#my pristine carvings of artistry

[mrpristineblade]

Some Rearranged Heroes ft. @remaking-machine's OG boyo, @salty-an-disco's bumbling little squire and an slightly overwhelmed but thankful Stranger

#my pristine carvings of artistry #slay the princess #stp #stp the stranger #voice of the hero #rearranged au #also excuse my boy for attempting to lick the bird. He's just curious is all

[strwberri-milk]

April Showers

Rafayel x Reader || Fluff, Cuddling || 1 112 words

In which the two of you indulge in some cuddles in the rain.

You thought you were used to all of Rafayel’s little eccentricities by now. As much as you loved him you could never determine which ones were from his upbringing as a Lumerian, or the fact that he’s rich beyond your wildest imagination with the self control of a toddler on a sugar high.

He’d been quite adamant for the last little while that you not wander out too far on his beachfront property. You’d seen the construction crews coming and going for quite some time now so you assumed that he was in the middle of some new art installation as per usual. You knew not to question his inspiration for it came as easily as it went.

Today you’d turned up at his house despite the pouring rain, Rafayel’s frenzied texts begging for your attention once more. It’s standard procedure – he acts like he’s about to drown without you being near him and then is perfectly fine once you’re there. You never mind, you never did. You liked having his attention on you, knowing that it’s a hot commodity.

“Rafa?” you call out to the empty house.

It’s darker than usual. Even if he was working with his studio’s lights off, you’d be able to find some source of light near a wet canvas. Rafayel always made sure that his colours were as accurate as possible. You ignore the rise of anxiety in your chest at the lack of his response, deciding to up the ante.

“Babe? Honey? Sweetheart? Love of my life?”

Usually, the sweeter your nicknames were for him meant he’d come barrelling down the hallway and bowl you over with the weight of his body. Now, no matter how hard you listen you can’t even hear the sound of his breath, deciding to brave the weather and step outside to see if he was on the beach.

Strangely enough, it seems whatever construction was being done was finished. You thought that the trucks were missing from his driveway due to the weather but the pristine sand and building you didn’t recognise proved differently. Rafayel wasn’t an architect as far as you were concerned so you doubt that this was meant for an exhibition of his, cursing his inability to buy umbrellas and braving the torrential downpour to head towards the marble pillars.

As you approach, you can’t help but be taken aback by the precision carved into the surface. Even if he didn’t construct it with his own two hands you knew that it had his artistry all over it, delicate patterns and sculptures attached to the smooth stone by him. You’re so enraptured by the works of art that you barely notice the lump laying on the cushioned space of the sunken gazebo.

Rafayel lays in the newly built space, listening to the sound of the rain and awaiting his knight in shining armour to come keep him company. He jolts a little as you slide in next to him having not heard you finally arrive at his side. His smile is bright enough to part the clouds for a moment, pulling you into his side and pressing a kiss to your wet cheek.

“You’re drenched. How did that happen?” he asks, your breaths mingling in the shared space.

“You were missing. I had to come find you and unfortunately, I can’t control the weather. What is this anyway? I didn’t know you were one for backyard barbeque sessions,” you tease, putting a cold arm around his waist.

“It’s a gazebo. I designed it and had it built. Thankfully they finished it early so now I get to enjoy it in the rain.”

“You’re so weird. Nobody looks forward to sitting in the rain like you do,” you say with a roll of your eyes.

“I told you already,” he says hotly without any ill will. “It doesn’t rain in the ocean. I’ll never get sick of the way it sounds, how I’ll never be able to capture it on camera, the way it feels on my skin. Just admit that you take it for granted and move on.”

“I do not take it for granted. I’m allowed to be grumpy right now anyway – I’m all cold and wet!”

Rafayel does feel a little bad for not warning you and you know he does by the shedding of his cardigan before he slowly peels off your wet shirt. You don’t mind the gesture, letting him button the soft fabric around your upper body as he pulls you back into his chest. He reaches blindly until finally locating a dry towel hidden in a compartment near the two of you, drying off your hair and draping it over your legs with a soft apology.

“I forgot to tell you to bring an umbrella. I got so lost in the sound of the rain that would have fallen asleep were it not for you sneaking into here next to me.”

You can’t be mad at him anyway, not when his voice takes on that wistful tone and you see the lost look in his eyes. He liked to run circles around you, pretend that he’s an open book when really, you’d only begun to scratch the surface of the man he is, not the one he wanted you to see. It evokes a sense of melancholy in you, burying your face in his neck and losing yourself in his presence.

“It’s alright. I’m not actually all that mad at you,” you reassure regardless, finally feeling the chilling bite of the rain ebb away.

“It’s romantic. Laying here with you and listening to the rain. If I didn’t already, I totally would have fallen in love with you.”

His soft laughter makes your heart flutter. You look up to meet his lavender-blue eyes bright with mirth as he gently noses against your cheek.

“Well, I’ll be sure to keep that in mind the next time we’re arguing,” he says playfully.

Normally, storms would make you nervous. The only thing that made you capable of driving over in the first place was the knowledge that Rafayel would be here to help sooth your anxiety. The thunder and lightning did nothing to help your already anxious mind from going a mile a minute but here in his arms, none of that mattered.

You rest your ear on his chest, letting the sound of his heartbeat amongst the scattered rain soothe you into a well needed sleep. Rafayel looks down at you affectionately when he realises you’ve gone limp on him. His hand rests by your ear, pinky gently stroking your cheek as he presses a kiss on the top of your head.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #rafayel x reader #lads x reader #lads rafayel #rafayel love and deepspace

[ktheist]

2 | all yours to enjoy [m]

title inspired by blackpink’s sure thing cover.

⟶ read part one, play me like a toy, here.

muses. heiress!reader x ex-mafia!hoseok

genre. age gap factor. chaebol-mafia au. arranged marriage au. modern au.

warning. implied smut, mentions of gun use and all that mafia shizz

verse. knj. ksj. myg. kth. pjm. jjk. jhs.

synopsis.

“marry me or be killed.”

“is there a third option?”

“we fucked but you were too drunk to remember so that option’s invalid.”

x

the carved name above the handle points in wayward angles. as if made by a child.

well, 5 year-old-you lacked tact. and a sense of artistry but nobody dared insult the work of the only daughter of the han group.

the room hoseok stepped in feels familiar yet foreign at the same time. it’s been years, but the pink unicorn plushie still sits on your bed like it’s waiting for you to climb in and cuddle it every night.

the pastel peach walls have been repainted in a deep maroon shade. at your order, hoseok suspects. it’s as if you’ve renounced that childish innocence and took on a blood oath for the han family name.

much of that youthful wander in your eyes has disappeared.

‘it was my fault, i shouldn’t have left her all alone in this wretched place,’ hoseok surly thought to himself.

before he can even think about how inappropriate his actions are - to have stepped into a woman’s room without a reason - a surprised voice echoes from the door adjacent to where he’s standing.

“hoseok...” you’re standing there, in front of the ajar bathroom door, with a pristine white towel around your body and another wrapped around your head, water dripping from the stray strand that manages to escape from your towel turban.

perhaps he had a reason, after all.

perhaps he just wants to see you, the person who coerced him to come back to this god forsaken house where he’s seen more deaths than his fingers could count.

“i’m sorry- i didn’t know you were taking a bath-” hoseok didn’t even manage to take a step back when you shake your head, a smile he’s not used to seeing curved on your lips.

“it’s fine, come in. close the door behind you.”

when he remains frozen in his spot, hand on the handle that seems to seep cold, icy frost into his palm - you raise a pair of trimmed brows, “what? we’re getting married, aren’t we? you forgot but you’ve seen all of me,” a coquettish smile on your lips, “don’t tell me you’re getting all shy now after announcing to the entire head of families that they should sleep with one eye open.”

the funeral had been handled by uncle jihoon, your father’s right hand man and most trusted confidant. he probably cleaned up the skeletons in your father’s closet more times than you’d met your own father in your 25 years of living.

your father had enemies and someone had to get rid of them.

such was the ways of the hans.

yeojun was yours and sehun was chanyeol’s.

hoseok was meant to step in once uncle jihoon resigned since at an early age, he’d gathered enough support to ruin the whole nation. his only fault was being loyal to your father, han jiseok.

and it was his loyalty that made your father drive him away.

because no matter when hoseok was and what he was doing, he’d never betray the hans.

