, he sighed. Yoongi buried his face into his hands, disappointed at himself for doing it again.

Sinking into the ground, he couldn’t find it in himself to shed a single tear. In a fit of blind rage, he had just yelled at his childhood friends for absolutely no reason. Guilt was starting to eat away at his conscience; he’d fucked up—bad. What the hell was wrong with him?

The six kneeled down beside Yoongi and enveloped him in a silent hug. The boys had formed their group of seven in middle school and were forever bound by their loyalty to one another. Pushing past the temper tantrums of adolescence and living through the toils of university was all accomplished by the means of what connected them as a whole: friendship. Friends were there for each other through thick and thin, and they knew that none of them were free from the confines of daily life; friends were family

Yoongi pressed the palms of his hands harder into his eye sockets and blinked back the ache that was diffusing across his muscles.

I’ll get out of it.

It was an unusually cloudy day for spring. The grey clouds that were spread out across the sky didn’t seem to bode well for the day ahead. Today went by slower than usual. Granted it was a Sunday, but still—it was an off day.

You were in the middle of pruning the plants that were set up outside the shop when a hand tapped your shoulder. Turning around, you were greeted by a doe-eyed young man and his equally handsome friend. You had never seen them around before and they were each carrying two insulated grocery bags by their sides.

“Good afternoon.” The latter greeted you with an immaculate smile, bowing slightly. His friend mirrored the greeting, also presenting himself with his own charming grin.

Starstruck for a moment, you blinked a few times before gulping nervously. “Pleasure.” You mentally face-palmed your brain. Great job.

The big-eyed one spoke with a certain shyness you couldn’t put your finger on. “We were looking for some advice on plants. For a friend.” Chuckling, he scratched the back of his ear. It was only after a few moments to process their appearances did you realize that they were both attractive enough to be models, or something of the sort. Maybe your eyes were tricking you, but you felt like you’d seen them on last month’s fashion catalogue...

“I’m Jungkook by the way.” Shaking his hand, you couldn’t help but be aware of the pink that crept up your face. You tried to hide it with a nervous smile.

Act professional, you mentally scolded. “______,” you introduced yourself.

The other apologized for his manners and shook your hand as well. Your small fingers paled in comparison to his. “Taehyung. Nice to meet you.” His blinding smile made you blush furiously and you were dying inside.

“So uh—our friend, he has a plant like this one,” Taehyung continued, stopping to point to the tray of green carnosas beside his knee. “—and it’s starting to turn brown?”

“Hmm...” you frowned. "Does your friend always have the air conditioner or heater running? Something that might cause the air to dry out?”

The two stared at each other at a loss for words. “Not really, he always complains that the weather is too hot to turn on the heater yet too cold for the AC,” Jungkook elaborated.

“Oh!” He gasped as if a mind-blowing thought had struck him. “There’s a humidifier by his couch. Remember? He always used to complain about nosebleeds when we lived by uni.” Jungkook shook his head up and down like a cartoon, probably recalling this as well.

You were stumped. “You’re sure they’re brown leaves, right? Not yellow?”

They nodded. Damn. Yellowing leaves almost always indicated over watering or under fertilizing. Browning edges and tips usually meant that the plant needed more humidity, but full blown brown leaves?

Sighing in defeat, you packaged a small packet of water-soluble fertilizer with instructions and handed it to doe-eyed . “Try this and see if it helps,” you instructed, praying it would. Hoyas were known as bullet-proof plants, so why a carnosa of all species was starting to decline was alarming.

They thanked you for your help and asked you a few more questions before leaving.

“By the way,” Taehyung asked. “Do you do arrangements for large-scale productions? Like photoshoots?”

You said yes with a gentle smile. “Occasionally I will, but being such a small shop, I try to limit it to only during the springtime. It’s harder to fill out orders for big events when there aren’t that many materials to work with.”

Jungkook’s eyes got bigger than you thought to be possible and beamed, still running his hands through his hair shyly. “Would you be interested in helping us out?”

Raising your eyebrow at their request, you were curious. “What exactly would I be helping with?”

Taehyung started stuttering, his turn to be shy. “We actually have a spring photoshoot coming up for our modeling gig, and we thought it’d be cool to have an actual set full of flowers. Not just a big, white room with oversaturated fluorescents.”

“So you are models?” You felt like Sherlock Holmes had cracked the case.

This time, they were the ones who turned tomato red and cleared their throats, scratching their heads nervously. Humble folks.

“Don’t fret, your secret is safe with me,” you comforted. “What kind of theme are you trying to go for?”

You conversed for the next half twenty minutes about their ideas for the shoot and a little bit about their backgrounds, and you managed to exchange numbers. It turns out they were quite the dynamic duo.

If you hadn’t reminded them that they had groceries that needed to be taken home, you could have easily talked to them for another couple of hours. They were the welcoming social butterflies, not the typical annoying ones that felt the compulsive need to blabber on about nothing.

After saving their contacts into your phone, Taehyung and Jungkook thanked you once more for your time and said they’d see you around.

What an interesting day it turned out to be indeed...

“We come bearing gifts!” Taehyung announced grandly in his signature deep voice. Setting down the bags, the six got to work organizing the food stash. Jungkook, Taehyung and Seokjin were fortunate enough to be in town for a while before their next shoot, and Jimin, Namjoon, and Hoseok were on spring break. Basically, all of them had been camping in Yoongi’s living room for the past few weeks, and he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Jungkook and Taehyung had bought enough food to last all of them for a month had they still lived under a single roof. Jimin got to work on washing and slicing up the vegetables, Seokjin was dividing up the cuts of beef, and Hoseok was boiling some water and sauce for the pasta. Meanwhile, Taehyung was busy figuring out how to set the temperature dial on the oven and Jungkook was scolding him every few seconds for not letting him do it.

Namjoon was keeping a keen eye on the water to make sure it was boiling.

“Do you think he’s still sleeping?” Sat on the bar counter of the kitchen, he propped up his chin while resting his elbow on the table.

“I hope so,” Hoseok sighed. “But you know he never sleeps even at the best of times.”

Jimin shook his head. “He was snoring a little earlier, but he might just be swaddled underneath the covers,” he added, the satisfying crunch of the vegetables timed perfectly with his words.

“He’ll be okay, right?” Jungkook asked with worry evident in his voice.

“He’ll talk about it when he’s ready to, but until then, it’s not our place to pry.” Seokjin was the class clown of the group, but every so often he let the wise part of his brain come out. “Let’s cook up a feast, pop open some bottles, and have a good time just like the old days.”

“The water is boiling!” Namjoon shouted, a bit too loud for Hoseok’s taste. He jumped at the sudden spike in pitch like a cat. Bursting into a fit of laughter, Hoseok whacked Joon on the forehead with the wooden spoon, making him howl. A spitting image of siblings fighting on Thanksgiving.

In the other room, Yoongi let out a deep sigh from beneath the jumbled mess of covers. The smell emanating from the kitchen made his mouth water and fooled him into thinking he was still dreaming.

Sitting up slowly so the blood wouldn’t rush too quickly to his head, he stared outside at the glimmering lights of the city that lit up the dark sky. Across the street, he could barely make out the flashing shadows of people’s TV screens behind their blinds and the monotonous, undecorated, cement balconies. For the most part, the sight was nothing extraordinary.

If he shut his eyes and listened closely, he could hear the faint hum of sirens; feel the quiet murmur of the heartbeat that lived and breathe in the city. If he silenced his mind entirely, he could smell the wet cement through the crack of his open window, still damp from the rain that poured hours earlier.

His footsteps were light as he made his way to the kitchen, but not before sneaking a glance at his friends from the hallway. Hiding behind the doorway, Yoongi listened to their voices; somehow even throughout puberty, he could still tell exactly who’s voice belonged to who just by the energy their words radiated.

“You told me to tell you when the water was boiling!” Namjoon defended with a whine, still rubbing his forehead from where Hoseok struck him with the spoon. He swore it was turning red.“I told you the water was boiling!”

Jungkook hung his head down to hide his wide-toothed grin. He was trying his hardest to hold back the snort that threatened to escape. “I think Hoseok meant to let him know with some bit of sanity, not intentionally scare him.”

“Either way, Hoseok definitely knew the water was boiling,” Taehyung chuckled with his mouth half-full. He always liked sneaking bits of food whenever they cooked something.

“Stop eating all the carrots, Taehyung!” Jimin yelled for what seemed like the hundredth time. “I hope your nose turns orange.”

His hand stopped midway, the carrot a mere centimeters away from his mouth which was still open. “Can—can that actually happen?” he sputtered.

Yoongi could picture Jimin’s smirk down to the last dimple. “I don’t know Taehyung, ever wonder why some babies turn orange?

“It only happens if you only eat carrots for a long time, like a carrot juice detox or something.” As usual, Seokjin was the voice of logic and mild reason in Yoongi’s absence.

Taehyung pinched Jimin’s cheek as revenge, popping the carrot into his mouth.

“I don’t know Taehyung,” Hoseok warned, sucking air in between his teeth for added effect. “Now that you mention it, your nose is starting to look a little bit—”

“What?!” A few chunks of carrot came flying out of his mouth, causing the boys to explode into snickers and simultaneous “ew’s.” Taehyung ran to the nearest bathroom and nearly ran face-first into the mirror trying to get a good look at his face.

“Hoseok!!!” he screeched like a demon. “You are so freaking lucky we don’t share a room anymore!”

Jungkook was starting to hyperventilate and clap like a seal, while Jimin, Seokjin and Hoseok sounded like they were on laughing gas from all of their snorting. “How do you fall for that sort of thing?” Seokjin forced out while clutching his stomach and nearly bursting into tears.

“God you guys are so stupid,” Namjoon facepalmed. In reality, he was hiding his ear-to-ear grin and his cheeks were sore. “I don’t know how we dealt with each other for twenty years.”

This made all of them laugh even harder.

Still hiding behind the doorway, Yoongi felt a bruising pain bloom from within his chest. It started deep down in his ribs and moved up his chest, crawling up his throat and contracting every muscle and scraping against every bone as it made its way farther up. The ache grew into a bubble, inflating itself bigger and bigger until it hurt for him to swallow or breathe. His knees buckled from beneath him as his back slid down the wall, his body curling into a crouched position. He looped his hands behind his neck and tugged his face into his knees, the familiar darkness comforting him. He wanted to scream until his throat refused to; punch something until his knuckles were pink, kick a box, bite down on a towel until his gums ached, throw a glass at a wall and watch it shatter into pieces, thrash around until his limbs went numb from the buzz of blood circulation.

He wanted to cry but he didn’t; he wanted to feel the tears as they trailed down his face. He wanted to feel the burning sensation of them trailing down his skin each time he wiped them away, cheek stinging even more after he did.

He needed to cry but he couldn’t.

“Do you wanna go wake him up, Taehyung?” Seokjin asked, his voice waking Yoongi up from his daze. It was more of a gentle command than a question, really. “He never gets mad at you for waking him up.”

On cue, Yoongi walked into the kitchen and pretended to rub his eyes as if he were still sleepy. Sitting at the table, he blinked a few times to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. “Wow, you actually managed to cook something and not burn my place down.” His chest was still sore and all he wanted to do was crawl back into bed, but there was also a part of him that was genuinely impressed by the setup.

“Hey, we’re not all like Namjoon.” Hoseok poked fun at him again and twirled his spatula as if it were a hypnotist wand.

“At least I made sure the water was boiling,” Joon mumbled under his breath.

Yoongi had no energy to smile, but he managed to lift the edges of his lips into the ghost of one. “I’m starving,” he spoke as his voice cracked a little.

The dinner table was already set and they just needed to bring some spare plates over. As everyone began gathering around the food, Yoongi felt the swelling in his chest begin to calm down. He was still having trouble breathing deep breaths, but it was better. Better than nothing.

“Want some water?” Jungkook offered, face still flushed red from laughing earlier.

“Thanks,” Yoongi accepted. He patted the youngest on the head and ruffled his hair like the high school days. Looking around, he studied every single face of his friends, admiring traits he hadn’t really taken the time to appreciate before.

Pouring him a glass, the boys soon joined Yoongi at the table, wine glass in hand. Hoseok handed the extra one he had brought to Yoongi, sneaking him a wink. A grin spread across his lips.

Jimin passed around the bottle of white wine as Taehyung cracked open a mini bottle of red for himself. All eyes darted towards the second youngest, causing him to raise his hands in defense. “Chardonnay gives me a hangover sometimes!”

“Mhm,” Jungkook hummed. “Totally the chardonnay.”

Another circle of laughter encompassed the table. Right as they were about to start eating, Hoseok remembered that he forgot to take the pasta out from the saucepan.

Namjoon stood up so fast, he didn’t have time to voice his pain when his toe struck against the table leg. “I’ll get it!” he volunteered before anyone could stop him. The dining table was right beside the kitchen so why was he in such a rush?

The others trusted him enough with a simple task like pouring something out of a pan into a dish. At least, that was until the boy decided the pasta was lacking a little bit of “zest,” so to speak.

“Jungkook, where’d you put the basil?” he asked while shuffling through the refrigerator.

"In the fridge, second drawer,” Jungkook answered, going back to take a bite of his steak. “Why?”

“The pasta needs some green!” he said with far too much energy in his voice.

Jimin, Taehyung, Seokjin, Hoseok, Jungkook, and Yoongi all looked at one another with the same puzzled expression before shrugging it off. That classical fiction analysis class was probably making him go kooky. The peace lasted for about half a second until Namjoon asked where Jimin had put the knife.

Their calm expressions immediately turned into ones of sheer terror as they looked at each other and scrambled out of their seats at the speed of light.

“Namjoon!” they screamed in unison.

Kat nearly dislocated her jaw. “He texted you again? What did he say? Did you text him back? What did you say? Was he being a dick again? How—”

You smacked your hand across her mouth in an effort to shut her up. Her overzealous energy was really a double-edged sword. On certain days, you absolutely thrived on it. On days like this, you hated it with a burning passion more than you hated maidenhair ferns. They were beautiful in theory but were a bitch to keep happy.

“Kat,” you stopped. “I love you and I would do anything for you, but I really need you to just shut up for right now, okay?” Nodding slowly at your request, you carefully peeled your hand off of her mouth.

“Are you okay?” she asked instead, much calmer than before. “You seem a little off.”

Sighing, you decided it would just be better if you showed her the texts.

Douchebag: hey ______, is this ur number? [ 2:22 p.m.]

Douchebag: i got a new phone that’s y [ 2:23 p.m.]

You: yea [ 2:29 p.m.]

Douchebag: how’ve you been [ 2:35 p.m.]

You: good, you? [ 2:42 p.m.]

Douchebag: {download image.jpeg} [ 2:44 p.m.]

Douchebag: I wanted to snap u this cuz I was wearing the sweater you got me but I guess u don’t have snap lol [ 2:45 p.m.]

You: I deleted all of my apps and never got back to reinstalling them, sorry [ 2:50 p.m.]

Scrolling through the rest of the messages, Kat scoffed in disbelief. “I knew he was scum, but catching up after three years of nothing and acting like everything is peachy keen is a new level of assholery,” she rambled on.

You rolled your eyes, resting your elbow on the counter and palm cradling your temple. “What can I say. I definitely know how to pick them well.”

“And the goddamn audacity of him to send a shirtless pic, masking it as a ‘thank-you for buying me that sweater’ schtick?” she growled, fist clenching around nothing while picturing his face.

“An absolute disgrace,” you tagged along.

“It’s not your fault, ______,” Kat soothed. “I would’ve fallen for his mind games too if he charmed me like that.” She took a sip of her iced coffee and shook her head vigorously. “God he makes me want to punch him in his stupid ugly face with that stupid dumb grin and those stupid poofy curls in his stupid misshaped head—”

“Kat,” you warned again, begging her to calm down. Her vernacular wasn’t the best, but damn was it amusing at times. “We just texted back and forth to kill some time. It didn’t mean anything and it’s not happening again.” It felt like you were trying to convince yourself more than her.

She studied your expression carefully before deciding what to say next. “If he ever crosses the line again, call me.” Placing her hand over your free hand, she gave it a good squeeze. The edges of your lips curved into the tiniest smile and you instantly felt at ease.

“Have I ever told you how lucky and grateful I am to have met you?” you chuckled, ignoring the throbbing in your temple that started early in the morning.

Tossing her hair behind her shoulders like an actress from the Golden Age of Hollywood, her teeth glimmered like diamonds against the bright red lipstick she had on. “As am I, my pumpkin patch sweet pea,” she beamed.

Covering your face to hide your painful grin, the door chimed, welcoming a customer. You fanned your face to calm down your rosy cheeks. “Welcome!” you greeted with your usual bright tone.

“Don’t touch anything,” someone criticized, the quiet sound of a hand smacking skin resounding through the small shop.

“I didn’t!” another voice, most likely the one who was scolded, replied in an irritated whisper.

Sitting up straight, you saw three young men standing right by where the glass terrarium displays were set up. You’d recognize that toothy smile and round face anywhere.

“Jungkook!” Finally getting out of your chair, you couldn’t help but be excited to see his face again. Kat’s eyes almost bulged out of their sockets as she stared back and forth between you and the guys with a blatant, “are you kidding me, you met a cute guy and didn’t bother mentioning it to me” face.

Poking the shoulder of his friend who was scolded, Jungkook greeted you with his signature smile and energetic wave. “______! Namjoon, Jimin, this is ______.”

The taller one shook your hand. “Nice to meet you,” he spoke gently with a close-lipped smile and sensed a child-like wisdom from him that you couldn’t exactly put your finger on. It didn’t help that his horn-rimmed glasses made him look like a teacher and a student.

“Jimin, wonderful to meet you.” The shorter-statured boy addressed you with a nearly angelic tone, voice softer than what you’d imagine clouds to feel like between your fingertips. His silver-dyed hair added to his overall ethereal aura.

Still sat at the counter, a starstruck Kat greeted the three with more confidence and gusto than you could ever muster. “Honored to meet you, I’m Kathryn but please call me Kat.” She strummed her fingers in the air as if she were plucking a harp. Jungkook, Jimin, and Namjoon grinned, already sensing the quirky nature of her personality. Yup, Kat’s so-called “Kat-Attack” was definitely contagious.

If you had a dollar for every time you blushed because of Jungkook and/or his friends, you’d have enough money to buy your own greenhouse—and live in said greenhouse. It wasn’t until Kat forcefully coughed up her left lung out that you registered how long you had been shaking Jimin’s hand. Pulling away abruptly, you let out an awkward chuckle. This was totally not weird at all—just three attractive, charming, attractive young men who waltzed into your shop on an ordinarily quiet day. Nothing weird. God, you were making it so weird—

“I’m gonna go get some coffee, do you guys want anything?” Kat asked out of the blue. If she was going to do what you think she was about to do...

“No, that’s alright,” Jimin turned down kindly. “We stopped by a café on the way here, but thank you for offering.”

“No problem at all!” Kat smirked just the slightest bit while saying this as if she’d gotten away with a bank heist. “I’ll see you after work, ______!” As she was walking outside, you saw her shoot you a mischievous wink through the glass before running off.

“So,” you started, trying your best to carry on the conversation as if you weren’t the most socially awkward human in the world. “What brings you and your friends in today?”

Jungkook, still as shy as ever, ruffled his hair lightly out of habit. “Well, you see, me Taehyung, and another friend of ours moved into an apartment a while back, and it still doesn’t feel...” he paused, trying to think of the right word. “—homey enough.”

While listening to Jungkook, Jimin and Namjoon were exploring the shop, taking in everything they could with their eyes, smelling what they could with their nose, and feeling every leaf and petal with their fingertips.

“We’re not the roommates,” Namjoon joked. “He dumped us ‘a while back.’” He acted out air quotes around the last three words. You held back a snort.

“He didn’t dump us, Joon,” Jimin corrected. “He found someone else who makes him happier.” Jimin pouted, raising the back of his hand to his forehead and sniffling like a kid.

Jungkook rolled his eyes and scoffed. “These two goofballs are with my other friend,” he clarified. “Taehyung, Seokjin and I have a pretty hectic schedule because of, you know...” Jungkook’s face was dusted with a shade of pink, clearly still too bashful to admit that he was a model.

“I understand,” you nodded, still biting the inside of your cheek to refrain from smiling too much. “So you, Taehyung, and Seokjin share an apartment while Jimin, Namjoon, and—?” Trailing the sentence off with a higher pitched voice, Jimin got the message.