“he’s just a kid,” you’d once heard him say to uncle jihoon.

several months later, he’d announced at the annual family gathering that hoseok got into yonsei university as a business major. it also meant that his ties with the han group would cease to orphan student-influential family sponsors. every record of his existence was wiped clean. he was no longer the child uncle jihoon took in because he pitied hoseok’s miserable state of living. he’d come to your house in tattered clothes and a bluing bruise on his cheek.

jung hoseok was meant to carry half of the burden of the head of family until the true heirs grew up and learned the ropes of leading the han group.

in short, hoseok was a proxy. a stand-in who gathered a little too many support that threatened the powers of the actual heirs.

their bow lingered longer, as if they were thanking the gods for bringing him back just as they’d lost a great leader.

you didn’t mind though. you liked hoseok - he was the only one that didn’t look at you like you were a prophecy of death. a child who’d grow up just as wicked as her father.

he’d looked at you like a human.

han jiseok took a liking to hoseok, the loyal dog of the han family that would drive a fist into someone’s gut at the command of the head or any of his heirs. hoseok wouldn’t question it either - why he was beating someone up half-dead, he just... did it.

so when that jung hoseok who got cut off from the han family at chanyeol’s whining over how his succession would not be supported by the branch families if hoseok were to remain as the stand in - came back and announced  first thing after his return, his engagement to the heiress of han group, naturally, all hell broke lose.

hoseok had stood by your side as you’d kept your head low, the black veil covering your eyes and nose did well to hide your dry gaze.

true to his reputation, as soon as he stepped into the mansion with you, the men who swore their loyalty to the han family, one by one, started bowing at hoseok whilst the heads of the vassal families started whispering among themselves.

“hoseok, the loyal dog? that’s him?”

“did the boss ever say who was going to inherit the family business?”

family business was just a white washed term of the commercial front of han group that was meant to blur the eyes of the korean government on what truly goes on underground.

“the attorney hasn’t been found, right? that means nobody here knows the contents of the will.”

“did he ever mention chanyeol would inherit the business?”

“____’s achievements aren’t something to be turned a blind eye on either.”

one of the heads of the branch approached you, he smiled too sweetly on the day of his principal’s passing. rubbed his hands together schemingly as he murmured words of condolences that sounded like congratulations, “the boss suffered for so long from leukemia, the gods must’ve answered his prayer. i’m sorry for your loss, miss ____.”

foolish fiend.

kang sungho was chanyeol’s uncle from his mother’s side. he was the head of one of the closest branch family who’d swore loyalty to the han’s. yet he acted like a stranger who didn’t have anything to do with his brother-in-law’s passing.

“say, hoseok, you’re here too,” sungho didn’t even wait for you to respond - perhaps he thought you were too in shock to say anything, “it’s been a while, thank you for coming even though you have no relation with han group anymore.”

just like that, sungho made a u-turn and spoke on the behalf of han group.

your hand that you didn’t even know was balled up into a fist shook silently - that was, until hoseok slipped and grasped it with his large hand as he lowered his head in a nod.

“it’d always been my intention to come back to serve the new boss,” his hand had left you to wrap his arm around your shoulders, “well, a husband is a slave to his wife, anyway, right?”

it was clear from what hoseok said that he didn’t mean chanyeol was the soon-to-be wife.

you’d sent yeojun to the hospital to confirm your father’s status while you’d met up with an - well, you were holding her son and husband hostage if she didn’t corporate but still - acquaintance who works at the korean embassy to speed up the marriage registration process.

it was when you were walking out of the embassy and to the car that hoseok slips his hand in yours and murmurs to himself.

but you’d heard every word of it, “your hands are trembling. you’ve never shot a man, have you?”

a sense of melancholy paints his face as his grasp tightens on your hand, as if saying ‘sorry i left you all alone in that house.’

you shook it off, heart too dried and withered to ponder on what he’d thought. thoughts of you father filling your heart.

no ceremony, no nothing.

and now you’re married.

the hoseok from just hours ago stood with his back straight and an ease in his aura. yet his presence alone was enough to make even the eldest of the head bow to him.

“are you... are you okay?” this hoseok asks you with hesitance in his voice.

“what makes you think i’m not?” you amble to the bed and drop your towel, letting it pool around your ankle.

there’s no mistaken low breath hoseok let out at the sight of your naked body. as if he’s a teenage school kid who’s never seen the body of a woman.

“do you mind zipping this up for me?” you say, standing with your exposed back on him, damp hair pulled to drape over your shoulder and chest.

hoseok lets out a cough. as if to announce that he was in the room and he was coming closer.

the fingerpads feels callous against your skin. you have to remind yourself to breathe through your nose than hold it in until your lungs feel like they’re about to burst.

hoseok takes his sweet, leisure time tracing down his index finger down your spine to get to the zipper. and when he does, he drags it up in an agonizingly slow pace, the grazing sound it makes causing the hairs on your neck to stand.

“skip the after-reception... you look tired,” he says after his hand falls away from your body and you’re suddenly missing what warmth it provides, like a flame that thaws the ice in your heart.

a dry laugh escapes you, “the elders are finally looking at me as an heiress, you know i can’t afford to slip out of the spotlight on the pretense of fatigue.”

before hoseok can offer any response, you twirl around, arms banding around his waist and bare face buried in his chest.

“hold me like you used to when i woke up from a nightmare and i’ll be fine,” the remnant of your sob threatens to spill from your mouth - true, you didn’t shed a single tear when you arrived late at night at the hospital.

the death of your father had been announced at 1703 hour.

but it’s only ever sunk in that the only family you have is gone - once you’ve left to your own devices to take a bath and change into new clothes before the after reception begins.

it’s then, that the waterworks began to pour over your cheeks without any hints of stopping.

hoseok must have seen the aftermath of your puffed, pink eyes when you stepped out of the bathroom, not expecting for anyone to be there except the silence.

a pair of strong, secure arms wrap around your body wordlessly. hoseok tilts his head so his cheek is pressed against the side of your head.

“you grew a few inches,” his husked voice brushes your ear like a dream you’d never want to wake up from.

a small laugh escapes you, “oh come on, i got more than my height on me but you-”

hoseok groans and you clamp your mouth shut, chuckling.

“i’m sorry,” he confesses, a treasure trove of remorse laced around those two little words.

all of a sudden, guilt gnaws at your conscience for having teased him too many times about forgetting something he couldn’t control, “don’t say sorry,” you mumble, “now i feel bad.”

“i used to tease you a lot about your obsession for ponies and unicorns.” his voice drums in your ears.

“i used to fantasize about finding a unicorn in the forest behind our beach house and beating chanyeol at a race someday,” without you realizing it, your cheeks are hurting from how wide you’re smiling.

silence lapses around you.

but it has no space in between your flushed bodies. you hear hoseok’s unusually fast heartbeat.

“you’ve changed...” you murmur, somber.

“i did?” he sounds melancholic, as if reminiscing about the days in this household.

chasing after the troublemaker daughter that always thinks they’re playing hide-and-seek. beating and threatening any rival members he sees hovering around the han group’s territorial influence.

“i didn’t say i don’t like the new you,” you tear your face off his chest, tilting your chin to gaze up to his warm eyes that appear deep brown under these fluorescent lights.

standing on the tip of your toes, you peck his lips lightly.

a sweet smile plays on your lips.

‘yeah, his lips are as soft as they look,’ you affirm.

it’s the way his eyelids cover his eyes as he blinks. the way his lips part as if surprised at the sudden, unannounced advancement. the way the realization seems to sink in that there was nothing stopping you from kissing him again-

an index finger presses against your pouted lips as you stand on the tips of your toes once again.

“it’s dangerous...” is all he offers.

but with the way his gaze becomes hooded as the chains of self-restraint shackles his hands and ankles, you think you know what he means.

instead of offering an answer, you sweep your tongue over the length of his digit, mouth opening to lightly bite his finger all the while gazing into his stormy eyes.

“guess i’m just a little kitten compared to the wolves in that room full of old wolves to you, huh?”

once the storm passes, his gaze becomes hooded with something - something you can’t pinpoint.

yet you let him slide his finger deeper into your mouth, feeling the soft pink flesh of your tongue on his fingertip.

you flutter your lashes skittishly, hand pushing the hair to the back of your ear as you lick a strip down his finger like you would his other head. but the rap on your door and the “miss ____, it’s yeojun,” coming from the other side almost sends your heart leaping into your throat.

you suck in a deep breath around hoseok’s finger before pulling away and stepping to the side, completely aware of the sexual tension that hovers in the air like thick, dark clouds.

“yeojun, is everyone here?” your gaze is fixed on the handle that your hand’s reaching out for.

“everything’s set, we’re waiting on the priest to arrive,” his voice sounds muffled through the door.

you step out of the door with half-damp hair and a face bare of make up whilst patting down the skirt of your dress.

but it’s not your half-as-acceptable appearance that makes yeojun stare at you for five solid seconds.

rather, he’s staring at something behind you as you feel the warmth of a body heat against your back.

“i’ll be the one escorting my fiance, yeonjun.”

he speaks casually despite yeojun being older than him and yet it felt natural. hoseok holds out his arm for you as yeojun stepped back with a bow, making way for you and hoseok to walk down the hallway leading to the flight of stairs where the main hall would be.

x

“god, i hate ties,” hoseok murmurs under his breath from next to you, nimble fingers pulling on his collar.

“you wear it well for someone who claims to hate going around in crisp button downs and shiny leather loafers,” a smile tugs on the corners of your lips.

chanyeol finally stepped away with the madam for some fresh air. maybe the death glares she’d been shooting you since you arrived - has finally got the world spinning behind her eyes.

“was the only option an orphaned nobody like me had when i was offered to work a nine to five,” he says casually, still fumbling with his tie.

your hand feels like a child’s when you place it on his. he pauses, gazing down at you before letting his hand fall on his side whilst yours remain on the knot of his necktie.

“may i?”

hoseok’s head moves, not quite a nod but not a shake of ‘no’ either. so you take out the pin from your hair that yeojun fetched from your room after your hair started falling into your face with every head bow you made in front of the guest. undoing the knot on hoseok’s tie, you slip the pin between the knot before looping the end over the knot and patting it down once you’re done.

the ‘how did you learn to do that’ look that hoseok shoots you makes you laugh. he’s both impressed and suspicious.

“my mom-” the one who’s confined to the house your father give and can’t even attend her late husband’s memorial service, reception and after reception, “-taught me all the things i needed to know to be the ‘perfect’ wife.”

“never pegged you for someone who’d obediently absorb her teachings,” he comments.

back then, you were as ruthless and spoiled as they come. the fine lines on your mother’s forehead was probably caused by your bursts every time she tried to push her views on you.

“a year after you left the seong’s proposed for our families to join together... they had a son and daddy had a daughter at his disposal... i was preparing to be a bride because that’s all people around me made my life to be until i just... had enough of being treated like a doll. so i cut a deal with seong joongki, got rid of his dad so he could step up as head, we remained engaged until i turned 18 and broke it. now he’s one of the people i know i can count on,” a shrug of your shoulder and you look up to him, locking his gaze with yours.

“seong, huh?” hoseok scanned the faces of the guests behind you, eyes narrowed like a hawk before they paused on something.

his gaze returns to you, an overly sweet smile appearing on his face as his dimples dig into his cheeks, “people like him cut and run when things get messy.”

you laugh, it sounds tired, but it’s still laugh, “if he does, i’d be the one to tell him to.”

“and i’ll put a bullet in his head if you didn’t,” he says words of murder like a romantic confession as he gazes into your eyes like there’s no where he’d rather be.

that is, until an unfamiliar voice calls the husband of the heiress by his name.

x

“namjoon,” hoseok hugs the chairman of kimcorp. for a lingering moment as the man pats his back once, as if unspeakingly consoling him.

kim namjoon, the second child and heir of kimcorp. and hoseok’s college friend and boss who booked a sudden trip back to seoul at the news of the head of the han group’s passing.

though the later generation washed their hands off the dirty work that got them where they are, they still remember their roots.

when they break apart, hoseok turns to you, arm around your waist, “___, this namjoon. namjoon- ___... my wife.”

hearing the word ‘wife’ slip out of hoseok’s mouth warms your heart yet makes your stomach knot painfully. ironic how you’d want to believe the heartrendering way he introduced you to be anything more than the act you told him to put on.

“ah,” kim namjoon narrows his eyes at you, as if shifting through his memories, “the kid hoseok babysat.”

the disparaging regard to your status as heiress tells you enough what this so-called friend of hoseok thinks of you.

“the friendless nerd hobi befriended out of pity,” you state, flashing you best smile.

a nod from his side. as if saying ‘touché’.

“ah, mrs. aera didn’t come?” hoseok asks, eyes searching the crowd until namjoon shakes his head, a meaningful smile playing on his lips.

“she’s too tired so i told her to rest at home,” he says and hoseok nods, as if understanding the underlying reason that kim aera is missing from honoring the master his husband’s family’s served for generations.

the kim’s are one of the oldest families that was tied down to han group by an oath. your great great great grandfather helped his great grandfather build the legacy the kim’s found themselves on now.

though the later generation washed their hands off the dirty work that got them where they are, they still remember their roots.

he steps away, greeting chanyeol and han chohee, your father’s legal wife before meandering away and keeping out of the spotlight for the rest of the night while you amble languidly with your hand on hoseok’s arm, exchanging pleasantries with the guests like it’s a wedding rather than a funeral until it’s time for the head of the family to gather in the boardroom.

everywhere you and hoseok goes, eyes follow. those who you approach tenses up while they wear their best smiles and utter words of sweet saccharine but as soon as the attorney turns up, you have no sliver of doubt that these people will be the first to vote for your head if it turns out the will appoints chanyeol as the next and rightful heir of han group.

those who you pass by end up with twisted faces. they’re the acquaintances of the han group, loyal to no master - the actual people who’d cut and run.

“mr. jee,” the middle aged man with too big of a nose and overbearing personality turns his full attention to you after hoseok was done talking about the stock market he’d been investing in, “a friend of mine, doctor maria wong, is a skin specialist who just received the asan award in medicine for her recent findings, i can introduce you to her, if you’d like.”

the youngest jee suffers from a rare skin condition which is why she never attended any social functions. they claimed she got accepted to a boarding school in europe when she was actually getting treated in one of the most prestigious private hospitals in the world in switzerland.

the situation is kept under wraps. you lost one of your holiday villas for this piece of information.

“o-oh, yes,” it takes a moment of him staring at you like you’re emitting halo from your body before he stammers back to life, “i- we,” he looks at his wife who shares the same hopeful gleam, “would really like that.”

“one down... tens more to go,” hoseok murmurs under his breath when you walk away from the couple, “you’re pretty good this ‘you know whose side you should be on, don’t you’ kind of threat.”

“i threatened the jung hoseok to marry me, this is child’s play,” you shoot him a coquettish smile, not expecting for him to lean down to your ear and whisper lowly.