“Hoseok,” he finished for you. “He’s an even bigger dolt than me and Joon combined, trust me.” The image he painted made you giggle.

Eventually, you arrived at the best conclusion you could form with the information given. “Right, so the six of you are best friends and live in two apartments.”

“In theory, yes,” Namjoon established. “But we also have Yoongi who lives by himself.”

“He’s the guy who Taehyung and I came in asking advice for?” Jungkook clarified, helping you recall back to the first time you met them.

You heard Jimin exhale deeply. “He’s sort of like the dad of our group, if you know what I mean. Quiet, kind of emotionally detached but in reality just doesn’t know how to express himself—that kind of thing.”

“Oh.” It slipped out by accident and sounded more melancholic than you thought. You tried coming up with something to neutralize your slip-up. “I’m really glad he has you guys as family.”

Jimin and Jungkook gave you a heartfelt smile—then there was a thud.

Turning around, Namjoon was hiding his face behind his hand while rubbing his temple. The grow light that was hanging still from the ceiling was now swinging back and forth like a pendulum.

You were wincing as if you felt his pain secondhand. “Are you okay?”

He nodded too quickly as if trying to convince you that he was really okay. “Fine. Good. Flower shop. Plants need light. Forgot about the dangling lights. A lot of them.” he sputtered like a morse code machine.

Turning back to Jungkook and Jimin, they too had their faces buried in their hands out of sheer embarrassment. Sometimes, people found it hard to believe that Namjoon was that clumsy in his actions, but even harder for Jungkook and Jimin to tell them that he was their senior.

“Anyway,” Jungkook coughed. “Our new place looks kind of uninviting and Jimin thought adding a couple of plants might make it more cozy.”

Jimin had made his way to the syngoniums and rhaphidophoras. “We have better luck with plants than Namjoon and Yoongi. They don’t exactly have the greenest thumbs.”

Chuckling, you directed their attention to the macrame the 6-inch pothos n’joy that cascaded from the ceiling. Coincidentally, Namjoon was inspecting that exact one. Perfect. “Actually, he’s a pretty forgiving little guy.” Stepping up the ladder and bringing him down, Jungkook’s eyes grew big and his hands flew out to hold the ladder steady. “Thanks,” you blushed again.

Holding the plant up close now, you let them admire the creamy white variegation, watercolor patches of green, lighter patches of green, and the lush leaves. You also showed them the golden pothos, which was a more of a typical chlorophyll green, but it had beautiful yellow and white specks of variegation throughout the foliage.

“I’m assuming you’re all still beginners,” you inferred, to which they all nodded in agreement. “These guys need lots of bright light, but don’t press them up against a window or they’ll get sunburn,” continuing to explain.

“Water them every few weeks and wait until they’re bone dry, then give them a good, thorough drench. Don’t overwater them or they’ll hate you for it, trust me. They rarely ever need fertilizer, but I’ll give you guys some packets to last you a couple of months.”

“Can we take them all home?” Jimin gawked, head tilted up towards the sky and staring at the ceiling that was ornate with vining, trailing, hanging, and branching foliage.

An amused laughter left your lips. “I wish you could, but the next time you come and visit I’ll let you take one of those home,” you promised. “If you want another eye-candy foliage one, you could also take home a brasil.” Holding up the heart-leafed philodendron, the neon yellow stripes down the median of each leaf and clusters of light and dark green looked like they were hand-painted.

“Oh me, me, me!” Jimin’s hand shot up in the air, flapping it back and forth vigorously.

“Could I take one of these too?” Namjoon inquired with a 6-inch pot in hand. “Rhaphid—off... fera—?” he tried to sound out, earning another giggle from you.

“Rhaphidophora tetrasperma but it’s more commonly known as a mini monstera,” you clarified. He formed his lips into an o shape, caressing the delicate split-leaved foliage. “I think you’d be more than able to take care of that one.” Jungkook coughed to hide his snort.

“We’ll make sure he doesn’t drown it,” Jimin assured, throwing you a sly wink. Add another dollar to your bank account, would you?

“Hello, last time I checked we came here to buy housewarming gifts for my house?” Jungkook reminded them in the form of a rhetorical question.

You patted him on the shoulder to wipe the pout off his face. “There’s more than enough plant love to go around.”

“We’re gonna be here all day...” Jimin sighed in content, gently feeling the fuzzy leaves of some African violets. “Say sorry to my bank account for me, will you?”

“I second that,” Namjoon added. “What on earth is this?” Holding up a 2-inch grow pot, you pursed your lips at his dumbfounded expression, eyebrows raised and wrinkled at the odd looking succulent.

“It’s a lithops.” His face contorted more at your reply “They’re also known as living stones. As they grow, they split in half and pop out little baby lithops.”

Blinking to process what he had just heard, Jimin groaned and shielded his eyes. “Don’t say it, Joon.” Looking closer at the plant Joon was holding, Jungkook parted his mouth—

“It looks like a lil’ol buttcrack,” Namjoon pointed out bluntly. The three of you let out a synchronous sigh and buried your faces into your hands, but couldn’t help and burst into laughter right after.

“We are going to be here all day, aren’t we,” Jungkook said muffled through his hands still covering his face.

After the last crappy 72 hours, you were more than grateful to have them keep you company for the day. "I’m more than happy to make some new friends while doing my job.” The words flowed freely from your mind, excited to get to know them better.

After sending each of the guys home with enough plants they could manage to carry, you closed up the shop for the day. Kat texted you right after the guys left in a panic. She completely blanked about the gala she had to attend for her design and commerce class and was running to catch the metro. You could tell she was still adamant on wearing her fashionable but not functional cube-heeled oxfords, as her texts were a mixture of all-caps lock and garbled, choppy sentences.

As you made your way back to your apartment, you couldn’t help but hear a jumble of voices arguing with each other in your head.

Text him back, he misses you.

Don’t. He’s just using you to get what he wants again. He’ll leave just like that last time. Remember last time? You don’t want that to happen again do you?

Scum. Dirtbag. Trash. User.

What if he means it this time?

Asshole. Player. Heartbreaker.

Maybe he’s changed.

Don’t do it. Put your phone down.

What if he actually misses me? What if it’s different this time? Just text him. Nothing bad will happen if you text him once.

Everything bad that can happen will happen, it’s only a matter of—

The slamming of your door seemed to silence the conflicting pieces of your collective conscience. Leaning against the door, you clicked your lock and pressed your hand against your chest, willing yourself to calm down.

You tossed your keys onto the counter and jumped into the shower as soon as you threw your clothes into the laundry basket. The steam engulfed your body with a pleasant heat, releasing the tension in your neck and shoulders that had built up from the sleepless nights in bed.

After spending a little less than an hour in your makeshift steam sauna, you remembered that you actually had utility bills to pay. You quickly got out of the shower and slipped on your usual attire of joggers and an old shirt. The place was chilly, so you slipped on a cardigan for good measure. With your hair wrapped in a towel, you searched through your fridge for something to eat.

“Damn.” The words left your lips before you could stop them.

Of course, it was pretty much empty. You were so caught up with spring orders for the past few weeks, you didn’t get a chance to stop by the grocery store on your way home. Settling on half of a turkey sandwich leftover from yesterday, you were grateful you still had a few cans of soda left to compliment tonight’s gourmet feast.

You made yourself comfortable on your couch that was arranged right across your balcony. There was no use in having a TV if you couldn’t afford to pay the electric bills, and you wanted to utilize the limited space of your studio to its fullest. The fizz of the soda nearly made you choke. It had been a hot minute since you had soda, relying purely on coffee for the past few years to give you that caffeine boost.

The sound of sirens wailing echoed throughout the city and pierced through the hum of traffic with ease. Leaning your head back into the dense cushion, you closed your eyes and listened; the relentless thumping of your upstairs neighbors, probably having another night of friends over; the faint shouts from the restaurant across the street that was overflowing with diners, typical of a Friday night; the gentle whisper of cold air that bled through the crack of your sliding balcony door. You needed to get that fixed ages ago.

The food wasn’t going down well. It was that damn soda. Putting down the last few bits of the sandwich, you stood up and stepped outside onto your balcony. The lights flickered on and you admired the plant shelves you’d set up a few days after moving in. It was a teeny tiny space, but the luscious array of green, pinks, reds, white, and every color in between made it all the more bearable.

You propped your elbow up against the rail that guarded the edge and breathed in for four seconds, held it for five, and exhaled for six. It was working, right? Your hands came up to the sockets of your eyes, applying the slightest bit of pressure to them. There were days where you really wanted to sleep for days on end; a hibernation, if you will. Today was most definitely one of those days. There was one problem—how were you supposed to fall asleep if you were too afraid to?

You were scared of seeing him in your dreams. Not even dreaming about him, no—the fear of encountering him as a random stranger while you were on your way to the floral market or a jogger passing by on your stroll in the park. His face resurfaced in flashes The glimpses of your favorite memories together were now inescapable bursts composed of your worst nightmares.

You hated him. You loathed him with all of your heart, despised him with every fiber of your being and with every single living cell in your body. You wanted to forget about him; you wanted to forget he ever existed and that he ever met you. Every single moment you shared with him and every second you wasted pining over whether he loved you back; you wanted those years of your life back.

But you knew better than anyone that time was never forgiving, and you would never get to relive those years ever again.

The funny thing—actually the hilarious thing—was that you hated yourself more than you hated him. You hated yourself for being the one who introduced yourself to him at that stupid party; you never should have gone to that stupid fucking party. You were such an idiot, what were you thinking?

All those days, months, and years you spent constantly hovering over your phone, begging and pleading for him to send you a text. Something, anything to acknowledge that he still knew your name and to give you the opportunity to manipulate it into meaningless signals, then use that to convince yourself that he actually did care about you.

You couldn’t remember for the life of you how or why you started falling for him. You both agreed to it no-strings-attached. No cuddles, no aftercare, no dates, and definitely no kissing in front of other people or hugging each other. He said his reputation would be ruined if his friends found out about you two.

In love with the idea of being in love, you agreed without a second thought. No feelings, no crossing the line. Simple.

Until he started breaking the rules.

He’d get jealous of you hanging out with other guys, blowing up your phone with questions and angry paragraphs along the lines of “You’re not going to parties anymore unless it’s with me” and “I can’t believe you hung out with Aaron of all people. You know he’s a complete fuck up, right?”

Then he started caring—at least, acting like he did. Pretending. Faking. Lying. Masquerading. Call it whatever you will. He held you close to his chest after spending time with you in his bed, wrapping you under the covers to keep you warm. You��ll never forget the warmth of his chest as his heartbeat thumped against your ear. His fingers traced the outline of your face when he thought you were asleep, never knowing that you did everything in your power to hold back your smile. Then there were times when he’d leave you right after, making an excuse about a night out with his friends or a project due tomorrow. It was always due tomorrow. Other times he would go to the bathroom and then come back to throw you a towel.

“My roommates will be here any minute. You should hurry up,” he’d warn.

Case and point, his games worked. After three years, you were head over heels for him. The memory of how it ended was blocked from your mind. Anytime you tried to remember that day, you always ran into a concrete wall. It was almost as if you built it to protect yourself from something, but what?

The only thing you could recall were the tears. Maybe they were his too, but you vividly remember yours. They flooded your vision with a cloudy film, overflowing in streams and trails down your face and even causing you to choke on them. And the screaming—god, the screaming... More memories flooded in as your hands cupped your ears.

“I’m sorry, okay?! I’m sorry that I want what’s best for you and that you can’t see how much I care. I’m sorry for being so blind and seeing you for who I wanted you to be, that I couldn’t see you for who you truly are! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

Shutting your eyes tightly, you felt a drop of wetness fall dribble down your cheek. You were crying again. A sniffle followed the scoff that came out of your mouth. What, three years have already passed since then? Three years and you were still crying over that asshole?

Wiping at your face with the rough fabric of your sleeve, you bit your lip to concentrate on something else. You stared at nothing to the point where everything looked blurry and your eyes stung. The temperature suddenly dropped, indicated by your shivering. You couldn’t afford to get sick and hurried back inside.

Before you knew it, the clock had struck 11:00 p.m. and you were not the slightest bit sleepy. Sheltered in the safety of your own home, you had an idea that would not only get your mind out of the rut you’d fallen into, but also . Digging through scraps of loose paper, dry pens, and trash in general, you found your old earbuds. They worked perfectly fine, okay? Why fix something when it’s not broken?

Plugging them into your phone because yes—you had a phone which was one of the dying species that still had a headphone jack—you turned on your favorite playlist (appropriately titled stre$$ed) and commenced dancing in your room like someone from the 70′s. The only thing missing was a pair of flare-cut jeans, a splotchy tie-dyed shirt, and a pair of Kat’s over-the-top disco boots.

Even though your neighbors were assholes about keeping it down after lights out, you chose to be the bigger person and take their residence into consideration. Mouthing the words silently and jumping as softly as you could, your damp hair stuck to the edges of your face and flung around, hitting your cheek a couple of times. Truth be told, you were far past the point of caring.

Each time your foot came thumped against the plush carpet was an invigorating strike; every head bob was a liberating release; each labored breath and winded puff felt like the exact opposite, a breath of fresh air.

An escape.

You flopped onto the bed with a heavy exhale, trying to catch your breath. Panting, your face felt hot and every part of your lungs burned like you were being roasted alive on a bonfire. The back of your hand felt cool against your forehead and your eyes began drooping at the soothing touch. Before you could pull the covers up, darkness engulfed your senses and you were out like a light.

Yoongi couldn’t sleep. He had counted backwards from one hundred, two hundred, five hundred, and maybe a thousand. He tried listening to a random playlist full of rain sounds, alpha waves, crickets, and a fireplace crackling. All that came from that was an unnecessary number of bathroom trips, ear scratching, skin itching, and throwing off the covers from the heat he was imagining.

Sitting up in annoyance, Yoongi sat on the edge of his bed with his forehead resting on his hand, elbow propped up on his elbow. He couldn’t stop thinking. Thinking about his job, the deadlines he had to meet, the songs he had to make, lyrics that still needed to be written, phone calls and emails he needed to send out—he was supposed to call his mom during lunch.

“Fuck,” he swore, rubbing his eyes again. Looking at his alarm clock, the time 12:12 a.m. was outlined in blue. He initially settled on the traditional red one while at the store, but Hoseok convinced him to opt for a more “peppy color.” Yoongi’s lips curved into a soft grin at the memory. Within seconds, his eyebrows knitted together into a frown and his eyes flickered, the subtle expression he bore moments ago now a stone cold gaze.

No matter how hard he tried and how badly he wished and prayed, he couldn’t compel himself to cry. Despite his adamant concentration and determination, he didn’t shed a tear. Not being able to force it out without knowing what it was, proved to be absolutely suffocating.

He tried focusing on something else. The lights, the city, the sounds—he needed to focus on something else. Gazing through the window he’d familiarized himself with, Yoongi took in the view. From his room, he was able to see a picturesque layout of where the biggest main streets of the city intersected. Through the fog, he could also make out the faint edges of the longest footbridge that ran across the skyline. Looking down, the warm glow of street lamps and building lights twinkled through the dark night like man-made stars.

Lifting his head up to the apartment complex directly across from his, there were still a couple of lights on here and there. Yoongi felt validated in the sense that he wasn’t the only one who had sleepless nights. One by one, they started to fade, each apartment light turning off as someone’s hand flicked a lever and went to sleep. It was strangely relaxing to watch. After about twenty minutes of staring intently at every person tune out for the night, he narrowed his eyes at one that remained.

Directly across from his apartment was the faint yellow glow of someone’s balcony light. He imagined the wonderful warmth radiating from it, closing his eyes to immerse himself in the imagination. Looking closer, Yoongi saw the shadow of a woman leaning on the railing. She was shivering.

Bringing her hand up, she wiped at her face and started laughing—crying? He couldn’t see in the dark all that well. Trying to get a closer look, he forgot about the glass that separated him from the outside world and face planted the pane. Wincing in pain, he wrinkled his nose and inhaled sharply through his two front teeth.

He shook it off and centered his vision back to the balcony opposite to his room, remembering to open the window this time. Cold air bit at his cheeks but he ignored it, determined to find what he had witnessed seconds ago. The girl was still leaning on the rail and was staring at seemingly nothing. Her shoulders hiccuped up every few seconds and hands came up to wipe her face again.

Definitely crying.

Yoongi was awestruck. How good did it feel to finally get it out? Was it worth it? Did it feel like you could breathe again? Yoongi soon realized that he was jealous—no, he envied her ability to weep; her ability to shed real, painful, cathartic tears.

He envied the one thing he couldn’t have and would never be able to get.

Following your movement back inside, he should’ve gone back to bed himself, but for some reason, he just couldn’t. His gut told him not to, but then again, that way of decision-making was a 50/50 bet.

Whether it happened in the blink of an eye or this was all some sleep-deprived dream, she ended up going from crying her eyes out to dancing her heart out? She reminded Yoongi of Seokjin’s drunk dancing; good but not good, sane but not entirely, and so rhythmic yet incredibly off beat. Her vibrancy was contagious and made Yoongi smile a real smile for the first time in a while. If you told him that she had bawled herself delirious two minutes ago, he would have snorted. It looked as if she didn’t have a single worry or care in the world....

He felt like a creep. He shouldn’t be up, period. He should be sleeping, not spying on his neighbors. Worse, they weren’t even neighbors, had never met before, nor did they even come a foot close and live in the same building.

Hell, that made it so much freaking worse.

He sighed at how pathetic he felt. Was he that desperate for something he didn’t even know? Yoongi decided to call it a night. Crawling into his covers, they never seemed to keep him warm, no matter how tightly he wrapped himself in them. It was either searing hot discomfort paired with cold sweat or ice cold feet and teeth chattering.

That night by whatever random laws of the universe he slept soundly. Not once did he shoot open his eyes from nightmares or stir in his sleep out of discomfort. Maybe it was from witnessing someone’s emotional outpours and experiencing them vicariously through his own means, or maybe it was the satisfaction of selecting all of his unread emails and archiving them until tomorrow, one thing was for sure—Yoongi had accomplished his goal of sleeping through an entire night; something he hadn’t done for years now...

I’ll get out of it.

“I never thought I’d ever say this,” you started, trying to close your agape mouth. “But I think you guys might have one too many plants.” Looking at their coffee table, it was overflowing with the eight boxes you’d delivered this morning. Yes, there were eight boxes full of plants delivered to a single apartment. Marco would have the time of his life restocking for next week. Jungkook, Taehyung, Hoseok, Namjoon, and Jimin helped you carry up the boxes and were all staring at the ground sheepishly, their hands clasped behind their backs like children who were caught stealing cookies from the cookie jar.

You offered to deliver the boxes to their places separately, seeing as they had different spaces and floor plans, but that cheeky bugger Taehyung convinced you to rendezvous at his place. Then you wouldn’t have to go through the trouble of walking back and forth between the shop and their corresponding buildings, and the guys would get a chance to meet you.

Guilt gnawed at you for making them interrupt their daily schedules just to bring home some houseplants, but Jungkook insisted that they were all free for the next two weeks; spring break for Jimin, Namjoon, and Hoseok, pre-season break and scheduling bookings for Seokjin, Taehyung, and Jungkook.

Meeting Seokjin for the first time and Taehyung for the second was a memorable experience, to put it lightly. You walked in on them running around half naked and throwing crumpled balls of clothes at each other. Turns out they had been arguing about who’s turn it was to do the laundry and neither of them were having it. Long story short, you lived life by the rule that first impressions were a good indicator of someone’s unfiltered, raw, underlying disposition, and in this case, it proved to be entirely true in the best way possible.

“We’ll share, we promise.” Jimin was the first to break the silence but still had trouble meeting your gaze.

Jungkook pointed an accusing finger at Seokjin and Taehyung, his turn to talk. “They didn’t believe us after they saw how many plants we came home with, so we figured we’d invite you over to meet them in person and see whether they convert or not.”

“Safe to say that we are officially convinced,” Taehyung raised his hands in surrender, elbowing Seokjin to do the same.

Hiding your smile by pressing your lips together, a tingling sensation spread across your face at his odd choice of words. When you reminded them about their hectic schedules and voiced your concern about them being able to keep up with care, Seokjin revealed his contract agreement with Hoseok. “He promised that he’d come by and water them whenever we’re out of town for longer than a week,” the eldest explained while biting back a smirk. “He kind of owes me a lifelong debt...”

Forcing out a tight-lipped sideways grin, Hoseok slung his arm over Jimin’s shoulder, bearing a smirk of his own. “Don’t worry, Jimin here owes me a debt of his own.”

A sly grin crept along Jimin’s face. "Considering that my lifelong debt doesn’t have to do with the fact that you bl—” Before he could finish, Seokjin and Hoseok’s hands flew up faster than lightning to cover the boy’s mouth. Taehyung nearly spit out his water and the others were near tears and clutching their abdomens, their mouths sealed tight and refusing to let out one of their pact’s biggest secrets. You admired how loyal and strong their bond was, a rare thing in this day and age.

Shaking your head to distract yourself from their incessant laughter, you pressed your hand over your forehead and widened your eyes in concentration. “Well, let’s get to organizing, shall we?”

Unpacking the boxes one by one, each contained an array of species from pothos, philodendrons, syngoniums, hoyas, pileas, peperomias, baby rubber trees, rhaphidophoras, sansevierias, ZZ plants, money trees, and finally, two mature, green monsteras for each of them to keep in their living rooms. Not knowing what kind of lighting situation they had going on, you tried to limit your recommendations to medium-light tolerant plants. After they alerted you about their east and south-exposure windows, you were relieved in your selection.

“I call the big guy,” Jungkook cooed, picking up the staked rhaphidophora and clutching it to his chest and smirking coyly. “For my room.”

Seokjin whined loudly. “We live in the same apartment!”

Taehyung let out a disappointed sigh and shook his head. “You see what I have to deal with every day?”

Namjoon reached for the philodendron micans. “It’s like velvet!” he commented in awe as he felt the leaves. It was nicknamed the velvet-leaved philodendron after all, but his reaction made you feel fuzzy with plant love.

“Woah this looks like an alien’s flying saucer,” Hoseok noted. Picking up the pilea, it never struck you that the round, green disks did, in fact, look like flying saucers. Once everyone was satisfied with what they were taking home (it ended up taking a lot less time than you predicted), you went to work arranging them around the living room, bedroom, and kitchen, all while explaining to them the water and light requirements, periodic maintenance, and looking out for pests.

You urged Jimin, Namjoon, and Hoseok to go back to their place first, assuring that you’d meet them there. They said it was no bother and wanted to witness your working process. You were just doing your job, but seeing them fascinated by your passion and vigor was much more endearing than you thought it would be.

Just as you were hanging the macrame pot by their balcony, you heard the front door click open. Taehyung, Jimin, and Namjoon were holding the step ladder steady for you.

Since you were concentrating on getting the nail at the right angle, you paid no attention to it, assuming it was Hoseok or Jungkook going to recycle the used wrapping paper and packing materials.

“Yoongi!” Jimin called out.

“Good to see you dude,” Taehyung beamed. “Sorry, our hands are kind of full.”

“Could’ve given me a heads up that you had a guest over,” he grumbled, but you couldn’t hear through the rustling of the leaves that smacked your face.

The sound of footsteps grew louder from afar, then paused when you felt a presence behind you. “Jungkook,” you called out, turning your shoulder and looking down to where he was standing. “Do you mind grabbing the pliers from—”

Here’s the thing you never understood about step ladders. Standing on them is considered a safety hazard, yet it’s method of use and reason for existence is to be stood on. You wished you remembered this when you decided to turn around and look down at Jungkook, except, it wasn’t Jungkook. It wasn’t Hoseok either. Despite not wearing a mask or beanie, you instantly recognized that cold gaze, piercing through yours like daggers.

He was equally shocked and mirrored your exact reaction, eyes growing wide and mouth parting as if you were staring through double-sided plexiglass.

“Yoongi, this is _____,” Jungkook introduced comfortably, conversation flowing freely from him. “______, this is Yoongi. The dad Jimin talked about.” While the boys broke into convulsions of laughter, you and Yoongi were still shellshocked. Of all the people that could be in this friend circle, it had to be the guy who crossed paths with you a few of times on the street?

You didn’t register that you’d lost your footing from the ladder until the familiar weight of gravity tipped you over. The last thing you saw were multiple pairs of hands reaching out to try and catch you, but it was too late—your body collided into his before crashing onto the floor as one whole, the clear thud of wood against flesh echoing throughout the apartment.

That’s definitely one way to make a first impression.

154 notes · View notes

missingartist · 4 years

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Fated Destiny

anonymous asked:

Hi can i request geralt x reader soulmate unwilling to find each other, you can do whatever you want for the story. I know this sentence mean a lot in the tv show ''people linked by destiny will always find each other''

Rating Mature- You have been warned

People linked by destiny will always find each other

The words etched into your skin since your birth. It burnt at first, even after a lifetime you could still remember the searing, the burning, the begging for it to end. The priestess had told you that it meant your bond was strong, the strongest they had ever seen. That had not been very comforting in your heats, with no lover or soulmate to pull you through; those times were harrowing and hard. Still, the priestess had been proud of a Valkyrie to have a soulmate, the stuff of dreams you were told. It made you almost laugh; you were never a romantic, a realist if anything, the scowled you received at the hands of the High Priestess herself were legendary. So few Valkryie receive such an honour and those who kept them after were few and far between. The High Priestess would repeat time and time again that destiny would prevail. Even now, you could clearly recall the sound of her voice as she bared down at you from her throne in the temple. When you ascended from Swan Maiden to Valkyrie, she had been destroyed that you chose to stay at the temple as advisor and teacher.

Staying in Valhalla was practical, there were so few of them remaining that they need sturdy teachers, who else could teach the old ways, then who would carry the slaughtered through to the next world, guard the weak and vulnerable, help the unfortunate. There were times you regretted it; you were not above the idea of love and a family, only a soul bond could grant that for a Valkyrie to free of her duties and allow the gods to grant fertility. Yet, sacrifices had to be made, and you would never had made a good soulmate, too much of a reader, too bookish, too dull. Those were the taunts that were whispered behind your back, the jeers and isolation who received at the hand of your so-called friends in arms, the other swan-maidens. So you remained in the temple bound to your duty, honouring the dying and the fallen.

But in saying that, sometimes you would fantasise. He would be a fierce warrior, skilled in his craft, bathed in blood and at the same time kind with a loving smile and warm arms that would encircle you. Your dreams kept you company in the lonely nights in the library, and that was enough because you knew, no matter what the books said about soulmate, it was romanticised, no one could love another like that, not even your parents, too afraid of her daughters mark to keep her, so instead offer her to the Temple of the Valkyrie.

‘Y/N…’ A voice called you back into the present as your friend, and mentor Edda entered the vast library, gliding across the marble in her white silk dress. Elegant and poised as ever, she had ascended when she was nearing 40, but she was easily one of the most beautiful maidens in the temple, graceful and slim bodied.

‘We have been called to the throne room; it’s the High Priestess, she has called an emergency meeting.’

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

‘Ahhhh Edda and Y/N so glad you could finally honour us with your presence.’ The High Priestess chirped, standing in the middle of the throne room.

Including you, 27 Valkyrie’s stood silently around the edge of the circular hall, some in temple dress of white silk and bright gold metal, hair twisted in place immaculately. Others, in armour, battle dress, plated metal and hardened leather, adorned with the finest steel swords and bows, glittered shield strapped to there backs. Both sides of the Valkyrie were so different. Light and dark. Life and death. Contrasting, but the different sides of the same coin.

‘My children…I fear our age is coming to an end. We have become less and less, humans kill us, haunt us when all we have done is serve them. Till we are the few that remain, if we perish then the Valkyrie is no more. I cannot allow this to happen. The humans have turned, just as they did with the Elfs. Kings mad with power deem themselves beyond us. Some have outlawed magic altogether, train witch hunters to track and kill all things magic. Our temple can stand no longer silent when our brother and sisters are tortured and burnt at the stake. Tissaia de Vries, Rectoress of Aretuza, has pleaded for our help and we can no longer linger at the side of the battlefield. We are Valkyries, shield maidens, defenders, and we do not hide. WE WILL fight. If any of you do not agree, go forth from my halls, I will hold no ill will. But daughters, I beseech you. Fight with me.’

Your eyes did not move from her, her golden hair shining in the light, creating a hallow around her as she moved. No one moved, no one breath till the High Priestess has a sharp nod and ascended the throne.

‘Men have forgotten what it is to be afraid. We will bring fear. Shall we begin?’ The voice of the High Priestess run out deadly across the room as you received your orders.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

With that you found yourself posted to the mortal lands, you still found yourself standing in awe as you past some wonder or another. Skellige had a savage beauty to it, dark greens and blues, mix with the earthy tones of browns and greys. The people for all their ferocious talk and gruff nature were warm and welcoming; few knew your true visage, but that didn’t seem to matter. They welcomed your help with open arms, clothed and feed you.

Your Pegasus, a pure white mare, its wings tucked secretly away at her side as she trotted merrily through the worn path. You had picked her personally from a litter, the runt; you had nursed it yourself, fed it day and night for weeks, will it was strong enough to train and since then you were inseparable. You had flown into battle with her, sprinted through meadows, guarded Kings with your faithful Pegasus at your side.

You had been travelling for days, across Skellige to reach here, the gates of Crach an Craite’s castle, Kaer Tolde. It stood tall and imposing above the sea and waves broke violently against the cliff wall. The stone was a dark grey, but vibrant green ivy climbed the stone, giving it an almost picturesque quality. You hated to admit it but coming to earth had made you realise how much you hate the pristine halls and celestial keeps, you like the imperfect, the grim and the grotesque. Nothing had to be perfect to be beautiful.

A tall, powerful man in traditional garb stood in the middle of the keep, a band of gold surrounded his head, making him almost King-like, a powerful Jarl to be sure.

‘Hail Virtuous Valkyrie, my home is yours for as long as you need.’ The Jarl stepped forward bowing nearly in respect.

‘I thank you, noble Jarl, but just Y/N is fine. My High Priestess thanks you for you tributes. I am at your service.’ You grinned as you stepped forward, clunch his forearm in a Northan handshake.

‘Ahhhhh you with your pretty words. Come I have had the maids prepare a room for you. There is someone I think you have been waiting a long time to meat ’ The jarl laughed as he gestured you into the castle.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The room was comfy, autumn colours warmed the room, while a fire softly roared by the hearth. It was not as grand as the rooms at the Temple, but in its rustic charms, it felt more homely than any rooms you had ever slept it. You made your way, thought the larges corridors to the feasting hall, it wasn’t hard to figure out where you were going, just follow the noise of roaring cheers that reverberated across the castle. The hall was full of merry people, laughing and cheering, songs rude enough to make a sailor blush. It was outrageous, and you loved it. Weiving you way through the crowd you pitched a flagon from a pasting steward toward your host, who stood in conversation with a group of white-haired men and a woman.

‘Ahhhh Geralt, Vesemir, Ciri this is Y/N, the Valkyrie I have the honour of hosting’ Crach beamed as he hoisted his horn aloft draining the vessel in one gulp, droplets of mead, gathering in his beard.

‘Greetings fair warrior maiden, humble Witchers are ever given such an honour’ the oldest man, bowed, revealing two swords strapped to his back, ever ready it would seem.

‘I have never met a Valkyrie before, is it true you ride a flying horse?’ The women Ciri grinned across at you, amused.

A laugh formed in your belly and escaped from your lip before you could fight it back, ‘It is, mine is called Slugger, he often has to roll with the punches, if you want you could come on a ride. She loves to show off. But the honour is mine; Witcher’s are famed throughout the hall of the temple they are very coveted, I believe many of my sisters have a favourite Witcher they protect and guard against harm.’ You teased, taking a sip of the honeyed mead, savouring the taste on your tongue.

‘Hmmm,’ the last Witcher hummed but remained silent, looking boredly at the floor.

‘I never realised you all had different coloured irises.’ You beamed before turned your attention to the silent man's eyes; they were a stunning amber, flecks of gold run through them, along with burnt oranges and saffrons.’ You smiled ‘Your eyes are beautiful.’

The group smiles vanished, replaced by shocked stares. You blinked quickly, eyes snapping from Witcher to Witcher. You had never meant a Witcher before; it had never occurred to you that they may have some kind of etiquette to them. From the tales that spread across the temple, they fought hard and played harder, any coined they earnt was spent on wine and women, they didn’t seem the kind of people easily offended.

Pursuing your lips in a quick apology they stopped as the Witcher’s lips twitched into something resembling a strained smile, it looked neither happy or unhappy just impassive.

‘People linked by destiny will always find each other.’ The man grunted, his bulky form vibrating at the sound.

A shiver through her body and to her core at the sound of his gruff tone. Immediately, your hand flew to cover your forearm, where your mark was held, just above the artery to her heart, in fear that your gauntlet had come off. The gauntlet that had covered your arm the last 50 years, shielding the mark from the world and you. The man's eyes didn’t leave yours as your thoughts raced a thousand miles a minute. The feeling you felt were conflicted, guilt for not find him sooner, for finding him and shattering what he had already made of his life. Happiness at not being alone, soulmates were meant to compliment the other physically and mentally, to meld into one to create the most potent force, unstoppable. A magnetism pulled you to him, powerful and commanding.

‘By the gods…. I never thought you would hear your word Geralt. You have no idea how much shit I used to give him about those words. Beautiful eyes….huh this grumpy bastard.’ The drunken Jarl boomed.

The other Witchers laughed and raised their drink; however, the ashen haired women observed you curiously, through light green eyes, cat-like, only distracted when behind you a couple of warriors began to brawl causing a chain reaction. Within seconds the whole room erupted in chaos, beer and mead splashed against the walls, teeth spilt out across the floor and the sound of flesh against flesh cracked across the room. Blade where unsheathed and the clash of metal pierced the air. By the time Ciri’s eyes came back to find you, you were gone.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The roar of the fight had long ago since died down and the roar of laughed was once again back. Your feet aimlessly wandered the castle for the last hour; you weren’t really sure where or what you were doing, the only thing you could hear was his voice repeating your words over and over, like honeyed silk in your head. You never thought he would be this attractive, tanned marble skin paired with white hair pinned back revealing chiselled features. His body was 6ft5 of honed muscle, and in his armour, he was more than impressive, no wonder he was a favourite among the Valkyrie’s.

‘You know I’m not going to let you leave. Not till you let me ride Slugger. I don’t think Geralt would either, but I think he has a rather different idea of riding.’ Ciri’s voice cut through the chilly night air.

The young women sat cross-legged on a bench at the end of the hall. You stood hesitantly lingering in the middle of the hall observing her; she was expressive and kind, her face told everything. It was a gorgeous face, but her eyes were the main feature, framed in thick charcoal, with a smoky eye effect.

‘I never believed it when Crach said a Valkyrie had Geralt words. Apparently, your High Priestess is important to get you bonded. Had to see it myself, never thought you would be so cool. Is that really a G'valchir sword- I heard they penetrated anything.’

‘It is, and it does. I'll let you practice with it later…perhaps we can spare tomorrow morning.’ You smiled tightly, coming closer.

‘I don’t think Geralt going to be letting you leave that room anytime soon. Don’t worry Crach removed everyone from this wing. I don’t think he wanted a raging Witcher roaming the halls. It's going to fun having you to hang around with.’ Ciri giggled, hopping off the bench and out the window.

The world had lost all normality. This morning you where a wandering Valkyrie, burden with aiding an uneven war and now you were confused. It couldn't be real, just some surreal daydream, fueled by a bad reaction to mead, you just need to sleep and tomorrow would back to normal. Soulbond forgotten. Pushing your way into your room, you fell against the back of the door and let out a puff of breath, as you removed your breastplate and threw it onto the bed, rolling your neck, groaning as you felt the stratifying clicks and began to unbuttoning your undershirt. Only stopping when you saw a mans armour on the dresser.

‘I thought you were going to run away, though I was going to have to track you down….I am a little disappointed not to have a hunt. I think that would start my rut off.’

Geralt of Rivia was lounging on a bearskin rug in front of a roaring fire, shirt half-open, chest hair teasingly peaking out from a rock hard chest, just as tanned as his face. Why was he in your room?

‘What…What are you doing here? These are my rooms.’

‘Hmmm,’ The Witcher grunted.

You stood in silence for several more minutes, his eyes hungrily devouring you, his predator eyes taking in every inch of you, his head tilted to the side, giving you a beautiful view of his neck. Perfect to bite, to suck, to mark. You could feel a familiar tingle travel through her body; wetness pooled between your thighs as gazed down at him. You wanted to say something, anything, but every time you opened your mouth, no words would form.

Swallowing hard, you spoke. ‘What are you doing in my room.’

‘Our rooms. Crach had my things moved in while we were at the feast. Think he thought it was more…. convenient.’ The Witcher smirked as he raised himself up on one arm.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I stopped running. You can’t outrun destiny just because you’re terrified of it. I was coming for you. I have always been coming for you.’ Geralt purred, standing elegantly, his full height was impressive and intimidating, he crossed the room in two long strides.

You scrabbled across the bed and darted across to the fireplace. Now the light was to the back of you; his features were more prominent, highlighted by the flickering flames, that licked up the fireplace. Geralt’s shirt was now fully open, revealing the sheer power of his chest, perfectly toned by battles and training, the odd scar decorated his body. No wonder he was so converted, your sisters were going to be green with envy when they found out he was yours.

‘I…. We…You’

Before you mouth could catch up with your mind, you found yourself pin to the furs that laid across the floor in front of the blazing fire. The Witcher hovered over you, eyes searching your face, his large hands gripping your hips as the rest of his length held your body in place. Without hesitation, you curled your legs across his thighs and twisted, switching your position, your knees stretched to pin his hips to the floor, it was an easy advantage, from here you could place pressure on his weak point and for a brief moment escape. As you moved back, though the flimsiness of your riding pants you could fill his hardness pressing against your wet core. You had never felt anything close to this pleasure from the briefest contact. You had tried to bring your self through the heats, the touches where only enough to stave off the pain for a short while, necessary but not pleasurable.

Biting your soft plush lip, you attempted to hold back a groan, as you moved again. Your grip loosened as you caught yourself gentle grinding against the Witcher. His hands slowly travelled up your thighs to rest on your round bottom, pushing his chest up and once against resting above her. You stared nervously up at him, all thoughts lost, he smelt like mint and spice, it overwhelms your senses. Geralt pulled back, peeling off his black undershirt and tossing it clear across the room. Your eyes following the masterpiece of his muscles as they moved. Tentatively, you let your hands brush across his skin with feathered touches, feeling his muscles tighten and relax under your fingertips.

‘I have never been with a man.’ Y/N gasped.

What sounded like a growl feel from his lips, as he kissed his way down your body ‘You are mine’ Kiss. ‘You are only ever gonna be mine’ Kiss. ‘ To kiss, to make love to, to fuck, suck,’ Kiss ‘to finger and touch’ Kiss ‘to tease and bring to the brink of ruination.’Kiss ‘Just like I am yours.’

The sight of the golden skin man between your legs was too much as sight to believe, his amber eyes pinned you to the plush fur as his rough fingers tore into the weak fabric of your cotton trousers. The sounds of ripping fabric were deafening and you couldn’t help but let a bright red blush as he caressed your features. No mortal man had ever seen you this bare, the only thing that covered you modestly was a pare of heeled riding boot and a half-opened shirt. Geralt made quick work of the boots, sliding them off your calf letting his fingers massage them and he removed them one by one, throwing them over his shoulder.

The Witcher shifted slowly pulling himself up your body; his eyes were dark with desire, he looked prima. The intensity of his look made you shift away, backwards, into the mound of pillows, the ashen haired man did not climb all the way up to you; instead his torso pinned your hips to the mattress, his strong hands shooting out to encircle your forearms pushing the down onto the bed, totally disabling any chance you had of escaping him. Geralt amber irises completely consumed black with lust eyes turned away from her a began to mouth any piece of skin he could, his hot tongue gliding across her flesh, teeth nipping and gnarling as he went. It was so gentle yet possessive; he groaned as he sucked the plump flesh of her stomach. Geralt nuzzled at you stomach before looking at her, directly into your eyes. You held his gaze, staring into the depths, of the emotion swirling in his honeyed orbs. Angry. Passion. Fear…Love. The outburst of raw emotion was unexpected; it made him look…vulnerable. Something you neer thought a Witcher to be.