“the lock was on the whole time,” he chuckles as he straightens his back at the announcement summoning all the heads of the families present, its representative, the children of the han’s and their spouses to the meeting room.

hoseok pulls out a pair of tucson, ariz’s tucked behind him and places them on the metal tray soobin’s holding out. he slips a hand under his suit, pulling out a revolver from his shoulder holster you didn’t even know he had on. then, two grenades from each of his pockets like he’s taking out a piece of candy. a foldup knife from the pocket of his blazer.

red lights go off when he walks past the metal detector, cursing to himself before he shoots you a sheepish look - the one the new hoseok would - and bends down before pulling out two kolibri the size of your palm and appear like toy guns in hoseok’s that was strapped on both his ankles.

one of your father’s men manually hovers a handheld metal detector and scans him from head to toe before giving him the greenlight to walk into the room just as kang sungho screams, “i’m the uncle of the future head, you’ll regret this!”

you roll your eyes at the old man’s outburst, taking out the dagger strapped to your thigh and pretending to not notice hoseok’s ogling at your exposed thighs when the dress rides up.

“bringing a knife to a gun fight - ballsy,” hoseok murmurs under his breath, his words meant only for you as you join his side, both of you stepping into the still-empty boardroom as the heads of the branch families you pass by grumble to themselves, pulling out the weapons they have on them and piling the tray in front of them.

one even pulled out a bandolier wrapped underneath his coat. the others merely have a pile of handguns and revolvers on their tray.

“oh, i brought something better,” you feel your lips stretching into a smirk as hoseok pushes the chair behind you before slipping in the one next to you, inquisitive eyes boring into yours.

a peck lands on his lips as you giggle at the way his eyes go wide for the briefest moment.

“tch,” someone says as they pass you and hoseok. chanyeol sits across from you, glare digging holes into your skull as he looks at you as if you were guM under his sole.

“please, tell me you have a plan that involves me driving my fist in his face,” hoseok’s low voice sends shivers down your spine.

it takes a moment for you to grasp that his statement needs a response.

“even better,” you murmur, head tilted to him, “you’ll get to do whatever you want with him after we walk out of this room.”

x

“we can’t go on without a leader for longer than 48 hours!” kang sungho smacks his pudgy fist against the clear glass surface of the oval table.

“we get your frustrations head family kang, but we need to locate attorney hyeon first,” seong joongki speaks informally to the man 20 years his senior and kang sungho can only grit his teeth.

in this room, no peerage title exists. every head is equal and that means every single person here is below you and chanyeol, the heir and heiress of han group.

“for all we know, attorney hyeon could be dead,” ahn sujin glances around the room, meeting every eye of the head until her gaze rests on you, “they found traces of tires on the road and a wrecked tree trunk a few feet away.”

“are you saying attorney hyeon got into an accident on the way here but someone quickly moved the car and bodies as if they were planned it, auntie sujin?” chanyeol baritone cuts through the tense air.

he throws you a side glance as he sits at the end of the oval table where your father and his father and his father’s father sat, bearing the weight of a legacy as old and majestic as the royal family had they survived all these years. the audacity of this man you call a brother walked straight up to the seat your father used to occupy and plopped down as if he owned it.

“the crash mark in the bark of the tree was still fresh,” ahn sujin nods.

“well...” at the sound of your voice, the whole room falls silent, “let’s ask him shall we?”

soobin, nods at you like he’s known your ways for years. he pulls out a remote and the tv screens tacked behind the leader’s seat.

the screen flashes with a picture of uncle jihoon getting into a sleek black car with the plate number HG that only you, chanyeol, the madam and your father have access to.

a blurred buzzing echoes against the soundproof walls of the boardroom before it gradually becomes clearer.

“...get the names?” a deep voice asks - the owner sitting directly across from you stares with knitted brows as he focuses on the familiar sound.

“a-... -re you... sure about...? ...involve ...your mother’s family...” uncle jihoon’s dialect wrapped around the syllables of the words, giving out who that voice belongs to.

he used to be proud of where he came from and wore his dialect like a medal.

“..-actly, they’re my mom’s family. not mine. ‘sides, kang sungho’s been clinging onto dad like a fucking leech even though he knows there’s nothing he can offer us that we want.”

silence fills the audio.

hoseok’s hand slips over yours, as if reminding you to let out that breath you’ve been holding.

chanyeol’s jaw tightens as he shoots daggers at you with his eyes.

“the names, uncle.” a sense of urgency laces around chanyeol’s voice.

“th-the kang’s, byun’s and ahn’s agreed to get molly to the scorpios in thailand on 23rd of april on flight ka8792 at 2:35 pm.” uncle jihoon says after a heartbeat.

each of the families listed are known for either their couture designs that receive orders from ministers’ wives all over the world, custom made colognes or either owns five star hotels in south korea and overseas.

“this isn’t enough, you think the cops are gonna believe all we have is the names of families involved in some mid level drug smuggling? my reputation’s on the line here.”

“a-and a fishing vessel will be making port at around 3 in the morning five days from now. it’s owned by the cha’s, they’ve been using it to smuggle meth and hide it under the hauls of fish they caught.”

the cha’s hold the monopoly to the wet market business.

“that’ll do for now, get out.”

the audio cuts off and the screens begin to move again, this time showing shots of chanyeol and a man in his 40′s sitting across from each other, having coffee.

shifting your hand so your palm is facing up in hoseok’s, you slip your fingers in the gap of his longer ones.

“that’s detective kim namseok and my beloved brother having brunch together - that’s right, chanyeol with the held of uncle jihoon, sold the kang’s, byun’s, ahn’s and cha’s off in his grand scheme of getting the leader position in exchange for police immunity for the han group... oops?” your lips purse into a mocking pout.

“lies! you know how much this bitch wanted to take over han group!” chanyeol roars, pushing himself off the chair and turning to face the wide-eyed gazes and dropped jaws of the heads of the families.

“i-i was b-blackmailed...” uncle jihoon stares at his reflection in the table, as if in a whole different world, “i-it’s not my fault! the young master threatened me!”

“let’s ask the detective shall we? since it’s been  proven that men from the han group have a hard time believing the women’s words,” you roll your eyes.

the screen flashes with an dark, barren room with nothing but a man tied to a chair in the middle of it. his head is hung low but there’s no mistaking the sight of blood covering his face and shirt.

the ghost scent of the blood makes your stomach churn yet you wear the malicious smile of someone who’s about to grasp the very thing she desires - perfectly.

“he’s a little... tied up. we caught him just in time before he called up his partner and spilled everything your darling heir provided.”

“uh, hello? are we live?” a cautious, brittle-like voice echoes from the intercom as a man with greying hair enters the frame as he adjusts his glasses to sit higher on his nose bridge.

“attorney hyeon, you’re live,” you affirm, smiling tightly.

“ah, good evening,” a light of recognition glints in the man’s eyes as he smiles, bowing deeply before straightening his back and backing up until he’s standing next to the half-conscious detective, “i apologize for not being able to attend the meeting myself. i got into an accident, drugged and would have had my nails pulled out if miss han didn’t come to my rescue and brought me here.”

“argh... a... ah...” the detective interjects, groaning.

attorney hyeon laughs calmly as if he didn’t just hear the bloodied and bruised man asking for help.

“in my hands here, i have the contents of the will which i will now have my... uh, assistant-bodyguard share it to the screen and send to your phones... are you sure... they’re sent?” his voice becomes quieter whilst phones and tablets begin to ding with a notification simultaneously.

“... the three holiday villas in incheon, jeju and daegu will respectively go to the madam...” he begins listing out the properties owned by your late father and the distribution of a portion of it to the madam and your mother.

no one interjects even though attorney hyeon’s voice seems to drone on and one despite the tape and audio that leaves everyone on the edge of their seats.

“...and for matters regarding the succession of the new head, the boss, han jiseok, wishes a fair voting system be used to decide whether mr. han chanyeol or miss han ___ will take the position a starting a month after his death.” by the end of it, the room is deathly silent as if a pin drop would echo like thunder in this spacious room.

“the heir and heiress are given three months for them to prove themselves to the vassals and in the absence of a leader, jung hoseok will be appointed as proxy-”

at that, the whole room breaks out into a roar.