Your lump pink lips parted to speak but instead he pulled hoarse cry from your throat instead. His free hand found your most sensitive area, your clit, swirling in the wetness that had already pooled between her legs. It was slow and playful as the tip of your finger mischievously teased your opening. It was a curious feeling, the need for something, anything was unfamiliar and terrifying, to yearn for something this badly. His middle finger sank down into your core. Bliss. It was a totally new sensation; a moan escaped your lips as his mouth suckling on your breast as his thumb teased your clit. Breathy moans escaped your mouth as he withdraw his finger almost entirely before plunging it back in, it was frantic, you felt raw with the to sensation it has made you slick and pliant to him, something he took complete advantage of. After a few more thrusts another finger curled within you, almost hitting the spot within you, the spot you knew he could feel. The stretch felt strange at; first; his fingers were large and thick, almost too much but still, you wanted more, something to build the burning arch that roared inside you. He shifted a little so he was on his side, still pinning you down with his body, angling his hand for better thrusts, his other hand still gripping your forearm, as your hand searched for anything to hold, something to ground you from the feeling bubbling under your skin. Finally, after what seemed like an age, her slender fingers found his muscly shoulders, she could feel his muscles flex beneath her fingertips as they dug into him.

‘Geralt!’ The tension in your stomach was close to breaking; you could feel it splintering at the force of his actions.

The Witcher rose on his knees taking in your flustered form, a panting mess beneath him. He shed his leather pants so quickly your eyes could not follow his movements. Now he was bare, a true warrior, all muscles and scars. You wanted to spend day upon days worships his body in the old ways, to guide him to the peak of divine pleasure but now his body caged you to the floor, as his black orbs swirled with lust.

His hard member rested heavily against you, thick and throbbing, he said nothing but slowly sank it deep into you with a swift and strong thrust. A feral groaned grunted through clenched teeth as his eyes fell closed, basking in the tight warmth that surrounded him. The pain was pierced through you; he was so thick you though he had split you in half, instinctively you tried to move away, to shift away from the dull pain but his hips kept you in place.

‘Breath…’ Geralt gritted out through clenched teeth. ‘Tell me to stop and I will’ The rough voice of the Witcher broke out in heavy puff, as he rested his forehead against you.

The pain subsided quickly to an ache, a need for you to move. Raising your hips, you felt Geralt shift, pulling back slightly and pushing back in, shallow thrusts hitting the sweetest spots. Wanton moans spurred Geralt, his hips picking up pace and force, withdrawing fully before slamming into you again.

A thin sheen of sweat covered your bodies, moans and grunts filled the room as the fire illuminated them, glancing down you watched with fascination as his cock pushed its way into her tight walls, it was the single most erotic thing you had ever seen. Geralt's thrusts became stronger and stronger, more iritic and with each movement inched you closer and closer to your release.

‘Geralt….’ Your eyes found his as you pleaded.

The Witcher shifted his weight on his elbow as he sank close, his cock grinding against your sweet spot, his free hand moving between your bodies to frantically play with your clit. His pace increased, desperate and needy as he chased their release. Your moans turned into screams as you felt the warmth fizzle in your stomach.

‘Yesssss, Gods, please….Geralt’ Your voice released a hoarse scream as your orgasm rolled through you. Above you, you felt his hips stutter into you, as his teeth bite down into you shoulder and his cock slammed into you once last time as he poured his seed into you.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

You awoke sometime later to find Geralt tracing the word on your arm, lazily. Contented eyes smiled up at you; his hair ruffled up in pleasant bed head.

‘Mmmmm this is nice’ you hummed and snuggled into him. ‘Things are going to get complicated now aren’t they.’ You sighed tucking you head onto his chest.

‘Hmmmmm’ Geralt grunted wrapping his arms around you, tightly.

Requests are open!

#geralt x reader #geralt reader #request #geralt smut #witcher netflix #the witcher #geralt of rivia #valkryie

375 notes · View notes

stories-sometimes · 4 years

Text

I’ve Made A Huge Mistake {4/?}

Peter Parker x Reader, Quentin Beck x Reader

Summary: Peter just wanted to enjoy his trip to Europe, maybe even confess his feelings to his best friends.But along came a mysterious new hero to ruin those plans. Peter and his class are aged up and in college.

Warnings: Violence in later chapters, manipulation, age gap

Word Count: 1893

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

The holiday became a whole lot less fun overnight. Originally it was meant to be a break for Peter, away from being a superhero, away from avenging, away from all his responsibilities. But, like always, some otherworldly being came and fucked that all up for him. And Peter was supposed to confess his feelings for her in some romantic candle-lit restaurant in Venice, or at the top of the Eiffel Tower. But Beck came along, swept her off her feet and fucked that all up for him. Even though Fury had said he didn’t have to join the mission, Peter knew, in the back of his head, that some way or somehow he would get dragged into the situation again. There would be another world-ending threat that would inevitably pop up in another city, one that Peter couldn’t ignore.

The two of them returned from Fury’s base in the early hours of the morning. She was incredibly giddy, a grin plastered across her face for the whole journey. He’d seen her get like this before, the time her 8th-grade crush asked her to the winter dance, or when Peter scored them tickets to a Star Wars premiere. It was the most beautiful expression Peter could ever be graced with - when he caused it he felt on top of the world, when another guy caused it he fell into a pit of jealousy. He tried his best to be happy for her, she was over the moon, Beck seemed like a good guy. He didn’t control her, he had no right to dictate who she could and couldn’t date. But he just couldn’t, he could never feel content if she was with someone else. So he let her talk about this perfect guy, acknowledging her ramblings just enough to not be rude: because that’s what a best friend does. And he’d rather be her friend than be nothing at all.

“Are you sure you’re good?” Peter asked Ned the next morning as they waited for the bus.

“Seriously, don’t worry, getting tranqued by Nick Fury is probably the coolest thing to ever happen to me.” Ned reassured him, way too positive about getting knocked out. Peter laughed nervously at his response.

“I’m just happy I don’t have to go to Prague.” Peter said as they absentmindedly did their handshake.

“Good news,” Mr Harrington said, bursting out of the hotel door, “we’re going to Prague.” He announced.

“Prague?” Peter asked, along with a few of the other students. Of course Fury would interfere.

“Yeah, tour company upgraded us. You should've heard me on the phone with them. I really gave them hell. All I heard was crying.” The teacher continued as a much bigger, sleeker black bus turned the corner. “Look, our upgraded ride.”

“Peter, what’s going on?”

“I think Nick Fury just hijacked our vacation.” One of the agents Peter saw last night stood outside the bus, purposely ignoring Mr Harrington’s feeble attempts at an introduction.

Once the group was on the bus Peter pulled out the case Fury gave him the night before. He opened it to reveal a pair of glasses, identical to the ones Mr Stark used to wear. Peter stared at them, unsure whether to feel happy at the sight of them or to burst into tears over his late-mentor. A note on the front read ‘For the next Tony Stark, say EDITH’. He read it aloud as he placed them on his face.

“Stand by for a retinal and biometric scan.” The glasses lit up. Peter watched curiously as a model of his face appeared in front of his eyes. “Scan accepted.”

“Hello?” Peter asked, a series of questions filling his head.

“Hello, Peter. I am EDITH, Tony Stark's augmented-reality security and defence system. I have access to all of Tony's protocols.” The AI explained.

“Cool.” Really Peter, he thought to himself, even with all the questions spirling in his mind all he could say was cool.

“Would you like to see what I can do? EDITH stands for “Even dead, I’m the hero.” Tony loves his acronyms.”

“Yeah, he did.” Peter laughed affectionately. At least he could have this link to the late, great Iron Man.

“I have access to the entire Stark Global Security network including multiple defence satellites as well as back doors to all major telecommunication networks.” She continued to fill him in. Peter glanced around the bus, multiple views of people’s phone screens popping up. It ranged from students begging their parents for more money to Mr Dell searching up witchcraft. So much for science professors.

“Is she texting Beck?” Peter asked before he fully realised what he was saying, “no, no, that wrong.” He said, sinking down into his seat. He had to respect her potential relationship, no matter how much it pained him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Betty and Ned sat next to each other, repeatedly texting ‘I miss you’ to each other. He grimaced at how completely cliche they were. The bus soon pulled into a village centre, allowing a quick toilet break. Flash left first, filming a video as he continued his attempts for insta fame. Peter got off last, only being able to step off the bus before he was stopped and instructed to go into a building opposite from him. Inside stood a tall blonde woman dressed near-identically to the agent driving their bus.

“Hi, I’m Peter.” He introduced himself nervously.

“Close the door.” She said firmly, her Eastern-European accent thick. He turned, immediately obeying her, honestly slightly intimidated by her. “Take off your clothes.”

“Excuse me.” Not exactly where he had expected that to go.

“You told Fury Spider-Man cannot be seen in Europe. So I made you this, another suit.” She handed him an all-black suit.

“Um, thanks. I’m sure it fits fine.” He replied awkwardly.

“Take off your clothes.” She said bluntly.

“Okay,” He whispered, unzipping his pants and pulling them down, “this is embarrassing.” He tried to alleviate some of the tension. Suddenly Flash walked into the building. His face went pale, scared he would assume the worst.

“Damn Parker, you got a hooker, didn’t think you had it in you.” Flash joked, taking a picture of the scene in front of him before walking back outside. The woman pulls out a gun, aiming it carefully at the back of Flash’s head.

“No, no, no, please don’t shoot,” Peter said in a panic as he made the agent lower her gun. “I’ll sort it out.” He grabbed the new suit, and ran out of the building, pulling his pants back up as he did so. “Flash, Flash, stop!”

“Honestly Parker, I can’t tell if I should make fun of you or congratulate you. That takes a lot of balls.” He continued to laugh.

“That, that wasn’t what it looked like.”

“Then what was it?” Peter opened his mouth, attempting to respond, but nothing came out. He ended up opening it and closing it over and over again, looking like some fish stuck on the land.

“Exactly.” Flash replied, walking towards the bus, “Wait,” he turned back, a smirk on his face, “What do you think she’d think about this?”

“What do you mean?” Peter asked cautiously.

“That her best friend, little Penis Parker, is secretly a perv.” Flash smiled as somehow more colour drained from his face. “Bet she’d love that.” He said, stepping onto the bus. Peter panicked, running back to his seat and shoving EDITH onto his face.

“Hey Peter, how can I help you?” Peter began to mumble an explanation, “I’m having difficulty hearing.” EDITH responded.

“There’s this guy, Flash Thompson, he’s got this photo of me and -”

“Is Flash Thompson a target?”

“A target?” Peter turned to see Flash, he had the picture up, ready to send the photo to the rest of his class. He knew he could tell her the truth about the situation, she’d understand, but still, he wanted to keep her from seeing it. “Yeah, he’s a target.”

“Target confirmed, initiating strike.”

“Initiating what now?” Peter asked, sitting up slightly straighter in his seat. Peter watched a map appear in front of his eyes showing an attack drone being released from a Stark satellite. “Shit.” He immediately stood up, out of his seat. He made his way over to where Flash was sat, all while keeping an eye on the ever-nearing drone.

“Cool glasses Parker,” Flash said, grabbing them off Peter’s face, “when d’you become so rich.”

“Flash, please, give ‘em back.” Peter went to take them back but Flash kept batting his hands away. “Flash, I’m serious.” He said, going for Flash’s face, accidentally knocking him out in the process. Peter stepped back, shocked. Sometimes he forgot his own strength. He brushed it off, sliding the glasses back onto his face. “I’m so sorry, EDITH don’t kill Flash.”

“Peter do you want me to call off the drone strike on Flash.” The AI asked.

“Did you just punch Flash?” A classmate asked at the same time.

“No.” Peter answered quickly. But EDITH had mistaken that for him answering her question.

“He’s knocked out.” Another shouted.

“Look, baby mountain goats.” Peter pointed out the window, successfully distracting the group. As the drone went to fire Peter jumped up, pushing through the roof window, shooting his webs out. Luckily for him enough were caught on the drone to disable it, making it crash down the mountain beside them. He landed, terrified anyone saw what he’d just done and how close he’d come to killing a classmate.

“Peter, I know you think we haven’t noticed,” Betty began causing Peter’s eyes to widen, “but your new look, I love it. Right babe?”

“Yeah, it’s super classy.” Ned agreed. Peter let out a sigh of relief, collapsing into a seat next to his other best friend.

“What the hell was that?” She scolded him before he could properly relax.

“I may or may not have almost killed Flash.” He was slightly worried that he had pissed her off as she continued to stare dumbfoundedly at him. Soon he was reassured by her bursting out laughing.

“You’re a fucking idiot Peter.”

“Well, you know -”

“No, no, you are genuinely the biggest dumbass I’ve ever met. How did you ever do that?”

“Um, these,” He took off the glasses, handing them to her, “they’re what Mr Stark gave me. Turns out saying someone's target sets a military level drones on them.” She couldn’t stop laughing. “I’m sure he’d be real proud of me.”

“Don’t,” Her voice turned more serious, “he obviously trusted and believed in you so much. And he’s hardly someone who never made mistakes. He’s the least perfect avenger, and still, he achieved more than anyone else in the world could even dream of. He would’ve expected to make hundreds of mistake and fuck up time and time again. But he wouldn’t have given you these if he think you could clean up all those messes.”

“Thanks.” He whispered a slight confidence boost after that little speech.

“I’m serious,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder, “you’re pretty fucking awesome Parker.” And there was the ego boost. They stayed there in comfortable silence for a while, both perfectly content. Not long after she began to uncontrollably laugh again. “You almost killed Flash fucking Thompson.”

@cool-ontherun-world

@eleventhdoctorsangel

@chubby-tink

@eridanuswave

#peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter parker imagine #peter parker x you #peter parker x original character #quentin beck #quentin beck x you #quentin beck x reader #quentin beck imagine #marvel fic #ive made a huge mistake #mysterio x reader #mysterio #mysterio imagine #spiderman #spiderman far from home

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furysreign · 4 years

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A Wip Re-Introduction

hi, my name is fin and i’m a 21 year old writer from the uk who used to post on the blog ivonoris until last year when life happened and i decided to step aside from writeblr for a while. now i’ve rediscovered my love for writing and have made a new blog to focus primarily on my main wip, fury’s reign, which currently is in the middle of its first draft and is standing at 70k words so far. i’d like to use this post to re-introduce this world to you, because it’s my baby and it’s finally progressed beyond one chapter and a bunch of ill-organised notes

himazaki ikeda had always been told that his home of kodo was the safest of any place within the three continents. however, when it is razed to the ground in an unprovoked attack by soldiers bearing the arms of the terrebravian royal family, he is forced to confront the fact that nowhere is truly safe. torn between the guilt of knowing that his cowardice is the only reason he survived, and the knowledge that the king and queen of terrebray ordered the attack, he must decide whether to live amongst the bones of his people or seek out justice for all that he’s lost. knowledge of what happened in kodo spreads quickly, and soon alliances across the continents falter. distrust worms its way into courts and palaces, rulers fear uprising, and common-folk and nobles alike all anxiously await the coming of war.

fury’s reign follows the story of six pov characters, and each of them has a different story to tell as they venture into a new and uncertain future. they are;

himazaki ikeda : a lost soul. misguided and alone. a fool's quest with no good ending. zak is deeply traumatised after the destruction of his home robs him of everything he has ever known or loved. a blank slate, he leaves kodo on a journey to kill the king of terrebray. it is a revenge he knows he will never take, but to die in the attempt of it would be enough to atone for his simple sin of being too scared to fight as foreign soldiers razed the city and slaughtered his people.

freya abatangelo : a prodigy. the most senior knight of the king's guard. brazen and bold. freya must face both her own guilt and enemies that cannot be seen when her journey takes her to the icy shores of dark harbour, a port town on the northeastern coast of grendelus. there, she faces a trial unlike any she has ever faced before, and both her courage and her mind must carry her through lest she die a terrible death.

iera vonoris : queen in a court that does not want her. uncertain but far from weak. iera is a woman of common birth. as a girl, she fell in love with a prince of five kingdoms. as a woman nearing thirty, and as a wife of a king, she now faces pressures she could never have accounted for, both within her court and outside it. things only get worse, however, when her husband is accused of a crime most unspeakably evil, and her world teeters once more on the precipice of war.

oisín cary : a knight of considerable talent. arrogant and yet troubled. there's pain behind his smile. his path leads him to the last remaining elven civilisation on the continent of terrebray, where he must learn to trust and face a foe far larger than his pride. he is a changed man from who he used to be, or so he tells himself. in truth, he is not so sure, and that scares him more than anything else.

kasim al-ahin : a nitherian knight. quick to anger and yet quick to love. a past he has yet to truly face. when he is chosen to act as a diplomatic aide to the king of terrebray on a journey to rijaltah--the place of his birth--kasim must protect what he once hated, and learn either to forgive the past or fall prey to it.

jin hé : an assassin of the liangyi order. it is all she knows. she begins to wonder if she wants something more. she grows suspicious of her emperor’s new advisor, and finding a child’s nightdress in the emperor’s bedchamber sends her on a quest to find the truth for his hiring, leading her to an answer that will change not only her life, but perhaps the very fabric of the world itself.

the world of fury’s reign is made up largely by three continents. these are terrebray, vandelia, and grendelus. each has a deep and rich history, of both good and evil.

terrebray is a land of five kingdoms, all united under one king and/or queen--as has been for the past 400 years. to preserve some measure of independence, each kingdom is bequeathed a lord governor to preside over his or hers native land and peoples. they may make no laws nor erase old ones, but they can carry out the king’s justice on some matters of minor import, though larger and more severe punishments require his knowledge and consent. beneath the lord governor are the ministers and the lords and ladies of the land, and beneath them come the knights to whom notions of long-standing chivalry are owed. the five kingdoms will get more detailed intros because otherwise this post will be three miles long oop

vandelia is the largest of the three continents, and hosts both kingdoms and city states across its western and eastern sides. the largest and most powerful of these kingdoms is nitheria, a land surrounded by the kahayra desert and all its many tribes. the kahayra itself is an independent land, and is the single largest desert in the world. notable tribe lands of the kahayra include jzharah, okoth, kojwe, and kabba. in nitheria, the king rules from his seat in rijaltah, however his health is ailing and soon he will pass the crown to his son, the crown prince raghib--a sickly boy of only eighteen. south of nitheria is the kingdom of nagonda, famed for its vast plains and savannahs in which one can find the most docile of the elven cities. east of nagonda is the kingdom of koveri, a grassland country made up of many nomadic tribes. further east is the tropical country of tuapo’e, a small and yet prosperous land that has remained fiercely independent despite countless attempts to invade and conquer by neighbouring kingdoms. yoruwat is to the north, where one will find the independent city of kodo where the story begins. finally, the kingdom of zefei, where one will find the independent cities of liangyi, taizhan, and the mysterious bengbei.

grendelus is a land of which little is known. the north is cold, colder than norgavik, and the people few and far between. settlements are found along the northern and the northeastern shore, and legend says that there is an elven city built in the northwest but that it is too cold for humans to trespass there. there are no kingdoms in grendelus, and so the continent has been divided into three parts--the north, the middle, and the south. middle grendelus is known for its swamps, vast and choking forests, and a community of magic-learned folk who practice their craft away from the unforgiving eyes of others, deep in groves filled with gnarled and knotted trees. it is also said that past the green is the sand of a broad desert, rockier than the kahayra and devoid of life in most parts. the only civilisation known of this desert is the town of rotheo. southern grendelus is even more unmapped, and is supposedly covered completely in dense jungle and rainforest, making exploration difficult for the select few who try to map it. it is known that there is a great city called taltehe on a vast plateau, so high above the jungle floor that scholars say to extend an arm to the sky in taltehe is to grasp the clouds themselves.

pinterest : https://www.pinterest.co.uk/Makokorro/boards/ (my fury’s reign boards are currently private but i’ll be changing that soon)

wattpad : https://www.wattpad.com/user/ivonoris

page : https://furysreign.tumblr.com/wippage

#tHIS IS SO LONG IM SORRY #writeblr #writeblr intro #wip intro #fury's reign

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aion-rsa · 3 years

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The Simpsons Season 32 Episode 17 Review: Uncut Femmes

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This The Simpsons review contains spoilers.

The Simpsons Season 32 Episode 17

The Simpsons Season 32, episode 17, ” Uncut Femmes,” is a caper comedy, and criminals Sarah Wiggum (Megan Mullally) and Fat Tony (Joe Mantegna) steal every scene they are in. Over the course of the jewel heist parody at the center of the installment, we learn Chief Wiggum’s wife has a shady past, and the neighborhood mob boss has a paternal presence. They don’t have any scenes together, but they make crime pay off, and prove two or so wrongs can make a right.

“Oh, my hallway-walking God,” the episode opens, as a workplace atrocity leads to a nondisclosure agreement which results in two front-row seats at a Bob Seger concert. The rock star plays himself, but goes against the wind. Yes, this is the Silver edition of his Bullet Band, but when he learns both Homer and Chief Wiggum dumped an overnight field trip with the kids on their wives to make the show, he feels obliged to remind them: a wife, like rock and roll, never forgets. Who knew a Detroit belter like Seger could throw such guilt?

The trip is to a World War II battleship, retrofitted to look like it did back in May 1943. That was the last time it was scrubbed, and the kids and wives get keelhauled into breaking up everything but the barnacles. They swab the decks and are told they’re killing Oxees, which sounds enough like Nazis for Springfield Elementary. Nick Offerman voices Captain Bowditch, who Sarah Wiggum calls Captain Dingdong before robbing his liquor cabinet and sharing a bottle with Marge.

The police chief’s wife also shares some unexpectedly relatable problems, like the pressures of being married to “a man with a dangerous job he’s just not good at” But her best comic line is about her husband’s health, and how every slice of cheese could be his last. The bonding scene is very effective, warm and witty. Both women give up so much because they are mothers.

Sarah Wiggum gave up a glitzy and glamorous life of crime, like the Ocean’s 8 masterminds. She was the getaway driver on the famed “Hourglass Diamond” heist. Her story is broken down in a flashback sequence with subtitles like “The Grab,” “The Camaraderie,” and “The Double Cross.” To give historical perspective, one of the items which the young thieves steal, while listening to Gwen Stefani’s “Hollaback Girl,” are MP3 players which held over 300 songs.

In the segment entitled “The Honey Pot,” Sarah explains her own role in the robbery. “The Chump” denotes when she met Clancy Wiggum, then a mere security guard, working his way through one of his many attempts at passing the police academy. “I love a man in a rented uniform,” she says.

Marge had to miss the one event she gets to share with her sisters’ friends, which includes the crumbs of the crème de la crème of Springfield’s LGBTQ community: Watching the annual Gen Gala on TV and making scathing remarks. Marge is jonesing for snark. She’s got an itch to throw good shade. This would be a blast to hear from Marge, who is “still working up the courage to call a man the B word.” This year’s Gala is themed, “The Audacity.” The prior year was called “The Nerve. Marge breaks her usual reserve to tell Rihanna she listens “to the clean versions of all your songs.”

Marge is so consistently Marge-like, so clearly defined within the vantage point the series has set up for her. Marge’s first words, when trying to start a conversation with Sarah, are “the top 10 ways of starting a conversation.” When she is kidnapped, she observes whoever had the bag over their face before her was a smoker. Julie Kavner also pulls off amazing physical comedy in this episode, even though it’s vocal acrobatics. When Marge is bound by Sarah’s old gang, she hops away – chair, pole and all – to allow them to scheme. She points to their scheme-board with her high mound of hair, which she later uses to blur surveillance cameras. Kavner’s inquisitive or insistent moans fuel every blue follicle.

To distract the mark, Lindsey Naegle, Marge makes small talk about common household chores the VIP would never do herself, like paying attention to whether you switch delicates to extra warm when you’re doing laundry. “You’re not famous, so you don’t exist,” Lindsey, who pocketed the diamond for herself to buy a celebrity lifestyle, snorts at Marge. Her husband, Springfield’s beloved Rainier Luftwaffe Wolfcastle, takes this gag to an absurd conclusion. Wolfcastle has no idea what the two were talking about when he enters the scene, but he is more blinded by his celebrity. He asks his wife why she’s talking to an empty chair. It’s all a punchline which lands on “somebody stop those nobodies,” a masterful twist of social restraint.

Ultimately, one of the snarkiest lines turns out to be a comment on Marge, when she makes a very surprising appearance at the Gala. But only because “she looks like dirt” walking a red carpet designed for 20 plus-size gladiators to carry Beyoncé. The snide aside comes across as exactly what Marge would’ve wanted.

The episode has plenty of successful throwaway sight gags. Homer closes shop at his post at the nuclear plant with the same kind of cage storefronts lock up with after hours. We’re not sure if this means the workers on the other side are locked in the workspace without emergency supervision for the whole weekend, though.

The kidnapping is first reported by Chief Wiggum’s son, Ralph, who was watch commander on deck. Fat Tony will come to be simpatico with Ralph in hysterically edgy ways later in the episode. They both “know nothing about nothing.” Until he met Ralph, Fat Tony thought putting crumbled Oreos on ice cream would be redundant, but now finds it transcendent. It is like a grooming process; the police chief’s son even begins wearing a matching fur coat. And when a kid behind an ice cream counter tells Ralph not to grab at the Gummy Bears, Fat Tony says “if the boy wants this the boy wants to smooch, the boy will spook smooch.” He could be telling The Bronx Tale. Ralph’s rejoinder, “I love you, scary daddy,” is so in keeping with his character of cluelessly deranged innocence.

When Homer and Wiggum first learn their wives are missing, the police chief immediately blames Fat Tony. The reputed, reported, alleged and convicted crime boss is plainly being honest when he says he would never even consider such a crime. First of all, how would he finish the sentence “it would be a shame if something were to happen to?”

Wiggum is very important to crime in the town. This episode points out how it flourishes under his lazy watchful eye. Fat Tony loves “Chief Bungles” because he’s a horrible cop. Even Sarah admits her husband is “better at planting evidence than finding it.” But, more importantly to Fat Tony, the chief loves the top cop because he is a selfish man. He’s on the take from Burns, Fat Tony, and we know from past episodes he’s in on schemes with Mayor Quimby. But some things, even a cartoon mob boss cannot forget.

Fat Tony is surprisingly woke in his off hours. It’s the espresso. His men only yell respectful innuendoes at attractive women. The boss not only tutors Homer and Clancy on ways to respect their wives, but takes care of Ralphie while he lets the men fix their marriages. The male gaze is all over this episode, and it gets poked in the eye repeatedly. From WWII books to gender-trading action movie remakes. The real Silver bullet is the truth. Seger’s concert T-shirt is actually a list of things he has to get done to keep his marriage happy, including getting a C-PAP for his snoring.

For Homer, this change is as sweet as a donut, the ordeal makes him notice what Marge looks like when she’s happy. Clancy realizes, for the first time in his long career, that there is a museum in town. At their heart, Homer and the Chief are really only paying attention to their wives for themselves. Oh, and for Bob Seger, they did promise him that. The lesson they learn when confronted with their selfish ways is: “it’s all about us.”

The final part of the scheme earns its subtitle as the exact kind of surprise double revenge twist we have come to expect from this genre. The only difference is what kind of spin the parody will take. Things have a special way of falling on The Simpsons. In a classic early episode, Homer took a memorable tumble down the rocky edges of a cliff in a failed daredevil stunt. So, he knows to get out of the way when Lindsey comes tumbling down the stairs at the Gala. She tumbles long enough for Wolfcastle to find a newer, younger, more trophy of a wife. In real life the fall would have killed her, and Marge would feel terrible. Thank god for animation. Kids, don’t try this at home.

“This isn’t about the cash, it’s about righting a wrong and looking damn good doing it,” Sarah convincingly explains when she lays out the premise of the heist. By the end, Marge declares it “best field trip of my freaking life,” which is what the episode seems to be going for. It’s fun, more fun than most school trips, and it teaches a lesson.

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“Uncut Femmes” is a fun and playful movie satire. It captures the suspense, romance, glamour and pace of a heist film, but puts The Simpsons touch on it. Marge shines in the unexpected, manages to clean house at the same time, and brings Homer into an understanding. The crooks get away with it, and nothing will change. Like so many crimes in Springfield, it’s got Chief Wiggum on the case, and that’s like having no one at all.

The post The Simpsons Season 32 Episode 17 Review: Uncut Femmes appeared first on Den of Geek.

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#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

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sormikbigbang · 4 years

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Masterpost

We’ve come to the end of the SorMik Big Bang 2019! Before we move on to the master post for 2019, we would like to express our sincerest thanks to all of you. It has been a wild ride and us mods couldn’t thank our participants enough for being such lovely people to work with. There’ll also be a feedback form the participants can fill in! The link will be distributed through email and shared in our discord server. We would like to know how you think about us and how you would like us to improve through our feedback form!

If you missed your chance this year, don’t worry, we’ll be back again in 2020! Do stay tuned for some exciting information on where this event will be going next year!

Without further ado, here’s the master post for all entries of SorMik Big Bang 2019!

Masterpost

(Announcement: Not all artists/writers have posted their works yet, so this masterpost will be updated gradually as they post until everyone has posted.)

As Soft as Feathers by Kagaminekupcake | Art by Melly Mel (still yet to be posted) & KimmySnacks

Ranting: Teen And Up Audiences

Summary: Two kingdoms lay near one another, and with the queens sharing a friendship, they thought it only natural to continue the friendly relations through their successors. Prince Sorey and Prince Mikleo grew up, therefore, spending their summers together and sharing memories over the pages of dusty novels. However, upon Sorey’s near coronation, Selene informs Mikleo that she plans to betroth him to a princess of another land. Mikleo argues heatedly with her before storming out of the castle, but he was never seen afterwards. All Sorey could find in the rain was his circlet- a prized possession he knew Mikleo would never leave behind. Maybe the swan he discovers in the forest in the following days can give him a clue as to where Mikleo has gone…

Fanfic still yet to be posted by Dola625 | Art by mallowkey

Ranting: General Audiences

Summary: Luvdisc love fortune has set its sight upon a pair of childhood friends who need just an extra push with tons of water, a sunset and of course Mikleo and newly smitten Luvdisc.

La Fragilité Des Grues en Papier by Naminette | Art by Kinsdura

Ranting: Mature

Summary: Was it possible that his mother's tales were true? A sacred mountain where the Kamis' sanctuary lay. Away from the human world they lived in. Wings adorn their back, divine beings that were one with nature. This is were Mikleo place was, where he would be safe and happy. Until years after a plague broke into the village in the valley and a young human had no choice left but to seek the gods' help without knowing how it would change Mikleo's world.

Everything you left behind by Strikedawn | Art by Retto

Ranting: Teen And Up Audiences

Summary: After his uncle's death, Mikleo is forced to run away from his office for the weekend and tend to Camlann, Michael's old manor and his own childhood home. The house has seen better times-- Mikleo definitely won't be able to sell it like this.

(Does he even want to?)

But his uncle's metaphorical ghost isn't the only thing within those walls. There is Lailah and Zaveid, who have made of Camlann their house as much as Michael did. There is Sorey, with his lovely smile, his pure intentions, and his love for the decrepit house. They are everywhere in the house, making it theirs, making Mikleo feel... things. Mikleo definitely won't be able to sell the house like this.

(But then again--does he even want to?)

Demons, Mysteries, and Feathery Celestialness by Sage | Art by Oliver Niko & Vonderer

Ranting: Teen And Up Audiences

Summary: Sorey is a cop. When his current case turns out to involve elements both demonic and angelic, he suddenly finds himself both in over his head and with a new partner. Neither he nor the angel Mikleo are particularly happy to be saddled with each other. Can they work through their differences to solve the case?

Moon Phases by Melly Mel | Art by Raine

Ranting: General Audiences

Summary: "The Sun has long fallen in love with the Moon and has done everything in his reach to conquer its heart, but the timid and stubborn Moon has always rejected it, afraid of these feelings. Time will teach that one cannot simply ignore such a strong and true love for so much time."

A story that tells how Sorey, the sun prince, falls ill for love after so many years trying to conquer the love of Mikleo, the moon prince, who’s not willing to believe him and misunderstand everything.

Fountain of Youth, the Elixir of Eternal Life by MegumitheGreat | Art by ZYO

Ranting: Explicit

Summary: At Lailah's request, Sorey and Mikleo take a break from their adventure and go through Pendago Shrinechurch's library. Coming across a legend titled "Shelanoir's Forest", they find themselves trapped within its pages and living the roles of the characters inside.

Resonance and Resistance by Eachainn | Art by Illium

Ranting: Mature

Summary: After eight years apart, Mikleo is more than ready to pick of the threads of the hopes and dreams that they had left drop when Sorey had left for Pendrago. But things are rarely that easy, especially when the Shepherds are involved. After all, it is a truth universally acknowledged that a Shepherd in possession of a good resonance must be in want of a seraph.

A Sormik Regency Era AU

Chasing Dreams by RoyalDelirium | Art by Mewnia

Ranting: General Audiences

Summary: And this is where their tale begins, they did not really know what would await them out there, but they had dreams to chase and questions to answer. As long as they were together nothing could escape their grasp.

The Best Tour by Spectrum-sanctuary | Art by ArdentKnight & Unko (still yet to be posted)

Ranting: Teen And Up Audiences

Summary: In the archaic city of Ladylake where there are more canals than brick pathways, boats called gondolas are the major mode of transportation and location of work. The most renowned of these occupations are those who guide tourists around the romantic and historic marvels of the city while rowing the gondolas, the gondoliers.

Seventeen-year-old Mikleo is among them, renowned for not only being young but also graceful and skilled with the oar. When he meets the newly-arrived student Sorey in the city, his usual life among the waves and ruins transforms into a tale of adventure and excitement... and perhaps even love.

The Gang Crashes a Party While in Drag by Pengiesama | Art by Nami & Minstrels

Ranting: Teen And Up Audiences

Summary: Sorey and the crew investigate reports of a black market trafficking ring, and zero in on a particularly nasty noble at the center of it all. Luckily, said noble is opening his chateau to host a masquerade – the perfect opportunity to get close. Unluckily, the Shepherd’s fame has spread wide, and Sorey needs a disguise to make sure he’s incognito.

This is achieved by the obvious solution, and that's to disguise him in a dress and pass him off as Rose's sister. What could possibly go wrong?

Sir Sorey and the River Dragon by Treya-barton | Art by Kishi

Ranting: Teen And Up Audiences

Summary: Sir Sorey is a curious, gentle knight from the kingdom of Ladylake ruled by a fair and beautiful Queen. One day she is approached by a village with news that they are being plagued by a dragon that is blocking their access to a river they use for trade. Sir Sorey is sent on a quest to investigate this dragon in order to resolve the villager's dilemma.

The Benefits of Being Impulsive by FortunesRevolver | Art by Aimi

Ranting: General Audiences

Summary: It had all started out of sheer spite -- Sorey’s own bizarre desperate need to prove to his grandfather that he wasn’t that impulsive. Really, if he really wanted impulsive, Sorey could be impulsive. Or, maybe, somewhere deep down, he’d just wanted to talk to the really, really pretty boy sitting by the pool with stunningly white hair who just happened to be holding a copy of his favorite book series ever.

Art by MegumitheGreat (Their writer wasn’t able to get to finish due to personal reasons, but still asked MegumitheGreat to post their art anyway because it’s so cool!)

Trust, Betrayal and Beyond by Sabi | Art by Mikleohno

Ranting: Teen And Up Audiences

Summary: A long time ago, the country was separated into two factions: the Lotus faction and the Lily faction. Both factions had opposing ideals, which resulted in a war that lasted for decades. The war finally ended when the Lotus faction killed the Lily faction’s leader, thus bringing peace back to the land. Our story takes place a century later, focusing on Mikleo, the prince of the kingdom, who is doing everything he can to repair this country, as well as his new servant, Sorey, whose background is shrouded in mystery.

Eyes on the Horizon by Oliver Niko | Art by Siciel

Ranting: Mature

Summary: Mikleo is a nobleman kept captive for the magic he possesses. Sorey is a pirate, his crew determined to grant freedom to those with said magical capabilities.

The two are brought together not by this alone, but also by their similarities; the goal to do whatever it takes to protect Rolance's people from its corrupt emperor, and find the truth behind their missing mothers along the way.

The Color of Twilight by Luneath | Art by Succu (still yet to be posted)

Ranting: Teen And Up Audiences

Summary: “Ever since that day, Sorey has been looking for something. Desperately, yearningly, painfully. It's like chasing after a dream that’s hiding underneath his eyelids, almost there but not really. Just within reach, but could never be grasped fully. It’s like running after a figure — a blurred one, tinted blue, who owns half of his soul; his heart and his life. But he can’t remember. He knows, but never for sure. He just feels his heartstrings being tugged, but never to where or by whom. The more he tries to make sense of everything, the more he realizes it would hurt more to never find whatever’s — whoever’s gone. The only thing that gives him hope is the writing on his palm, tattooed in elusive curves that makes him feel warm and safe and nostalgic and a little like breaking. What’s written there, the meaning and the purpose — he doesn’t understand it at first. Not until some time. But even then, he swears he’s going to find whatever it is. And when he does, he’s never letting it go ever again."

[A Kimi no Na Wa (Your Name) AU featuring time travel, fluffy angst, switching bodies and switching lives, plus true loves and true names.]

Fanfic still yet to be posted by Miranda | Art by Okke (still yet to be posted) & Narain Yuna

Ranting: Explicit

Summary: Clergyman!Sorey x Non-Believer!

Mikleo The heavy wooden doors opened and closed with an echo throughout the chapel, all but empty save for the decorative lanterns with the names of the twelve apostles lining the pillars leading up to the alter, the hand-carved plaques in the right-wing hallway depicting the Stations of the Cross of the same number donated by the generous family, and the overwhelming but whole-fully welcomed presence of Him which he felt.

Sorey loved getting to do this-- well, he loved pretty much every aspect of his stay here as part of his training, but this was probably one of his top favorites: waking up to the early morning sun and say his morning prayers, picking some berries from his little garden as part of his breakfast before freshening up, and coming down to the church before Gramps arrived to start the day. He wasn't sure what made him want to say another morning prayer in the chapel when there was no need whatsoever. Perhaps it was simply just seminary habits or wanting the chapel to feel less... big? Lonely?

Or dusty?

He chuckled at the thought and shaking his head, and joyfully continued to walk towards the alter. Thinking back to his childhood, it use to be a dark green stone like the rest of the flooring. In it's place now was a white marble with gray veins scattering sparingly here and there. Gramps wasn't sure who thought it was a good idea, and Sorey didn't really pay it much attention.

As he approached the alter and began to kneel, pulling out his mini prayer booklet from his pocket, the front double doors opened and closed yet again. Hm, strange, Sorey thought for a moment. Normally Gramps doesn't come in this early since traffic from...

When he turned around to greet the wise old man who practically raised him from birth, Sorey was taken aback to see a young man with long dyed hair, faded black skinny jeans, and a somewhat revealing white and blue sweater with a v-neck that fell to show the side of his collar bone. Wait, was it dirty...?

It could've been the way he seemed to hold himself together-- just barely and could hardly seem like he wasn't shaking. It could've been the way his eyes, a deep blue from this distance, almost pleaded for mercy and safety. It could've just as easily been the way the light hit his unblemished face, his aquamarine tresses...

Sorey knew, deep down, that he would never forget this moment. Someone or something must have whispered something to his heart or to his soul that day, to never let this memory go.

Fanfic still yet to be posted by Mogseltof | Art by Lynxlantern & Ammerynth (still yet to be posted)

Ranting: Mature

Summary: Since he was young, Sorey’s been friends with the curious, withdrawn sailor everyone in his seaside town avoids. Now he’s an adult, struggling to find material for his research, but his withdrawn friend has recently been made captain of his ship, and Sorey is offered the opportunity he’s been looking for -- the chance to get out of his town and see the places he’s actually researching. But Sorey has another reason to want to be out on the sea; they say there are mermaids in the waves, and Sorey has to know if his memories ring true, or if he imagined the boy in the river so many years ago. However, the voices of the dead sing loudly from the deep, and the captain is hiding something that may get them all in trouble.

We hope you enjoy the masterpieces made by our talented participants! See you again next year!