“jung hoseok hasn’t stepped foot in han manor for over fifteen years!”

“miss ___ and hoseok are married! this will lead to unfair results!”

a screech against the floor as a chair falls over.

“you still want to support the son of a bitch that’s willing to sell all of us out to the blue bastards?!”

“who’s to say the young master’s not selling out the names of sons of bitches like you who switches sides the first chance you have!”

in the midst of the shouting, chairs screeching and the elderly lawyer trying to gain calm the elders, chanyeol turns to you with the eyes of a man who’s watching his legacy fall right in his very eyes.

“i should’ve left you in the forest when we got lost 15 years ago,” he reaches for something behind his back.

you recall the brother with scratches all over his body, the sun was setting and his back had looked broad for your 8 year old self. you were just two kids who lost their way, slipped and fall in the forest not too far from the family villa.

that same brother is holding a gun to your face.

x

hoseok takes a long whiff of the cigarette that sits in between his index and middle fingers.

“that was a shitstorm,” someone laughs from behind him - your voice sounds oddly free for someone who’s about to either get hexed or get worshipped within three months.

the curve of smile on your lips makes him smile too. he breathes out, laughing, “yeah...”

“do you mind sharing?”

hoseok blinks once. then he regains his senses, looking at the smoldering bud and tapping the middle part of the cigarette with the tip of his index finger to get the ash off so it wouldn’t hurt you if it fell.

“yeah... here.” he pushes down the wince that comes from the slightest strain of passing the cigarette to you.

the way your eyes linger on the clean white bandage on his arm tells him you’re not fooled by his unfazed mask. yet you don’t say anything, your eyes flutter close as your matte burgundy lips wrap around the beige colored bud and inhale.

when chanyeol pulled out the gun, hoseok tried to reason him out of it. promises were made at the expense of his own life. all that, in exchange for yours. in the fleeting moment that chanyeol took to consider pointing the gun at hoseok, you find your opening, shoving his hand upward and hitting that spot in his rib.

the bullet didn’t hit you but it grazed hoseok’s arm. he was standing right next to you.

And hoseok has a brand new pack of cigarettes in his pocket along with an electric lighter - he’d probably grab them both in one grasp if he slipped his hand in his pocket now.

for some reason, he takes the cigarette you pass and takes a good, long whiff out of it.

“did you know?” the puffs of smoke pass through your mouth as you speak and breathe out.

“when i left,  boss told me that i should be ready to drop everything i have... everything i am at any moment... they would have dragged me back one way or another and it’s not gonna be with a gun with its safety lock on if i didn’t walk in on my own accords,” hoseok taps the ashes off a second time, watching them flutter down and settle in between the green blades of grass.

a sense apprehension follows your nod as you stare at your reflection in your polished pumps, “after all this... after i convince the vassals, i’ll make sure you walk out of this alive. heck, i’ll sign the divorce papers today-”

the half of the unsmoked cigarette hits the ground.

hoseok finds himself swallowing the gasp that slips out of your lips at his sudden movement. you freeze underneath his fingertips like the ice you build in your heart but you don’t push him away and hoseok takes that as a maybe.

maybe there’s stability in this chaos.

maybe love does bloom in the most desolate place.

he feels his heart leap into his throat when your arm goes around his neck as you kiss him back just as desperately.

maybe, just maybe, you need him as much as he needs you.

x

the three months fly by with you gathering the majority of the votes by exposing the dirt you have on chanyeol as well as obtaining support from the main branch families by giving them more control over the underground market that was previously monopolized by han group.

though you’re competing with no one, the three month grace period still went on to ease you into the leadership spot.

to keep everything fair, you and hoseok lived apart. him in his apartment he’d been living in up till now and you in one of the holiday villas that your father gifted your mother.

by virtue, you had every right to keep staying in the main mansion as the heiress but chanyeol’s presence was still too strong. his people still lurk behind the mask of the so called loyalty for the han group. he’s locked in one of the safest hideout where only a selected few know where it is. one of them being hoseok. you never asked him what happened with your brother.

that brother of yours was dead to you the moment he pointed a gun at your head.

and with that, you find yourself in a standstill when it comes to your relationship with hoseok.

the last time you mentioned divorce was on the day the will was read. you ended up in one of the empty guest rooms in the mansion because yours was too far away. hoseok fucked you into the silk satin material of the bed like he did that night. as if begging you to keep him - even if it was only for cheap thrills and fleeting passion.

once you stepped out of that room - somewhat presentable and barely any feelings in your leg, so much so, he had to wrap an arm around you to keep you upright - he was whisked away to discuss ground rules of what being the proxy head is entitled.

and that included maintaining a professional - as professional as a mafia leader can be - relationship with the heir and heiress he were to oversee.

once the three months were over, hoseok moved in with you. did all the things married couples would do - attended social functions and established your power as the head and him, the husband of said head. as if saying he had no eye for the position of the head. as if saying if they’d get on their knees and bow down at his will, they better be ready to die for you at his will. only when you’re away on trips overseas, visiting other ruling families in tokyo, hong kong, china and everywhere in asia - would he take over your job.

he kept the men in check and made sure they had a good beating if they went astray. and even then, they’d still follow him to the ends of the earth.

jung hoseok has the full support of the people who swore loyalty to the han family and you have the majority support of the heads of the branch family.

to anyone and everyone, you two make a dangerously powerful couple.

except there’s one problem: you’ve only consummated your marriage once and you can barely kiss your husband without him running away like you’re the literal devil that’s after him.

“h-honey, you’re back,” hoseok stammers, his adam’s apple bobbing as he gazes down at your exposed cleavage that’s pressed up against his body, trapping him between the desk and you.

he looks as if he’s a touch away from losing his mind and fucking you against the table in front of the frames of your predecessors on the wall.

but then his phone vibrates in his pocket and he doesn’t need to take it but he does, a ‘namjoon’ flashing across the screen.

as if seeing a lightbulb go off his head, you shake your head, ‘don’t you dare’.

“i remember taehyun caught the baek’s men in our territory, they’re in the tortu- interrogation room. i was gonna kill them and get rid of their bodies, but since you’re back... i have golf with namjoon, see you tonight.” with that, he kisses you on the corner of your mouth.

in other words, hoseok was saying ‘they’re your problem now, boss.’

“wh-what, jung hoseok, you-!” you manage to yell back but he’s out of the door before you knew it.

hours later, the clock hands strike an hour and a half past midnight as they mock you for making your own husband run away at the sight of you. the door clicks twice as some slips in and shuts it behind them.

you don’t even catch the sound of footsteps as hoseok goes about the room, taking off his shirt and wrapping a towel around his waist. the only indication he’s even here is the body that suddenly freezes up at the sudden flash of light on the nightstand on your side.

“where were you?”

“i was out... golfing... with namjoon...” he drags out the sentence as if his brain short circuited when put in the spotlight in nothing but a flimsy towel around that muscular body of his.

“your wife comes back after two weeks and you decide to go golfing on the very day she touched down?” you say curtly, arms crossed over your lace donned chest.

“i-...” hoseok starts pointing to the open bathroom door behind him that he was about to go in had it not been for your abrupt intervention.

“come here,” you order.

“i just got back and i sweated a lot-” is it the way your eyes bore into his without so much as blinking that makes him clamp his mouth shut?

“yes, ma’am.”

a sigh leaves your lips heartbeats after he comes to stand by the bed, head hanging low like a puppy who knows he’s about to receive a scolding. but you’re not his owner and hoseok’s your husband. your lifetime companion.

“hobi,” the nickname slips out of your mouth without you realizing it as your fingers graze his, tugging on his index finger like a child.

he seems to understand your beckoning, bed dipping when he takes a seat, facing you. it takes everything in you not to let your eyes linger longer than a millisecond at the way the towel ends up stretching, revealing a very noticeable lump protruding in between his thighs.

you clear your throat, mentally chiding yourself for the wave of memories that flood your mind when hoseok is looking at you with attentive eyes. all ears for you.