#Sormik #sormikbigbang2019 #toz #tales of zestiria #masterpost #sorey #mikleo #fanfic #fanart #mod post

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ayearinfaith · 4 years

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𝗔 𝗬𝗲𝗮𝗿 𝗶𝗻 𝗙𝗮𝗶𝘁𝗵, 𝗗𝗮𝘆 𝟭𝟳: 𝗖𝘂́ 𝗖𝗵𝘂𝗹𝗮𝗶𝗻𝗻 "The first warp-spasm seized Cú Chulainn, and made him into a monstrous thing, hideous and shapeless, unheard of. His shanks and his joints, every knuckle and angle and organ from head to foot, shook like a tree in the flood or a reed in the stream. His body made a furious twist inside his skin, so that his feet and shins switched to the rear and his heels and calves switched to the front ... he sucked one eye so deep into his head that a wild crane couldn't probe it onto his cheek out of the depths of his skull; the other eye fell out along his cheek. His mouth weirdly distorted: his cheek peeled back from his jaws until the gullet appeared, his lungs and his liver flapped in his mouth and throat, his lower jaw struck the upper a lion-killing blow, and fiery flakes large as a ram's fleece reached his mouth from his throat" -𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘛𝘢́𝘪𝘯, translated by Thomas Kinsella, 1969 (original text 12th century) Cú Chulainn (English pronunciation /ku hʌlɪn/, “coo huh-lin”) is one of the most significant figures in Irish mythology, a demi-god, and defender of the Kingdom of Ulster. He is known for his fearsome barbed spear, the Gáe Bulg, and his terrifying transformation, the Ríastrad. The legends of Cú Chulainn, better known as the Ulster Cycle, are preserved in 12th century CE manuscripts, but can be attested in partial form back to the 7th century. They are set in a very real and recognizable Irish landscape at the end of the 1st century BCE. 𝗦𝗲́𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁𝗮 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗛𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱 Cú Chulainn was not born “Cú Chulainn”. There are several versions of his divine birth, some involving series of impregnations, abortions, and child abductions, but in general the sister of the King of Ulster, Deichtine, is visited by the Irish king of the gods, Lugh (pronounced /lu/, “loo”) who informs her that she shall have a son and she shall name it Sétanta. Upon birth the child is accepted, relatively free of controversy, and is raised communally by Ulster nobility, each imparting their own area of expertise upon him. The name Cú Chulainn is bestowed upon Sétanta after a mix-up involving a guard dog. The King of Ulster is having dinner with the smith Culann. Though Sétanta was invited to this dinner, he was late and Culann forgot and so released his vicious guard dog for the night. When it attacks Sétanta, the boy is given no choice but to kill it. In recompense he promises Culann a new dog, and while he waits Sétanta himself will serve. For this he was dubbed Cú Chulainn, literally the “Hound of Culann”. For this epithet and his role in the defense of Ulster he is sometimes also called the Hound of Ulster. 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗛𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗠𝗼𝗻𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿 The rather grisly quote at the start of this entry describes one of the more striking of Cú Chulainn’s superhuman powers, the Ríastrad. The word “Ríastrad” was translated by Thomas Kinsella, who made one of the most definitive versions of the legend, as “Warp Spasm”. A more direct translation would be more like “distortion” or “contortion”. If you are familiar with the modern comic book hero the Hulk then the nature of the Ríastrad will be familiar; in moments of intense emotion, anger particularly, Cú Chulainn transforms into a horrifying monster of strained muscle and cannot recognize friend from foe until he calms down and returns to normal. The act of calming him can be difficult, and in a noteworthy instance the men of Ulster do this by having their wives bare their chests, causing Cú Chulainn, who can apparently still feel bashful even in the throes of the Ríastrad, to avert his eyes, giving the men the chance they need to wrestle him into a barrel of cold water. It ends up taking three barrels of water as the first two explode and boil from his heat before he calms down. 𝗔 𝗕𝗮𝗿𝗯𝗲𝗱 𝗦𝗽𝗲𝗮𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗕𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝗙𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗱 At the age of 7 Cú Chulainn overhears the King’s Druid making a prophecy that whoever picks up arms this day would have everlasting fame, prompting Cú Chulainn to burst in and quickly claim a weapon (which takes time as most of them cannot stand his superhuman strength). Unfortunately the Druid wasn’t finished, and while Cú Chulainn is destined for greatness, he is also destined for a short life. With a childhood message like this, it’s not surprising that a teenage Cú Chulainn is prone to brash and impulsive behavior, including agreeing to be sent away on a perilous training mission in an attempt to win the hand of the woman he loves. This mission is to go to Scotland to train with the warrior woman and possible goddess Scáthach (English /skaha/, “ska-hah”) who lives on the Isle of Skye in a castle called the Fortress of Shadows. Cú Chulainn, of course, is more than up to the challenge, and receives an exceptional training in warfare including the use of the Gáe Bulg. The Gáe Bulg is a barbed spear, crafted from the bones of a sea monster, that must be thrown with the foot and causes anything it hits to explode with barbs from within. The gruesomeness of this is not overlooked, as Cú Chulainn requires an aid to go after it and painstakingly cut it loose from the mangled flesh of its victim. Cú Chulainn is not alone in his training, working alongside his fellow soldier Ferdiad. The two become close friends, blood-brothers, and possibly lovers, which makes this next segment all the more tragic. 𝗔𝗹𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗠𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗧𝗿𝗮𝗴𝗶𝗰 The climax of the Ulster Cycle is an event known as the Cattle Raid of Cooley. Though its moniker may make it seem like a simple attempt to snatch livestock, it is a large-scale epic battle, the Irish equivalent of the Trojan War. In brief, the armies of Connacht under Queen Medb have come to wage war against Ulster over a particularly valuable, and possibly magical, cow. On the eve of battle all the men of Ulster fall ill due to a curse (there is a lot of content in the Ulster Cycle), but Cú Chulainn can fight, having not yet come of age and thus not a man to be targeted by the curse. Cú Chulainn invokes the right of single combat and proceeds to hold off the entire army one man at a time for several months. During this he also has an encounter with the goddess Morrigan (like I said, a lot of content). Eventually though even Cú Chulainn gets injured and must recuperate. Aided by his father Lugh, he is able to recover quickly but not quick enough to prevent Ulster from sending out the only able-bodied soldiers they have (as the men’s curse lasts nine months); the boy-troop, a squad of youths, many Cú Chulainn’s age, training to be soldiers. When Cú Chulainn returns to the battlefield he sees the boys demise and enters his most fearsome Ríastrad, slaying hundreds. The single combat gambit continues, involving many recurring figures from Cú Chulainn’s life, culminating in Ferdiad. Cú Chulainn and Ferdiad engage in brutal and tragic combat that lasts for three days, until Cú Chulainn has no choice but to use the Gáe Bulg against his closest companion. 𝗗𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗵 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗟𝗲𝗴𝗮𝗰𝘆 In some versions of the tale Cú Chulainn dies with Ferdiad, either from grief or his wounds or both. The iconic version, however, has him go on afterwards. After the fight with Ferdiad the nine months of the curse are up and the battle ensues in the usual manner. Through some magic and trickery Queen Medg sets up the warrior Lugaid with the chance to kill the demi-god. With three spears he fells Cú Chulainn’s horse, his charioteer, and impales Cú Chulainn himself. Cú Chulainn chains himself to a rock in order to die on his feet and faces the army still. No one is willing to go near him until a raven lands on him, signaling death. However, when Lugaid comes to claim Cú Chulainn’s head, the body flashes with light and Cú Chulainn’s hand lets go of the sword it held, which cuts off Lugaid’s hand. This is the ultimate end of Cú Chulainn. The image of Cú Chulainn chained to the rock is prominent especially amongst Irish nationalists and is the second most common Cú Chulainn imagery after him carrying the dead body of Ferdiad. Because the tales are set in the real world, many places across Ireland are identified with the legend. The town Dundalk is where Cú Chulainn was born, and the town motto is still “Mé do rug Cú Chulainn cróga”, “I gave birth to brave Cú Chulainn”. A standing stone in County Louth, named Clochafarmore, is a national monument as it is considered the very same one to qhich Cú Chulainn tied himself. Image Credit: 𝘊𝘶𝘤𝘩𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘯 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘍𝘦𝘳𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘥 𝘈𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘙𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳, Ernest Wallcousins, 1905

#A Year in Faith #Cu Chulainn #AYIF #Religion #Mythology #day 17

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pikapeppa · 4 years

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Fenris/f!Hawke and the Inquisition: Nothing Is Inevitable

Chapter 54 of Lovers In A Dangerous Time (i.e. Fenris the Inquisitor) is up on AO3!

In which Fenris and the crew wind down after killing the Avvar dragon by listening to Ameridan’s memories which are super lighthearted and not at all heartbreaking, and Fenris and Rynne have a Talk™.

Only an excerpt is here; read the whole thing here on AO3 (~9200 words).

*******************

Ameridan’s memories floated out of the flask and separated into five globes of light. Fenris glanced nervously at Hawke. “Shall I just, er…” He gestured vaguely at the memories.

She shrugged. “It worked for your memories in the Fade. Hopefully it’ll work with these.”

He nodded, then reached at random for one of the memories. The memory flared briefly, and Ameridan’s mellow voice echoed through the air.

“I dislike being so far from home,” the voice said. “Halamshiral needs me. The darkspawn have grown stronger. Some of my brothers would let those creatures destroy Orlais; they think Drakon no better than the Imperium. But if we do not stand with the humans against the darkspawn, we might lose everything we have gained. I will fight this Avvar-dragon for you, Drakon… and then we shall drive back the darkspawn together.”

Varric sighed. “Shit. This, uh, explains a lot.”

Dorian grimaced. “Yes, quite. If the elves had helped Orlais during the Second Blight, Orlais might not have turned on them later.”

“Hang on,” Hawke protested. “It’s not the elves’ fault that Orlais burst in and stole their land from them.”

“I’m not saying it’s their fault,” Dorian said in surprise. “I’m simply making an if-then statement.”

“But…” Hawke stopped, then sighed. “No no, I see what you’re saying. Ugh, what an utter shitshow.”

“Agreed,” Fenris said quietly. If Ameridan had succeeded at killing the Avvar dragon and gone back to the Dales, and if the Dalish elves of old had joined Orlais in battling the darkspawn, then maybe the Exalted March on the Dales would never have happened.

Imagine if that were the case, Fenris thought. Imagine what Thedas would be like now if the Dales still belonged to the elves. An independent nation of elves, allied with Orlais, who were in charge of their own destinies…

Or maybe it wouldn’t be like that at all. Maybe after Ameridan and Drakon died, some other excuse would have arisen for an Exalted March, and the Dales would have been taken from the elves anyway.

Blackwall broke through his melancholy musings. “The Jaws of Hakkon failed to destroy the lowlands, but their dragon did lead to the end of the elves.”

“Yeah,” Varric said softly. “That’s probably the fairest way to put it.”

Hawke smiled at him. “That’s how you should put it in your book.”

Varric smiled faintly back at her. She squeezed Fenris’s hand and tilted her head at the memories. “On to the next?”

He nodded, then reached for the next memory. This time, Ameridan’s voice was wry with humour. “If I must go to the end of Thedas itself for Drakon, I am at least glad to have friends at my side. Telana and Haron have been arguing about Haron using the lyrium to fight demons. Some things never change.” Ameridan chuckled softly before going on. “Orinna has a new alchemical trick she wants to try, like pitch or tar but stronger: a recipe straight from Orzammar. They argue, fuss, and mock each other mercilessly… and I would be lost without them.”

The voice trailed away, and they were all silent for a moment. Dorian cleared his throat. “I wonder what that’s like?”

Blackwall harrumphed, and Bull pulled Dorian against his side while Sera scoffed. “What d’you mean by that crack?” she demanded.

“I jest, of course,” Dorian said hastily. “I’m moderately fond of you all, despite your lack of proper hygiene.”

Varric smirked and shook his head, and Hawke flicked the cap of a flask at Dorian’s head. Then Cole spoke up. “They were happy, then dead. But this is still here.”

They all fell quiet again. Hawke looped her arm around Cole’s shoulders and hugged Fenris’s arm. “Well, we’re not dead,” she announced. “Nobody’s dying anytime soon, so we’re all going to keep having a good time, right?”

Her voice was bright and cheerful, and her grip on Fenris’s arm was hard. He squeezed her hand as Blackwall replied. “That’s right,” he said gruffly. “Let us hope we fare better than they did.”

“We will,” Hawke said firmly. “We already have. Go on, Fenris, let’s hear the next one.”

He reached for the third memory, and once again, Ameridan spoke to them through the glowing globe of light. “I prepare now for my final battle against this dragon of the Avvar. I offer thanks to Ghilan’nain, halla-mother, and to Andraste, Maker-bride. As you were raised up from mortal men to stand with our creators, our makers, so raise me up now to defend this world.”

Fenris’s eyes widened. “Ameridan worshipped the elven gods and the Maker,” he said. He looked at Hawke. “I had wondered about this – why he said he would see Telana at the Maker’s side. He was Andrastian, at least in part.”

She made a little face. “That would have been a pain, though, don’t you think? Trying to reconcile two sets of wildly different religions? Why bother?”

“Belief is a funny thing,” Varric said philosophically. “Besides, an elven Inquisitor must have had a careful path to walk.” He glanced at Fenris ruefully. “Still does, I guess.”

“There is that,” Fenris agreed. He himself had never publicly revealed his religious uncertainty for concern that it would obstruct the Inquisition’s goals.

Cole spoke again, this time through Ameridan’s voice. “‘They’re not so different, Drakon. Just another pair of boots to walk the same road.’ He doesn’t see, wants it simple, but I can help him get there. There’s room for both.”

“Oh,” Hawke said softly. “That’s… kind of nice, actually. Making room for both…” She looked around at their companions. “Ameridan was a pretty inclusive sort of fellow, wasn’t he?”

“Sounds like,” Sera agreed. “Elfy-elves aren’t like that these days.”

Fenris twisted his lips ruefully. “They aren’t, no. If Ameridan had survived, lived to maintain the alliance with Orlais…” He trailed off before he could continue the thought. The path of what-ifs regarding Ameridan’s survival could only lead them to a very depressing place.

Hawke sighed quietly and leaned her head on his shoulder, and he looked down at her. “Are you all right?” he murmured.

“Of course,” she said. “Just tired, that’s all. Should we hear the next one?”

He nodded and activated the fourth memory.

“We have a plan,” Ameridan said. “Haron and Orinna will lead the Avvar elsewhere, so Telana and I can deal with the dragon. Telana believes we can seal the dragon away, even if we cannot kill it.” He sighed, and even through the echo of memory, Fenris could hear the bone-deep weariness in his voice. “It is less clear whether I can do so without sealing myself in as well, but I have little choice. This beast will wreak devastation across Orlais unless we can stop it now.”

Dorian shook his head sadly. “This still boggles my mind,” he said. “Ameridan saved all of Orlais from the Avvar, and no one ever knew.”

Sera wrinkled her nose. “People-people don’t do things so you know them. Good on ‘im.”

“She’s right,” Blackwall said. “Heroism shouldn’t be about fame. It’s about doing what’s needed, no matter the cost.”

At Blackwall’s words, Fenris’s stomach twisted guiltily. Blackwall had a point; some tasks needed to be done, no matter the cost. Killing Corypheus had been one of them, and killing this possessed dragon had been another. It was selfish of Fenris to wish that those necessary tasks weren’t his responsibility. They needed to be done by someone, and that bottom line should trump everything else.

But why does that someone always have to be me? he thought resentfully. As Ameridan had said before, demons and dragons were one thing; politics and posturing was something else altogether. Every political problem, every feud, every territorial dispute: was it truly necessary for Fenris to be consulted for everything?

Dorian, meanwhile, raised his eyebrows at Blackwall and Sera. “I didn’t mean– of course Ameridan didn’t do it for the heroism. It’s just… a shame, that’s all.” He eyed them incredulously. “Come now, you two can’t really not care if you’re forgotten from history. Don’t you want to feel that you, you know, participated in everything that’s happened here?”

Cole answered for them. “It doesn’t matter that no one remembers,” he said. “What matters is that they helped.”

Hawke wilted. “But if that’s all that matters, then why are we here listening to these memories?” she said plaintively. “Why are we getting all mopey over a bunch of people that we never met if their stories don’t matter?”

Fenris glanced worriedly at her, and she laughed lightly. “Not me, of course. I’m not moping. But I can see that tear in your eye, Bull.”

Bull chuckled. “Whatever you say, little Hawke.”

She grinned at him, but her smile faded quickly. “Seriously though,” she said. “This isn’t – nothing we do is for the recognition. That doesn’t mean you want to just be forgotten. Even you two,” she said to Blackwall and Sera. “Whether you care or not, you’re not getting forgotten in any of this.”

Sera wrinkled her nose and shrugged. Then Varric shrugged as well. “It is a damn fine story,” he said. “Shame nobody found it until now.”

“It is a shame,” Fenris agreed. He reached for the fifth and final memory.

Ameridan’s voice echoed through the frosty air. “Telana, my love,” he said softly.

Hawke’s fingers tensed against Fenris’s arm as Ameridan went on. “I should not have asked you to come with me, though I know you would not have stayed behind. You are a Dreamer, and this dragon the Avvar have tamed carries a demon inside it. I can see how its presence hurts you. You should be at Halamshiral reminding our people of our alliance with Drakon. Not here, risking death again with me.” He sighed. “Still, in the old tongue, your name ‘Telanadas’ means ‘nothing is inevitable’. I will remember your name and hope.”

For the final time, Ameridan’s voice faded away. For a long, frozen moment, they all sat in a subdued silence, and Fenris could hear Hawke breathing shallowly beside him.

Nothing is inevitable. The meaning of Telana’s name hung in the air like a chilling fog that sank straight down to his bones. Ameridan had thought of Telana’s name as a sign of hope, a sign that even terrible things could be stopped and avoided. But Fenris couldn’t ignore the ugly irony of what had ultimately befallen them.

The thing Ameridan had tried so hard to avoid – his wife’s death – was the very thing he had not been able to prevent.

Cole broke the heavy silence. “Too bright, blinding, breaking, broken. ‘Get to safety. I will seal us both away. It’s not forever. Come back with aid.’ But her leg was broken. She could only lie down and try to see him one last time.”

Varric sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Aw, kid.”

Hawke suddenly hid her face against Fenris’s arm. He turned toward her and stroked the nape of her neck. “Hawke…”

She shook her head and pressed her face into his neck and shoulder, and Fenris could feel the dampness of her tears on his skin.

He swallowed hard and clasped the back of her neck. Across from them, Sera sniffled wetly, and Blackwall put his arm around her. “Come now, girl,” he said kindly. “They’re together now, like Ameridan said.”

Sera scoffed and rubbed her nose. “Not crying about that, silly. Just something in my eye.”

Hawke took a deep breath, then lifted her face from Fenris’s shoulder. “Me too,” she said thickly. “Allergies or something, right?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Sera said gruffly.

Hawke smiled at her. “You know what’s good for allergies?”

Sera leapt to her feet. “Punch!” she exclaimed.

“You’ve got it,” Hawke said cheerfully. “Come on, back to Stone-Bear Hold so I can mix up some punch.” She braced her hand on Fenris’s knee and started pushing herself upright.

He hastily took her hand and helped her to her feet. “Be careful, Hawke,” he warned. “Your mana…”

“I know, I know,” she said. “Taking it easy, no magic for the rest of the night.” She batted her eyelashes at him. “If you want to carry me back to Stone-Bear Hold, that might help me recover faster.”

“I could, if you need me to,” he said.

She grinned wickedly, and Varric shook his head. “You should know better than to offer to carry her,” he said dryly.

“Hush, Varric, you’ll ruin it,” Hawke scolded. She gave Fenris a winsome smile. “Oh please, most handsome elf in Thedas, will you carry me?”

Fenris huffed in amusement and pinched her waist. “Only if you need me to. It is not my job to transport you across Thedas. I’m not a nuggalope.”

“You’re right, you’re not,” she said promptly. “I’d much rather ride you than a nuggalope.”

Fenris scoffed and rubbed his mouth. Blackwall and Bull snorted, and Sera cackled loudly while Dorian rolled his eyes.

Varric shot Fenris a knowing look. “You walked right into that one, you know.”

“I know,” he said ruefully. “I regretted it the moment I said it.” He placed a solicitous hand at the center of Hawke’s back. “Come on, back to the settlement.”