“for some reason, i feel like you’ve been avoiding me and it’s not just this afternoon. since we started living together... it feels like we’re back to being strangers with memories who happen to have to spend their lives together from now on.” you play with his fingers that you tuck into your lap, heart beating too fast for you to look at him in the eye.

and to think you started off like a lioness prepared for war.

all of a sudden, the temperature of the room drops as you mention the word you promised you’d never utter again since the day of the reading of the will.

“i meant what i said about divorce - monthly alimony until the day you die, a house in gangnam a car with a driver, all expenses paid. and if you find someone and want to start a family with them, i swear on my honor as the head of han group, your family will be protected under our care for as long as i’m alive.”

“i don’t want a divorce.” hoseok says, sounding somewhat hurt.

“then- why-” you begin but he cuts you off with his troubled voice.

“____, i watched over you, i dropped you off and pick you up after school,  taught you how to ride a bicycle-”

this time, it’s you who speaks over him,“-ten years ago. hobi -”

i’m an adult who literally knows how to put a bullet in someone’s head.

but you don’t get to say that when hoseok shakes his head.

“do you remember why you started calling me that? because you came home one day and said you learned a new word- hope. you said i was your hope and you were so excited because you could equate a new word to someone you know... someone who’s been like a brother figure to you- how messed up am i to marry the little girl that i watched over and actually desire her as a woman now?”

“so you do see me as a woman.” is all you say.

“is that all you heard, ___?” hoseok’s wide eyed gaze bore into yours, as if disbelieved by your nonchalance.

“it’s the only thing i care about,” you shrug, the easy arrogance almost costing you another ruined relationship but you sigh a second later, eyes fixed on the motionless hand in your lap before you slip your hand in his, holding it like you’re about to commence a thumb war, “i may have acted like a spoiled brat the majority of the time after we met again which is probably why this whole existential crisis is happening right now,” you laugh, “it’s easier to play the role of a bimbo daughter than a strong overbearing heiress. i guess i acted like that for so long, i started becoming that.

your hand lies still in hoseok’s as you look up, meeting his gaze for what it is, “i admit, it’s my fault if you think that my feelings spurred from the fond memories of the only person who treated me like a human.”

“but i assure you, i didn’t get to where i am now because i’m driven by sentiments like hate for chanyeol and everyone who looked down on me nor the love i had for you as a guardian. in life, there’s only one thing i want and that’s to be the head of han group. you’re a chest piece that helps turn the tables around for me but you’re not my only piece.”

the line of hoseok’s shoulders sag, as if hearing the truth hurt him more than the lie convinced himself of.

“choosing to make you my king is entirely up to me... not because of some childhood memory or dependency on a guardian figure like you thought but...” your thumb grazes hoseok’s knuckles as you lift his hand to your lips, pressing a lingering kiss on his knuckles, “we can take it slow, i won’t tease you anymore and you can see for yourself how true my words are.”

“feels like i should be the one saying that,” the lips on your forehead feels warm, spreading through your body like a mid summer’s night.

arms wrap around your body, hugging you to a strong, tight, unclothed chest as your breath hitches in your throat. you raise your hands to return the embrace but decide against it - it feels like a sin to be drooling over hoseok’s abs and greek god-like body when you’ve just promised to stop jumping the gun.

“you smell nice,” you finally cave, slender hands wrap around his naked torso as you breathe in his scent - a faint trace of musk and sea and masculinity.

at that, the body underneath you seems to freeze up, “i-i think i should take that shower now.”

hoseok’s sudden retreat almost has you falling face first into the sheets. you watch as he covers his face with that large, pretty hands of his while his feet carries him into the bathroom door and closes it shut.

x

the room is silent.

save for the sound of the droplet gathering underneath the tap before hitting the quartz countertop.

hoseok stares at himself in the mirror. lips parted, glazed eyes that are becoming clearer with each passing second as if gradually realizing the sticky situation he found himself in.

the bathroom smells like your favorite floral bath gel but he can still sense the scent of his arousal that, after running the shower head over, finally washed down the drain.

the water was obviously hot. not scalding - hoseok couldn’t take scalding hot showers like you do. but since he’d moved in and after screaming and almost tumbling down to his death if the water didn’t boil him alive first - the next day, he’d found the water to be cooler. warm enough not to make him freeze but not hot enough to have his skin emitting vapor like a half cooked human meat.

but that’s besides the point.

the point is - he’s already had a good, warm shower and jerked himself off but he’s still hard.

it’s the way your delicate frame presses against him when you try to hug him. no- hoseok shakes his head mentally, it’s the way you breathe and compliment his scent which, hoseok is certain, smells like sweat and grass and soil that he rolled over after miserably failing to hit the ball.

he might be well acquainted with riches and luxuries but he’ll get used to these rich people hobby namjoon’s been trying to get him on after his marriage with the head of han group.

these days, it feels like namjoon’s been trying to get hoseok to meet him more than the times they have to actually see each other when he was slaving over his perfectionist ass at work.

before hoseok can even ponder further on namjoon’s unarousing quirks and get his boner down, he hears a rap on the door and a hesitant,“hobi?”

“y-yeah?” ha manages to answer somewhat smoothly.

“i just wanted to say that i can sleep in my old room... if you’re not comfortable sleeping in the same-”

“no!” a rushed rejection, a heart trembling inside a chest.

hands of fear grasps at his wrists and ankles as though if he stayed tight-lipped any longer, he might actually walk out to an empty bedroom with no trace of you at all.

as this is all just one beautiful, tragic dream.

“no, i like sleeping with you.” hoseok slaps himself in the cheek, “i mean i like sleeping next to you... in the same bed.”

the silence seems to stretch on for hours until he hears the giggle coming from the other side of the door - hoseok’s heart warms, you sound like you’re back to yourself, “okay, well, come to bed faster.”

“i will!” he curses himself for that rushed response but you’re probably back in bed with the lights from the nightstand off, probably tired as fuck after a one hour flight back to seoul, having had baek’s men’s territory breach matters shoved into your arms and waiting up on your pitiful husband who was avoiding you over his conflicted conscience.

by the time he’s out of the bathroom, loose pajama pants hanging lowly around his hips, he sees that small lump underneath the blanket, your fetal position telling him you fell asleep facing his side of the bed.

hoseok slips into bed, laying on his side and admiring your pretty lips and thick lashes. his hand clenches and unclenches as if he’s not sure if he should sleep hugging you the way he’s used to.

he caves, hand wrapping around your back as he kisses the top of your head.

unbeknownst to him, you’re still awake. you pretended to be asleep because you didn’t want to make hoseok uncomfortable. but now he’s cuddling you like a child whilst his semi erected head presses against your stomach and it’s kind of too late to say anything.

not to mention, you were a virgin up until awhile ago and you’re not sure if it’s normal for men to be able to hold out this long without fucking their wives or if hoseok’s self-restraint is just over the roof and you’re the one with too high of a libido.

‘damn it, should’ve jumped on his dick before initiating a heart-to-heart.’

#bts fanfic #hoseok fanfic #hoseok fic #bts fic #bts fanfiction #hoseok fanfiction #bts scenarios #hoseok scenarios #hoseok fluff #bts fluff #bts au #hoseok au #bts smut #hoseok smut

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

HASO “Evidence.”

Still working on the trial arc, and sorry I am late in posting. I had to go to work at seven and am trying to write in between helping guests. 

CREDIT and a THANK YOU to one of my amazing discord community members Eddi, who has been working for the last few months on the audio visual and transcript logs seen here. I did not write them, Eddi wrote them an was kind enough to let me use them in this story. I loved it and thought it brought a lot of authenticity to the story by bringing in an outside voice. 

WARNING: GRAPHIC blood, gore, and bodily mutilation. The Steel eye project development is VERY horrible, so don’t read if that is something that bothers you. 

It was a beautiful day.

The sky was a bright eggshell blue stratified with only the occasional cirrus cloud highlighting the sky with a touch of distant white. The sun was bright though the temperature was moderate only in the mid eighties.

Swimmers could be seen as distant pinpoints of light and froth on the surface of lake Geneva. Voices echoed up from the city coerced mostly by the purring of hover-car engines.

Towering white buildings rose high into the sky adding height instead of width to a city that had not grown outside its own borders for the past thousand years other than to go up.

Itw as a more environmentally efficient way to build, and left the countryside untouched by the scars of infrastructure and humanity.

Adam stared out the window for a long moment wishing for the peaceful embrace of the skies and the roaring of a jet engine. A soft whimper at his leg, and he looked down to see Waffles sitting at his heel, her head tilted back to look up at him. WHen he didn’t immediately respond to her she whined again and scooted closer, her paws making soft clicking sounds on the wood flooring below.

Finally he reached down and scratched her behind the ears.

She could sense his agitation, and it was clear that she didn’t much like it.

He couldn’t blame her.

He didn’t like it either. He sighed and turned his head away from the do and he window, back to the mirror in front of which he now stood. He didn’t see himself.

The man in the mirror was tall, straight backed with sharply trimmed and styled hair, jaw squared and raised. Both eyes were green though one expanded and contracted like the appriture of a camera. The expression on the man’s face was stern and unyielding.

He looked…. Like his father.

He had never seen much of a resemblance between them, but now he could certainly see it.

It didn’t help that the stars on his uniform seemed to add an extra ten years to his age.

With a soft sigh, he pulled his captain’s cap down snuggly onto his head and whistled low for his dog.

She fell into a perfect heel at his side, and he clipped the leash onto her colla.

Her black service vest was strapped on tight with a pair of doggie saddlebags on either side carrying water bottles. Waffles always liked having a job to do, and a little extra work would help to keep her relaxed during the trial rather than antsy.

She was going to have to stay very still for a very long time for the next few days.

“Ready girl.”

Her tail thumped against the floor at his voice.

“At least that makes one of us.”

He transferred her elash to his left end, though he didn’t technically need it, and led her out of the bedroom and into the large living room. It was a lot of hotel room for just one man. He would have been fine enough with a double queen personally, but he supposed if the UNSC was paying there was no reason to argue otherwise.

It felt strange, going to a hotel on the UNSC’s Dime to testify against the UNSC in one of the biggest trials of the century.

His stomach churned.

Waffles nosed his hand.

Dr Krill floated down from his examination of the chandelier, “I admire human artistry, but pragmatism is still my preferred way of living.” he motioned around the room, “A bit opulent.”

Adam nodded his agreement, “You can say that again. I haven’t slept on a bed that big in my life.” In all honesty, he was trying to keep his mind off of what was to come. He didn’t really care about the bed and certainly didn’t know if he had ever slept in a bed that large.

He sort of doubted it, he was in the UNSC after all.

A knock came on the door and he turned reaching for the handle and pulling it open. The driver from yesterday was waiting for him, his suit pristine. He bowed slightly, “The car is waiting for you, sir.”

He nodded, and motioned the other man to lead the way.

The man nodded and thanked him, stepping down the hall and leading them down into the lobby. They got a lot of looks as they made their way down, most likely because of krill, though his uniform might have caught some attention.

He was led out towards the car and slid into the back seat, suddenly surprised to find that he wasn’t alone.

“Admiral Kelly!”

“Good morning, Adam.”

“What are you doing here.”

“I am here to witness the trial. UNSC representatives thought it would be best if some of the newer brass came to oversee proceedings.”

He quickly looked out the window, suddenly remembering which side of the conflict this was on.

A hand rested on his arm, “I’m not here to make you feel bad about your decision, Admiral. You’re doing what needs to be done.”

He sighed and nodded, “I… thank you ma’am.”

“You sure this is something you are ready for.”

He paused and then shook his head, “No… I’m not ready, and I never will be.” She went to open her mouth but he stopped her, “But I’m the only one we have, so I will do what it takes.”

The car went silent as it slowly accelerated into the early morning traffic.

It was going to be a very long day.

Admiral Kelly turned to look at Krill speaking with him quietly while Adam looked out the window.

He wasn’t in the mood for talking right now though he knew how odd that was.

His stomach continued to churn as they drove through the streets heading towards the outskirts of the city where the Geneva court had been built just over 200 years ago.

The last buildings on the outskirts of town  went by and their first view of the court appeared in the car window. It was made in the classic greco-roman style with large white pillars and sloped rooftop and carvings on the top that depicted all the deities of justice ever conceived by historial religion, all cast and depicted in marble.

The thoroughfare up to the building was long and wide with a decorative reflecting pool at the center and a set of daunting steps leading up to the ornate front doors.

The grounds were meticulously kept with hedges shrub and flowering bushes, with what must have been miles and miles of water features and fountains off to the side.

It was a beautiful location, and it seemed that visitors found it a nice spot to rest while they enjoyed touring the sites.

He didn’t see much in the beauty today.

This was the UN supreme court, and the history of Geneva made this place hallowed in ways that made the court case for today all the more poignant.

The car pulled to a stop before the doors and a few gloved attendants stepped forward sharply dressed and opened the doors with almost militaristic precision as Admiral Vir and Admiral Kelly stepped out.

Waffles followed at his heels

He knew as soon as he stepped onto the marble steps that he wanted to leave, an the only thing that kept him there was the memory of those faces…. All the people counting on him back at the house, all the people who had never been given a chance to recover like he had.

He took a deep breath and ford himself up the steps and towards the front doos where a group of people were already congregating.

There were a few reporters there, without cameras, waiting to attend in the audience and record the proceedings for their news stories and daytime television. A few of them snapped discrete photos of him as he passed and was led through the wide double doors into the expansive inner hallway with a beautifully muraled ceiling and a line of decorative plants down the side.

Voices echoed inside the building, rising up around him to bounce off the marble.

The voices themselves were indistinct and difficult to understand as he made his way further into the room.

Men in suits lined the walls.

He eyed them critically wondering if any of them happened to be the defence.

A hand was placed on his shoulder, and he quickly turned to eye another attendant, who had evidently been trying to get his attention, “Right this way sir.”

He nodded and was led through the halls and into a nearby antichamber.

A wand was passed over his body.

“Please hold out your arm , sir.”

He did as ordered and watched as his forearm implant was temporarily deactivated. 

“The room is completely radio proof, sir. No signals go in or out. If you must make a call, I urge you to take it during the court recess.”

“Understood.”

“Please step inside and sit on the second row on the right side behind the prosecution.

He did as ordered, and stepped into another wide curving room.

It was much bigger than he would have thought, two stories high with amphitheater seats, and a massive curving desk at the front where nine Geneva court judges would be seated on their entrance.

There was no jury.

The Geneva court judges would be the jury for trial at this time.

Law practices had changed a lot since world war III but there was still some semblance of the old ways that still lingered on.

He took his seat, waffles grumbling softly as he slid onto the ground beside him.

Two people in suits followed him inside one in a dark blue suit and brown shoes, the other in pinstriped balck.

The one in blue was a woman, dressed sharply, her hair pulled back into a bun so tight you could have strummed out a tune on the hairs. She paused next to Adam and held out a hand, “Admiral Vir, we spoke over the phone.”

“Ms. Trevor.”

She nodded and motioned to the man, “And my partner Mr. Jackson. I trust you understand your purpose here today?”

“Yes Ma’am.”

Jackson lifted his head, “Our case here is solid, admiral. This case isn’t about who is going to be punished for what happened, but about how long they will be punished, not to mention it is likely to set up some new legislation for the ethical creation and use of military hardware. Once we are done, something like this is unlikely to ever happen again.”

He wasn’t entirely sure he believed that, but he nodded and let them take their seats in the desk before him.

Waffles whimpered and prodded at his hands with her nose.

He stroked a hand over her big pointed ears.