Read the rest on AO3.

#fenris #fenris fic #Lovers in a Dangerous Time #fenris the inquisitor #fenquisition #fenhawke #fenris/hawke #fenris x hawke #fenris/f!hawke #fenris x f!hawke #fenris/femhawke #fenris x femhawke #fenrynne #jaws of hakkon #joh dlc #pikapeppa writes

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vaguelybohemian · 4 years

Text

Baldwin Montclair/OC

Chapter Four- On the parts of the body

“Fuck,” Baldwin screamed internally, regretting not asking Nora previously how she was feeling. Her friend, if you could call him that, was an ass as well as a witch. He had felt the electricity coming from him the moment he spoke to Nora with such callousness distrust. It was unlike such beings to associate with many humans, let alone care if they were keeping company with vampires.

Nora was giving her drink order to the server, her voice raised in pitch as if she were the one feigning excitement at serving fellow students. Surely, he would need to ask her of her customer service background.

“And for you, Baldwin?”, she asked. He nearly jumped from the sound of his voice coming from her.

He glanced up at the server, noticing her pen tremble slightly under his gaze. “The Spanish Grenache. Please.”

“Any water with that?”

He laughed. “No that will be fine.”

He frowned at the face being made at him by his companion.

“Grenache? Really?”

“It’s certainly not Chateauneuf-du-Pape, but it will do,” he said, folding his large hands across his abdomen.

“You’re insufferable,” she said, rolling her eyes at the obviously name dropping of a $900 wine.

“I prefer to think of myself as incorrigible. Makes for a more positive outlook on the whole thing.” He made quick work of rearranging the cutlery, unrolling them from the crimson napkin. “Speaking of positive outlook; how are you feeling?”

She sighed, looking away from him out the window. Several cars whizzed past before she replied. “I just was not expecting that to happen.”

The man nodded. “Nor I. Was he merely roused by my being there, or is he always so…”

“Ridiculous?”, she intoned, picking absently at her sweater instead of looking at him. She looked so young and yet so old all at once as she thought about what had transpired between her collogue and herself.

“It is regrettable, but not something you should fret too much about,�� he said, nodding knowingly.

She chewed her lower lip, captivating his stare to land there. The subtle blush of lipstick had been worked away slightly from her worrying the bottom lip and it had begun to swell a bit with agitated blood. Her tongue dabbed the spot, as if she were checking to see if she had broken the skin.

She sighed again, breath smelling of sweet milk and pasty flour washing over Baldwin. “I suppose you’re right. What’s done is done.”

Baldwin smiled woodenly, thankful for when a large glass of wine was put in front of him.

“Oh lovely, thank you, darling,” Nora said, smiling kindly to the server. She certainly had an ease for hiding when she was upset. “We were thinking of the charcuterie. Did you want anything else?”

“Whatever you are hiding would do,” he thought, wishing he could have far more than just what has been on her mind since they first became acquainted. “Perhaps extra fig jam?”

The server nodded, jotting that down.

When she walked away Baldwin pointed to the glass of wine she had ordered. He hadn’t listened when she ordered and was perplexed by the wide glass she sipped from. He could practically taste the fizz of the sweet white wine. “May I try?”

“Certainly not,” she responded, grinning a bit over the rim of the glass. “If I did that, you’d have me try your ridiculous Ganache. Red wine should not taste… like roofing tiles.”

Baldwin balked at this. He swished the wine and took a deep draught of the rich wine. It was young, not well aged to truly curate the flavours, but he could appreciate the deepness of the spice, the blending of berries, and vineyard where the grapes had been grown. Spain was an exceptional flavour Baldwin had always enjoyed, being able to taste the sun and the soil for which the region is so famed for. He wondered if humans could think such things truly tasted of tar, despite the lack of tannins in the wine.

“It tastes like a much-needed trip to the Spanish countryside,” Baldwin remarked, placing the glass on the table delicately and folding his hands back over his stomach. He should have been so contented he could purr, but certainly more like a lion than a kitten. “Are you certain about that defamation?”

She narrowed her eyes skeptically. “I’ll pass and stick to my Nova 7.”

“Professor Germaine, quite the restaurateur I see,” he praised, saluting her with much sarcasm.

“If you must know, I was a server for a very long time. High end restaurants, resorts. Whatever paid the bills better.” She shrugged and took another sip, sighing contently. “And if you must know, I do not drink much.”

“We’ve done a great deal of work today, you deserve it. I, on the other hand, drink a great deal of wine.”

Nora gave him a look for a moment, and he realized the implications of what he said.

“Not that I am an alcoholic, merely it is my drink of choice. Much more than any other sipper. And my family owns a vineyard, so I know a significant amount about wines.” He defended himself too hastily, wishing to console her on what opinion she may have been developing of him.

“That explains the Chateauneuf-du-Pape, I suppose,” she retorted.

“Oh no, rest assured that is merely because I can afford such things,” he said plainly, proceeding to take a healthy drink from his wine. She almost choked on her sip.

She composed herself before asking, “Baldwin, how much money do you have?”

He shrugged, turning to see the server coming with their cheeseboard. “Enough. I do work at an exceptional business firm with fourteen international outlets.”

“Ah yes, you certainly make do.” She smiled up at the server as she quickly placed the board and hurried off to another duty.

“Let’s just say I’ve not had the means to pay for my choice of pope.” Not a lie. Mainly because he had never had any interest in the politics of the Catholic Church.

“Har har,” she snarked, taking a bite from a well decorated piece of cracker. “Their goat cheese is divine. And the almonds are baked with honey.”

She took another helping and quirked an eyebrow at him.

“It is more than I expected.” He simply took a few cashews and raspberries.

“It’s a whole meal, not just an appetizer. And much better than scones.” She bit into a piece of brie delicately, smiling at the flavour. “’There is excellence all around you. You need only be aware to stop and savor it.’”

“Who said that?”

“Chef Gusteau from Ratatouille.” At his look she shrugged. “He was a man of too good for this world.”

“I have a growing list of things I must research merely to understand your idioms,” he chuffed, trying not to be too obviously pleased as he took a bite of brie and fig jam.

She laughed. “It’s an instant classic about a boy and his Little Chef. I’m surprised you’ve never seen it. I take momentous pride in having a distinct knowledge of early 2000s children’s movies.”

“I seem to have forgotten how young she is,” he thought to himself, hiding the look of bereavement on his face. “Too young for me, certainly.”

“What does it matter if you care little for me?”, Baldwin said defensively, using her words from earlier that day.

She looked shocked and he regretted saying anything. “You’re right I don’t like you.” She drank deeper from her wine and proceeded to receded from any conversation with him.

“Good one, asshole,” he thought to himself, also resigning himself to silence and wine.

Nora shivered despite her sweater and Baldwin placed his jacket over her shoulders, the article dwarfing her further.

She began to thank him when they saw two yellow vested police officers come from the walkway to enter the library from the back. “What’s going on?”

Baldwin shook his head. “Good evening, has something happened?”

“Find some other way to go. The library is closed for the night,” the shorter officer snapped, not looking at Baldwin.

“I’m faculty. I have work resources I need to re-“

“Do it tomorrow. I said the library is closed,” the officer interrupted, causing Nora to bristle a bit. “We can escort you to your vehicles, but we cannot have civilians in this part of campus.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” the small woman huffed, turning on her heel. Baldwin could smell death on the officers as the breeze swept over them and was taken by the distinct lack of blood. Had someone been hurt, or blood been spilled, he would have smelled such things a block away without the wind.

No blood meant vampire killings.

“Fuck,” Baldwin thought as he followed behind Nora to the front parking lot.

#a discovery of witches #all souls trilogy #Baldwin montclair #baldwin de clermont #Diana bishop #Matthew clairmont #romance #fan fiction #archive of our own #vampire #witch #Deborah harkness #original female character #vaguelybohemian #eventual smut #slow burn

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sabraeal · 5 years

Text

The Great Chain, Chapter 4

The Hierarchy of Beings | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

ANS Week, Day 3: Wind forceful | lively | unsettled | playful

In Wati, no man is allowed to look upon the Emperor’s concubines -- at least, no intact one. It has been centuries since any man was fool enough to try, but all the stories agree: should one gaze upon the forbidden garden of delights, his eyes will be burned for the shame of it, and his tongue cut out to quiet him.

At least, that is what is said. In practice, all things are different.

The eunuchs serve them of course, but so do the young boys of the kitchens, and should any woman be granted leave from the harem, a simple veil is enough to satisfy propriety. Plenty of her brother’s favorites had been allowed at court; seated behind a screen where only their shadows were glimpsed is where a great many of them made their plots. Women had been made and unmade by what they learned shielded by silk.

She, of course, was held to a different standard. The sacred feminine, she could not be spoken to by any man save His Most High, and none were allowed to look upon her.

Save the alchemist.

A screen sat between them at every one of their meetings, with a daughter of Visoth to speak for her, should the need arise. Which it often did; so much that her own brother had called it unseemly. It had not weighed well against the alchemist when his brethren finally brought him forward for his heresies.

But until then, Samay had been hers. A man eager to impart to her the life she might lead in the heathen lands, should this fool contract of her brother’s go though.

A helpful account, to be sure. But still, that had not been the information she most wanted to hear.

“Her Most High wishes to hear of the concubine,” a daughter would say, making the words ring against stone. “You must tell her again what vile tricks she might face.”

“None, none,” Samay was all-too eager to reply, shaking his head. “She is so very honest. So brave! There is nothing on this earth that gives her fear.”

She had, like a child, thought it was a warning. But now, as the concubine turns to her, unheeding of the danger when she leaves her back to that beast --

She understands.

“Guards!” she screams, so loud the walls must shake with it. The door flies open, Prak’s men piling into the room, followed swiftly by the Clarinese.

Her hands clench tight on the silk of her gown. They are men, a half-dozen all told, and here she sits, her sacred person indecently bared, but -- but --

It cannot matter, not when the beast stands in this very room, it’s talons aimed at Shirayuki’s back.

“It’s there!” She flings out an arm, finger shaking as she points. “It’s come to kill us!”

The unclean stares at Prak’s men, who only stare back, both at a loss. The Clarinese --

What did she say? asked one, head swiveling towards the Watese guards. I didn’t catch a lick of that.

I said, she grits out, shoulders curling in, that it has come to kill us.

This only seems to cause more confusion. Sir Obi?

She fixes her gaze on Prak’s head guard. “Do something!”

That, finally, moves them. The beast is quick, but he realizes their intentions too late --

Ah, it says, its vile mouth pressed to the floor. The concubine approaches with a level of gravity most royals born to the position spend their lives striving to achieve, crouching down with no hint of fear on her features. Looks like I should knock next time.

Shirayuki shakes her head, mouth lifting slyly at a corner. It looks like you should use a door next time.

She had not believed Samay when he spoke of the concubine’s strength, of her courage, but -- never has she seen someone talk to the unclean as she does. Her hands are steady against her thighs, gaze clear and fixed, mouth bent into a scolding smile. There is no fear in her, no derision.

All right. Shirayuki stands, brushing off her lap, humor drained from her expression. I am conducting an exam in here. It’s time for you all to leave.

But-- one of Prak’s men send her a worried glance-- Her Most High--

Was surprised, she decides firmly. Bora, it’s only Obi. You lost fifty dill to him just last week.

Oh, Miss, the unclean sighs, entirely too at ease with a knee at its back. What’s to say this isn’t revenge?

The guard peers down at it with a frown, then nods, helping the beast to its feet. I’ll win that money back, you know.

That’s what they all say, it drawls, insufferably smug, with a coy flutter of its eyelashes. It isn’t fair how very long they are. Nimol still owes me seventy.

Down from one-twenty, another guard protests.

The concubine hooks her hands over her hips, braced like a woman used to being heard. If you might all see yourselves out?

Even me? The unclean sashays nearer, hand pressed earnestly to its chest. It gives her the sort of looks hounds do when they know there is jerky in their master’s pockets.

Despite her forbidding expression, the concubine’s lips twitch. Especially you.

After such an honest mistake? it protests, pouting as she scoots it across the floor, encouraging it toward the window. Miss...

I know just how honest you are, Obi, the concubine informs it wryly. And in any case, you can’t stay.

My heart, it tells her, turning one last time on the sill, it’s broken--

You can ask Zen to kiss it better, she replies, whip fast. I’m sure he’s heard all about this by now.

The beast grimaces. But, Miss--

With a hand firmly planted on -- well, a place a concubine would be well acquainted with, save that this this was not the prince -- she helped it straight out the window, shutting it on its surprised yelp.

Now then, she says, mouth stretching wide in a smile. Where were we?

The concubine picks up her notes, skimming over them with a preternatural calm. Right, the exam. Do you still feel safe taking off your robe?

She wants to say no, to say how could I when my naked body was nearly a spectacle, but --

But the concubine sits there with an encouraging smile, gaze steady and unworried, and...it feels silly to not, even so.

The gown slips from her shoulders, each inch a further humiliation. It is good she is allowed the veil; no matter how kindly the concubine smiles, she would die rather than show her the tears that sting her eyes, that threaten to run red tracks down her cheeks. No gaze has ever fallen upon her sacred form, not in whole; even she herself has avoided laying eyes upon her own flesh.

But now she bares it for this woman, a rival --

Huh, the concubine breathes, brow furrowed. Is it all right if I touch you?

She recoils, every inch of her skin crawling at the very thought. The concubine throws up her hands, eyes wide, shaking her head. I don’t mean to offend you. I just need to see if it hurts.

She nods. It is a small concession to make, when she is already so exposed.

The girl reaches out, slender fingers grasping just behind her calf. It startles her; she had expected the difference between then to be stark: the concubine, born common, would have ruddy, work-roughened skin, with the same cast as their famed veined cheeses. She would be pleasingly bronzed, smooth to the touch, neither too dark nor too pale --

But in practice, Shirayuki is nearly as sun-kissed as she is -- which is to say, not at all. The only difference between them is the hint of rose or gold.

Do you go outside often? the concubine asks, fingers running clinically over the slight rise of her muscle. The daughters of Visoth had told her that she was the peak of feminine softness, but there is no such praise from Shirayuki’s lips, only something fretfully close to a frown. Or exercise?

No, she answers, blinking, not at all. I am meant to sit in contemplation and maintain purity of thought.

The frown deepens into a scowl. You don’t go for walks?

Where would I go? The girl’s hands press into a blister, and she hisses, Ah, perhaps I have...some. Since I have arrived. It seems to be expected of me.

Shirayuki takes a long breath through her teeth. Yes. We do expect people to stand on their own legs in Clarines.

She can hear the cut, but it is not aimed at her, but rather, farther away. Perhaps even her brother might feel it, so keen is the concubine’s tone.

Does this hurt? she asks, right before her finger press behind her heel, and by all the faces of the god, it is blinding.

Here? she asks at the knee. Here? she inquires at the shoulder. Could you roll onto your side? Do you feel it here?

The hip nearly sends her soul to the god, she could swear it. You are torturing me! she snaps, grabbing at her robe. You wish to punish me!

The concubine sits back, face stony. It wasn’t me who wanted to punish you, she murmurs. Louder, she says, It’s hard to tell the exact problem, but...you’ll need to start walking, at least.

More? she asks, agog. They already make her walk to all her own appointments, and when she is invited to dinner, it is clear she is expected to arrive under her own power. It is almost too much to be borne.

Yes. Much more. The concubine eyes her, concerned. Maybe you could walk around the gardens? They’re lovely this time of year.

She stares. Alone?

The girl blinks, sitting back in her hips as if the idea surprises her. It should; in Wati, she would go nowhere without a cloud of attendants, but here -- well, there are no daughters of Visoth here to keep her company, and she is not sure what caste of noble women would be a fitting replacement.

The concubine’s mouth takes a wry twist as she suggests, You might take Zen with you.

A man? Surely she cannot be shocked further. No. That would not be appropriate.

Shirayuki’s mouth parts in a smile. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. After all, you should get to know each other.

Yes, of course, but surely all of that can be done with a screen between them. They don’t need to be next to one another, talking.

I can prescribe you a tea as well, for the pain, the concubine continues, and if it continues after you’ve started walking, we can look into something else to help you.

Yes, of course. She grimaces, pulling on her robe. After I start walking.

The concubine hesitates. Munkhtsesteg.

She looks up, straight into a gaze far too earnest to be seen in any harem.

If you don’t want to go alone, Shirayuki says, so delicately, as if she might break, I’m happy to walk with you too.

Her hands shake on her buttons. Thank you. I will...consider it.

#answeek2019 #day 3 #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #my fic #ans #Hierarchy of beings #zen wisteria/oc #there is a thing that i am doing with this fic #that makes it specifically a bitch to write #AND I ENJOY IT #though it is subtle #and will have a point later #but oh my god why do i do this to myself

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pengychan · 5 years

Text

[Coco] Mija

Title: Mija Summary: Héctor hadn’t expected to wind up in a cenote. He hadn’t expected his daughter to be there, either. [Protagonist Swap AU.] Characters: Héctor Rivera, Coco Rivera Rating: K

A/N: This fic was written for @twinklecupcake - it is based on their AU where little Coco visits the LotD, believing Ernesto to be the father she remembers so little of. They asked for something where Héctor realizes who the little girl he’s been hanging with really is, and here it is. Hope you like it - and happy birthday!

***

I need to get out. I must get out. I must find Chica-- get her away from him-- tell everyone what he did-- cross the bridge--

Héctor’s thoughts are a jumbled mess of anger, desperation, and the sort of utter bewilderment that can only come with the sudden knowledge he’s been murdered, and by his best friend of all people. He doesn’t know how it’s possible, but he does know that this can’t be out it ends, at the bottom of a damp cenote, trapped forever with his little girl at the other side of the bridge. Trapped forever with his little girl on this side of the bridge.

The thought chills him to the marrow. It would mean losing the one hope he holds onto - that even of he can never cross over, one day her life will have run its course and he will see her again in the Land of the Dead. But if he stays trapped in there until he’s forgotten and turns to dust-- if he cannot find a way out-- then he will never see her again. He will never speak to her again. He will never hug her again.

He will never be able to tell her how sorry he is, how loved she was, how he tried to come home.

“No,” he chokes out, clawing at the ridiculously smooth wall of the cenote, trying to gain some traction-- trying to climb up. “No, no, no, no! Let me out of here! Ernesto! You can’t do this to me! Someone, anyone--”

“NO!”

The sudden shriek above him causes him to trail off and look up, alarmed. It is the voice of a terrified child, and one he’s learned to know well; horror wells in his ribcage at the realization.

It can’t be. Not his own daughter. What is he doing, why, how could he--

“No, no, no, no! Let me go! Please! Papá! PA--”

There are shadows above him, against the pale light making it into the cenote, and with one last shriek something is suddenly dropped, down down down into the water.

“Chica!”

Héctor is in the water the next moment, just as the little girl breaks the surface with a gasp and struggles to stay afloat. “Papá!” she calls out, looking up, and the despair in her voice cuts deep.

“I’ve got you,” Héctor gasps, putting an arm around her and helping her stay afloat. “I’ve got you, Chica, come--”

“Héctor,” she chokes out, and clings back to him. He can’t see tears, her face all wet, but he hears them in her voice. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry--”

“Hey, hey--”

“I should have listened to you! I should have listened to mamá and my tíos and Ceci and-- they told me, you all told me-- mamá tried to warn me and I ran away from her-- mamá loves me and he doesn’t and I said such mean things to her...!”

By the time they make it to solid ground, the little girl is a sobbing mess. How could she not? Finding out that her papà - the man she hardly remembered but whose faint, faint memory she’d so clung to for so long - was a murderer, a fraud, and willing to let her die to keep his secret… it would break anyone. “... We’ll get you to your mamá, yes?” he says gently, pulling her close. She’s shaking, but still so warm compared to him; her bones can be seen, but not felt. She is still alive, and does not belong here.

But she will, if she stays any longer.

He chases away the thought, trying to reassure her; she’s curling up against him, and he finds himself rocking her like he did to his Coco, only a few years and yet an eternity ago. Ay, how he misses her. “We’ll find a way out,” he promises, knowing there is none. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you, and give you her blessing to go home, and… and this will be like a bad dream.”

“But it isn’t,” Chica chokes out. “It’s all true. And-- he murdered you-- I’m so sorry--”

“It wasn’t you, nenita. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“He didn’t care. All those letters and he didn’t care,” she’s weeping quietly now, head resting against Héctor’s ribcage, where his heart would be. And something may very well be there, because oh, there is such a tightness in his chest cavity. “Chica--”

“We had a song-- he said it was for me, but then he shared it with everyone else… a-and it wasn’t even his song! He stole it!”

Remember Me. That backstabbing rat had sung her Coco’s song, of all songs, and meant precisely none of it. Anger rears up its head, and he opens his mouth to speak-- but she speaks first, and whatever he was about to mutter turns into ashes in his mouth.

“He said it was our secret song, that-- not even mamà knew it, and we could sing it together every night, no matter how far apa--”

“Qué??” His outburst causes the child to recoil, and pull back to look up at him, startled. Her eyes look so large for her little face, and for the first time-- no. No, it cannot be. This is all… this isn’t… it would be absurd. Ernesto had used his songs for fame, his death for a movie scene-- surely he wouldn’t hesitate to use his exact words, too.

But he never heard them, did he? No one ever did, except--

“... Coco?”

Those warm brown eyes grow larger, stunned. She looks up at him like he’s grown antlers. “How… how did you guess my name?”

His Coco. For a moment, Héctor cannot speak. Something in his head is buzzing like a trapped moth; the greatest shock of his life or afterlife - his best friend murdering him - suddenly doesn’t seem all that shocking anymore. He reaches out, his hand moving almost on its own, to brush away some of the wet hair stuck on her cheek. Oh God, how could he not realize it sooner? The eyes, those cheekbones, the chin-- the tilt of her head so much like Imelda’s-- the fact Pepita was after her when they met… how could he be so blind?

“Héctor?” Coco whispers, anguish melted away into confusion… and something else, something that is balancing just on the brink of comprehension. She keeps staring, transfixed, as Héctor’s bony hand cups her cheek.

“... You got so big,” is all he can say. Suddenly he has no more words… but what he does have, what they do have, is a song. “Remember me, though I have to say goodbye, remember me…”

As the words come unbidden to his mouth and the melody fills the cave - the real melody, how it was always meant to be, not the shambles Ernesto turned it into - he can see his Coco’s eyes growing bigger, comprehension finally dawning in. And then-- then she sings, too, a small hand reaching up for his face, almost close enough to touch.

“Know that I'm with you the only way that I can be...”

“... Until you’re in my arms again…”

She remembered. She remembers, and suddenly her eyes are brimming with tears again, the way they would when she was little more than a baby and had a bad dream, when he and Imelda would come with a candle to comfort her.

“PAPÁ!”

Her shriek echoes throughout the cenote, her arms reach around him, and Héctor holds her close and tight, tighter than he ever held anyone in life or death. It is staggering, incomprehensible: after years of trying, it wasn’t him to cross the bridge. Coco did, and she found him. All along, for hours now, his little girl has been right by his side. In his arms again.

“Coco,” Héctor manages. “Mija...” he pulls back with what feels like the biggest effort he’s ever made, staring down at her. He cups her face, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “I was trying to come home-- I kept trying, every year. I missed you so much. I love you so much.”

“I missed you too,” she chokes out. “A-and mamá-- she thinks you just left, and I thought-- I didn’t want to believe it, but I you never came--”

“I was trying, Coco, I was trying to come home. I’m so sorry, I should have never left.”

She sniffles, wiping her eyes. “H-he… de la Cruz… he killed you,” she whispers, and suddenly she’s glaring, features twisting in fury. “He took you from us!”

He did, and Héctor will probably be furious again soon enough, but right now all he can think is that he has his little girl again. Coco is with him, and everything is all right.

… Except that it isn’t. Coco is not meant to be there. Coco cannot stay there.

“You… you need to go home,” Héctor says, pulling back. She shakes her head.

“No! I need to tell mamá what really happened before I go back! And... I can’t leave you here! We must get out, a-and-- the photo, we have to get it back…!”

“I’ll be fine,” he lies. He has no idea if he’ll ever be able to get out of there at all, or if so when, and the thought of sending his little girl away from him now hurts, but he brushes all of that aside. “If you stay here, you’ll die. I can’t let it happen. I can-- God, I could have given you the blessing all along! You could have gone home-- I-- I’ll do it now!”

Her little face falls. “Papá…”

“Hush. Por favor,” he brushes the back of his hand against her cheek. It’s so small, so soft, so warm. Flesh and skin and blood-- it’s life, all hers to live. He makes an effort to smile, and reaches for her wet hair. “Go home for both of us, sí? Pass on my story. I… I'll find way across, and you'll see me again one da--”

The flowers. The marigold flowers he’d woven in her hair before the talent show are gone.

No. Oh no. No, no, no.

Horror must have shown in his gaze, and Coco looks up at him in despair. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs. Héctor shakes his head. He feels as though something had struck him.

“Th-they must have come loose when they threw you in,” he mutters, and stands, taking a few steps towards the water. “I’ll have a dive and find them, we only need a petal, they-- they must be somewhere in the wa--”

“I took them off.” Coco’s voice is so small, so regretful and frightened. “A-after we a-argued at the talent show-- I was so mad, I’m sorry, I took them all off and now--!”

“Coco…” Héctor kneels next to her, or maybe his legs give in, but it doesn’t matter. He takes her back in his arms, tight. “I’m the one who’s sorry, I shouldn’t have raised my voice-- I just-- all I could think was crossing the bridge…”

“To see me,” Coco sniffles, and he nods.

“Yes. Yes, mija, to see you.”

“I-- I’m sorry I lied to you. I really wanted to see my papà,” she mutters, holding him back. “... I have now. I’m so happy it’s you.”

It would make his non-existent heart swell, in any other moment, but not now and not here. Even as he smiles down at her, all he could think is how desperate their situation is: stuck at the bottom of a cenote, without anyone who’d help knowing it… and her time is running out.

It’s his fault, Héctor thinks, all his fault. How could he be such an idiot? So many details fit now that he knew the truth, how could he not realize earlier that he was looking at his own daughter? How could he be so blind not to recognize the most important thing in his world? He could have given her his blessing any moment, he could have sent her home any moment, and he had not.

Remember me, he’d asked of her, but he… he couldn’t even recognize her. His mind was stuck on the image of the small child he’d left behind, and now it’s too late. He messed up again, and in the worst possible way. He doomed her, he--

“We’ve got to look for a way out,” Coco speaks suddenly, and stands. She wiped her face and looked down at him, a scowl creasing her brow, looking so much like a general poised for battle.

So much like Imelda.

“We have to get your picture back so you can cross over! And we need to find mamá and tell her the truth,” she declares. “She thinks you left us and it’s not fair. And we’ve got to tell everyone what de la Cruz did! He murdered you and took your songs and he’s got to pay for what he did to our family!”

Yes. Definitely Imelda.

Pushing the dread - it is useless, there is no way out - out of his mind Héctor stands, and takes her hand. She’s right: they must find a way out, or at least try. He never gave up trying to cross the bridge and he won’t give up now, either. Not with his daughter’s life at stake.

“... Right,” he says, and makes an effort to smile. “Let’s find a way out of here, mija.”

Coco gives him a smile that contains all the beauty in the world, and Héctor is too mesmerized by it to hear, somewhere above them, the flapping of huge wings as something lands by the sinkhole.

The roar, however, doesn't go unnoticed.

***

“--Grounded for your entire afterlife, do you hear me? Oh just you wait until you cross over again! Run off to de la Cruz’s mansion! What was that even about??”

Her mamá’s voice rises over the wind rushing against her face and over the powerful beats of Pepita’s wings, all anger and terror and relief and unshakeable love underneath it all. It makes her smile wider as he papá, holding onto Pepita’s tail, speaks up in her defense.

“It’s not her fault, Imelda! She thought Ernesto was her father!”

“SHE THOUGHT WHAT!” Something else enters her mamá’s voice - utter outrage - and Coco’s smile turns just a little sheepish. “If he were the last man on Earth, I wouldn’t-- how could...!”

“Well… you know, that photo, and the guitar…”

“YOU-- me, marry that cabrón! I have never been so insulted in my life and afterlife!”

“Sorry!”

“You better be, señorita!” Her mamá raves on a little more, but Coco can’t stop smiling. They’re not out of the woods yet, they still have a photo to recover and a murderer to kick very hard in the shins, and her mamá is still mad at her papá - but they can fix everything.

Her familia is together again and she believes, with all her heart, that all will be well.

***

[Here’s another thing I wrote based on this AU]

#pixar coco #hector rivera #imelda rivera #coco #protagonist swap

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zirroxas · 5 years

Text

So I Found All the Characters With Unique Backstories

Spent some time rooting around in the files to figure out which characters the game actually gave unique background descriptions to. There’s 94 in total. There’s something around 750 historical characters in the game, but only these comes with unique backstories.

Some of them are quite hilarious.

cai mao -- Competent Sailor -- "Cai Mao is adept of naval combat, and a budding admiral." cao ang -- Prince Min -- "Cao Ang's fate is to one day be prince of the House of Cao, be it in life or in death." cao cao -- Strategic Mastermind -- "The wily Cao Cao sees opportunity in the hardships of others, skewing things to his advantage." cao pi -- Political Animal -- "In war, you can only be killed once, but in politics, many times.""""" cao ren -- Brave Hunter -- "The skills of a fearless outdoorsman --horse-riding, archery, and hunting --make Cao Ren a valued battlefield ally." chen gong -- Master Magistrate -- "Chen Gong knows that even great men are imperfect, and righteousness is often not immediately obvious." cheng pu -- Bandit Killer -- 'The General of the Household Who Defeats Bandits' is living proof that bravery can overcome adversity. dian wei -- Brute of Unmatched Power -- "Such prowess! This is old Elai again!""""" dong zhuo -- Cruel Tyrant -- "Consumed by his hunger for power, Dong Zhuo's despotism knows no bounds." fa zheng -- Vindictive Strategist -- "The intelligent and vengeful Fa Zheng should not be crossed, lest you become the target of his deadly schemes." gan ning -- Pirate of the Bells -- "Cao Cao may have Zhang Liao, but I have Gan Ning! Thus we are evenly matched.""""" gao gan -- Loyal Nephew -- "Ever the rebel, Gao Gan's true allegiances shall only die when he does." gong du -- Master of the Land -- "Far from being just a heartless bandit, Gong Du is a principled soldier of honour." gongsun du -- the Warlike -- "In war, Gongsun Du does what is required of him; he revels in bloodshed and conquest." gongsun zan -- The Iron Fist General -- "Defence of the frontiers requires more than just the resources of a warlord, but also a merciless attitude." guan yu -- God of War -- "A famed warrior and righteous slayer of all who dare oppose him, Guan Yu's deification is already assured." guo jia -- Astute Advisor -- Guo Jia is a confidant of unparalleled foresight --to ignore his counsel is to invite failure and defeat. han fu -- Diligent Agriculturalist -- "Using his ability to manage food supplies with tireless efficiency, Han Fu is a most valuable logistician." han sui -- Tireless Insurgent -- "Insurrection is in Han Sui's blood. To him, subservience cannot be permanent." he man -- The Most Powerful -- "I am He Man, the devil who shoots across the sky! Who dares challenge me\?""""" he yi -- Leader of the People -- "With unwavering faith, He Yi inspires others to follow in his righteous footsteps." hua xiong -- Fierce Beast -- "With a head shaped like a leopard's and ape-like shoulders, Hua Xiong's ferocity is matched by his appearance." huang gai -- Unreadable Warrior -- His outward demeanour belies his real allegiances --Huang Gai truly is the very definition of inscrutability. huang shao -- Wielder of the Heavenly Way -- "All uprisings, no matter how widespread, stand little chance of success without strong leadership." huang zhong -- of the Ageless Strength -- "The venerable Huang Zhong, to whom age is just a number, is frequently underestimated in battle." huang zu -- Ranged Ambusher -- "Huang Zu likes to start offensives on the front foot, from a safe distance and out of sight." huangfu song -- Aged General -- "In the brutal business of war, there is no better teacher than experience." jia long -- Short-sighted Peacekeeper -- "Jia Long may dedicate much time to forethought, yet still lacks caution now and then." jia xu -- The Blade in the Dark -- Decisions made in secret can have the deadliest outcomes. jiang wei -- Budding Commander -- "Known for being an expert general despite his inexperience, Jiang Wei has a precocious talent for war." kong rong -- Master Scholar -- "Kong Rong claims descent from the great Confucius himself, attested to by his remarkable wit and scholarly fame." kong zhou -- Pure Conversationalist -- "A master at the art of Qingtan, Kong Zhou utilises discussion and debate as a means of intellectual self-improvement." lady sun -- The Rising Sun -- "As surely as the sun rises, the Lady will always endeavour to get her way." li ru -- Vicious Shadow -- Behind every despot's schemes is the intellect of a consummate strategist. ling tong -- Daring Errant -- "For some men, war is a chance to prove one's self and seek adventure." liu bei -- Virtuous Idealist -- "Despite having come from modest beginnings, the blood of ancient Han emperors flows through Liu Bei's veins." liu biao -- Gentleman of the Han -- "A man seldom ruffled, Liu Biao demonstrates his aristocratic pedigree through stable officiality." liu dai -- Generous Attendant -- "In spite of the harsh realities of palace life, Liu Dai conducts himself according to his nature: with kindness and benevolence." liu xie -- Former Emperor -- "While no longer leading their people, they still strive to bring peace to the land." liu yan -- Opportunistic Ruler -- "Some men just want to watch the world burn, while others use the opportunities placed before them." liu yao -- Welcoming Magistrate -- "Liu Yao appears to be a 'yes' man, but is nevertheless known for his staunch incorruptibility." liu yu -- Prosperous Trader -- Liu Yu's rapport with foreigners and minorities has enabled him to amass considerable wealth from trade. liu zhang -- Proponent of Peace -- "A timid and suspicious noble, Liu Zhang displays a willingness to avoid war, even if that means surrender." lu bu -- Warrior Without Equal -- "With unpredictable loyalty and unsurpassed martial skill, Lü Bu is the most dangerous warrior beneath the heavens." lu fan -- Go Master -- Go is not just an abstract game of strategy --it is a measure of one's aptitude in tactical forethought. lu meng -- Late Scholar -- "Despite becoming literate late on in his career, Lü Meng has proved himself a most able scholar." lu su -- Charitable Envoy -- "Ever the philanthropic diplomat, Lu Su's affluence empowers his charitable nature." lu xun -- Scholar General -- "Equal parts brains and brawn, Lu Xun can oversee both civil and military matters." ma chao -- Most-brilliant Warrior -- "With a complexion like jade and eyes like shooting stars, Ma Chao is a warrior truly brilliant in appearance." ma dai -- Fraternal Warrior -- There are few things more important to Ma Dai than bloodline and family. ma teng -- Protector of the West -- "Ma Teng may treat his friends well, but he remains merciless with the Han's enemies." mi zhu -- Dependable Administrator -- "In these interesting times of fluctuating allegiances, the steadfast loyalty of Mi Zhu can always be relied upon." pang de -- White Horse General -- "Pang De is an unrelenting force, whose avowed enemies know they must face him sooner or later." pang tong -- Fledgling Phoenix -- "Having risen from the ashes of obscurity, the 'Crown of Learned Men' is an advisor of the highest esteem." pei yuanshao -- Virtuous Outrider -- "Whether in charge of brigands or soldiers, one must lead by example, always riding at the head of the host." shi xie -- King Shi -- "With his long and distinguished record of sophisticated service, Shi Xie is destined for stately eminence." sima yi -- Silver Eminence -- "If you cannot fight, defend. If you cannot defend, flee. If you cannot flee, surrender. If you cannot surrender, die!""""" sun ce -- The Little Conqueror -- "Sun Ce has been likened to the warrior-kings of old, with an aptitude for military leadership that belies his youth." sun jian -- Tiger of Jiangdong -- "Claiming ancestry with the renowned military strategist Sun Tzu, the fearless Sun Jian has war flowing through his veins." sun qian -- Upstanding Loyalist -- Sun Qian's word is an unwavering bond. sun quan -- Emerald-eyed Administrator -- "Striking looks and a sturdy frame betokens Sun Quan's great nobility, heroism and longevity." taishi ci -- of Exceptional Dexterity -- "From horse-riding to archery, Taishi Ci excels in all manner of physical pursuits." tao qian -- of the Sincere Jurisdiction -- "Tao Qian may be a highly influential and ambitious figure, but expansionism is not on his personal agenda." wang lang -- Ardent Educator -- "A keen imparter of knowledge, even when it is neither wanted nor welcome." wang xiu -- The Righteous Hero -- "Never can it be said that Wang Xiu was ever disloyal, dishonourable or unwilling to come to the aid of those he serves." wei yan -- Disobedient Tiger -- "For the distrustful Wei Yan, a violent betrayal always simmers below the surface." wen chou -- Fierce Firebrand -- "If only Wen Chou were here, I'd have nothing to fear!""""" xiahou dun -- Hotheaded Officer -- Those who know Xiahou Dun know not to get on his bad side. xiahou dun 2 -- The One-eyed Exile -- "You really don't want to know what he did with his eye after losing it to that arrow...""""" xiahou yuan -- Maker of Ways -- "When it comes to military logistics, where there's a will, Xiahou Yuan has a way." xu chu -- Tiger Fool -- "Xu Chu is a man of simple thoughts and principles, but an impressive warrior who fights with a bestial rage." xu huang -- Guardian of the Gates -- "When assigned to guardianship, Xu Huang is an immovable sentinel, requiring a tremendous effort to bypass." xu shu -- Disguised Diplomat -- "His body may be in one place, but his heart is in quite another." xun you -- Gentleman Attendant -- "A member of the learned scholar-gentry, Xun You is a profound thinker of great insight." xun yu -- Hegemon's Aide -- "Here comes my Zifang!""""" yan liang -- Valiant Vanguard -- "A foremost general of considerable military prowess, the gutsy Yan Liang is unmatched among ordinary warriors." yu jin -- Enforcer of the Law -- "As an imperious, by-the-book disciplinarian, Yu Jin rules his subordinates with fear and drilled-in obedience." yuan shao -- Preeminent Commander -- "Yuan Shao's astuteness, dignity and arrogance are the mark of his ancestors, many of whom served emperors past." yuan shu -- Ambitious Powermonger -- Yuan Shu is an ambitious but overconfident individual --time will tell whether such qualities shall trip him or aid his desires. yue jin -- The Lion of Yangping -- "What Yue Jin lacks in stature he makes up for in fierceness, fearlessness, and deadliness with his bow." zhang chao -- Flowing Calligrapher -- Such graceful skills with ink and brush are the mark a man of great education and scholarly puissance. zhang fei -- Drunken Brawler -- "Hold my wine...""""" zhang he -- Courageous General -- Zhang He's fearlessness enables him to retain his composure when having to adapt to unfavourable situations. zhang kai -- Slayer of Tyrants -- "The unjust rulers of the old regime shall perish.""""" zhang liao -- The Heavenly Dragon General -- "The model of professionalism and organisation, Zhang Liao has heavenly leadership skills." zhang lu -- Celestial Master -- "Just as water penetrates mountains, Zhang Lu always seeks to overcome hardness by his own accord." zhang yan -- King of Black Mountain -- "With his scores of followers, the bandit leader known as 'Flying Swallow' wields the influence of a king." zhang yang -- Ignored Warlord -- What is the fate of he who is forsaken and unjustly distrusted by his fellow warlords\? Only heaven knows. zhao yun -- Light in the Dark -- "In the darkest times of war, the auras of the most resplendent warriors gleam brightest." zheng jiang -- Bandit Queen -- "Hell-bent on plunder, Zheng Jiang goes to unspeakable lengths to obtain her loot." zhou tai -- Man of Many Scars -- "His scar-riddled skin is a canvas of stories, telling of countless bloody battles past." zhou yu -- Melodic Strategist -- "If there is a mistake in the tune, Zhou Yu will look up.""""" zhuge jin -- Bookish Scholar -- "Having studied history and poetry in years past, Zhuge Jin is a man who appreciates scholarship." zhuge liang -- Sleeping Dragon -- "A peerless genius and insightful strategist, there are few situations that Zhuge Liang's astute intellect cannot overcome."

#total war #Total War: Three Kingdoms

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