The courtroom filled up within the next hour, and, Looking across the room, he saw a line of men and women sitting on the second row of the defence. Something about them put him on edge.

He had a feeling they were the scientists.

They were the ones who had developed the steel eye armor.

“All rise! For the honorable Geneva court judges!”

The entire room took to their feet as the nine judges filed out of a back chamber and stepped onto the floor. All of them wore traditional black robes with white collars as had been tradition for nearly thousand of years. They took their seats with a mass shuffling.

“Please be seated.”

The room shuffled back into place.

The head judge,at the center of the table leaned forward.

“On this day June 24, 4024 we open the Geneva Court case of The People VS UNSC Biomechanics Division. the court will begin by hearing opening statements from the council.”

Council for the prosecution stood, shuffling her papers once before stepping up to the lectern.

“Honorable judges and members of the court, today we are here to present evidence against a faction of the UNSC scientific division for gross ethical violations, torture, and pruposeful endangerment of human life. Evidence suggests over 29 killed, over 21 critically injured, maimed, or permanently crippled, and over 61 with lasting mental trauma. This is not counting over 50 Steel eye soldiers coerced without prior knowledge, into participation in the program, 30 of which are now deceased 15 of which have lasting mental trauma, and five that, while functional, still feel the effects today. Today we will be presenting, written documents, video recordings, and audio files from prior testing as well as first hand witnesses of both the testing and the war as well as expert witness from the scientist who read and compiled the files before trial. What was done to these men and women constitute as war crimes and their victims deserve compensation and closure for what was done to them.”

She stepped back from the podium and nodded.

The defence stood and made their way to the podium in turn, “Your honors, and members of the court, while it is true that some unfortunate incidents happened during testing and development of the steel eye project, there is ample evidence to prove that none of these men or women were coerced against their will into participation. All subjects were volunteer and duly informed before proceedings began. Furthermore, scientific ethics had not advanced far enough at the time to cover weather or not what they were doing was an ethical violation. The Defence is not asking for complete vindication for the accused, but the sum of what happens is surely less than war crimes.” 

They took their seat.

Adam wasn’t a lawyer, but he knew which opening statement he liked more. Now maybe he was biased, but certainly he felt that one presented greater amounts of evidence than the other. Of course it was up to the prosecution to show evidence that would convince the judges, beyond a reasonable doubt, that these men and women were guilty.

He listened to some more speaking, half falling asleep and assuming maybe this would be as bad as he thought it would when one of the prosecution stepped back up to the podium.

“The prosecution presents time stamped dated and logged evidence to the court for consideration. The first testing log we wish to present is from the eighteenth of October 4016 and overseen by Dr. Tato Nkosi written as log number 23.” 

Experimental Log #023:

So far we have not experimented with a human subject, All the sample tests and simulations indicate that there should be no interference with normal function nor create any feedback loops that could induce seizures. This is the first human testing that we will be doing. We have noticed that the animal testing resulted in significant irritation and irrational behavour from the subjects, We however suspect this was because they were unawares of the reason for the implantations.

The subject is unconscious for the process of implantation to prevent movement. 

-recording break-

The subject reacted violently to the implant, removing it in a highly violent manner while screaming and trying to injure any nearby scientists. We expected some level of resistance, but this indicates far more sensitivity than expected. Further testing will be required.

“The council for the prosecution wishes to present the audio/visual log.” A light flickers on as a video clip begins reeling.

Audiovisual Log Transcript:

The subject wakes suddenly, seeming to be woken by extreme pain. Screaming almost instantly and scrabbling at implant on their hand and wrist. Subject seems to be attempting to remove the implant. One of the scientists attempts to calm the subject only to be beaten by the subject who continues screaming. The scientist retreats from the subject just as the subject finally removes the test implant by ripping it from the subjects skin, tearing with it the subjects local nervous system along with large sections of the subjects musculature and ligaments. Seeming relieved at the lack of contact with the implant, the subject sinks to its knees. The subject is losing significant amount of blood, though we suspect the subject is unaware of this as large sections of the nervous system is still attached to the implant. The subject appears to be in shock as it observes its ruined lower arm and hand. The subject has resumed screaming and is now trying to get the scientists attention to fix its ruined lower arm and hand. The subject is sedated and arm treated. The recording ends here. 

Adam throws a hand up over his face feeling bile rise into his mouth at the image seared into his brain. Muscle and ligament dangling uselessly against a steel eye prototype. He felt a bit lightheaded but takes a deep breath in and out to calm his breathing. All around the room there are gasps of shock and disgust. A few people stand to leave the room unable to witness any more.”

The council steps forward, “This was the first log in a recorded series of proceeding logs with similar effects. We know in experimentation that accidents happen all the time, and we might have considered forgiveness if the experimentation had stopped here. Clearly implementation on human test subjects was not ready, as evidenced by the animal’s discomfort. Perhaps if they had stopped here, some measure of understanding might have been allowed. But they continued past this point with full knowledge that this sort of catastrophic event could happen. This test subject will never regain full use of his hand. Instead of stopping the experiment like hey should, the scientists determined that the use of painkillers was in order to make the subject operational. For this the prosecution calls expert witness Dr. Alexander Gladstone to the witness stand.”

On the bench to his side, a man stands slicking back his salt and pepper hair as he moves to sit in the witness stand and is sworn in.

“Dr. Gladstone, tell us a little of your credentials.”

“Of course, I received my PHD in Biomechanical interface and Engineering as well as an additional PHD in Mechanised robotics. I have worked as the head scientist for the UNSC testing division for nearly five years now after my predecessor quit. I helped to re-engineer this project under Iron eye as a step forward from the Steel eye project in a more controlled and ethical environment. I am also the scientists who reviewed these logs and compiled them for analysis today.”

“Thank you Dr. Now, may I ask why these scientists would have chosen to implement a drug dosage?”

“To understand why they had to do this, you must also understand the steel eye project itself. Steel eye was designed to enhance the strength, speed and durability of the wearer. We already have exo suits designed for use in factory and industrial settings, however the main issue we run into in a combat setting is that the machine responds too slow. The nodes detect electrical impulses from the muscles and then have to fire following that meaning the subject has already begun moving almost seconds in advance of the machine. Steel eye was created to integrate the machine directly into the body to intercept nerve impulses before the muscles even fire, thus making the wearer faster, and the augment making them stronger. To do this you have to make a direct interface with the nervous system. They first implemented small microfivers which would wrap themselves around the nerves in question to detect electrical signals. These were designed to cluster primarily along the spine but have additional nodes in the major muscle groups. However, direct stimulation of a nerve or nerve cluster sends signals to the brai nthat are interpreted as…. Unbelievable agony, which is likely the agitation that they were seeing in the animal test subjects. However, with a high enough drug dosage, you can mitigate these effects, or distract the brain enough to keep the wearer functional for some time.”

He sat back in his seat.

“And in iron eye, how did you get around this problem?”

“Subdermal implants that do not require direct contact with the nerve endings themselves.”

“And does Iron eye cause any significant damage to the wearer?”

“No sir, the only danger is an infection of the implants, but that is with almost any implanted medical devise.”

“The subjects have no pain.”

“A general soreness that goes away within two to three days.”

“So in my understanding it is clear that there were alternatives to their original course of action. They could have pulled back and tried to implement a way to mitigate the pain rather than mask it with drug dosages?”

“Certainly.”

“But that isn’t what they did.”

“No.”

“The prosecution presents Transcript 27 to the court for viewing.” 

Experimental log #27:

We have begun testing various drugs to suppress the pain, this test is with acetaminophen, commonly referred to as Codeine. 

As per usual the subject was implanted while unconscious and atop this it was given a high dose of codeine prior to it awaking. 

-recording break-

It appears that while the subject was capable of withstanding the pain from the implant for a longer period of time than our previous subjects However the subject clearly seemed to suffer increasing mental instability as the sensations returned, culminating in the subject violently trying to destroy the implant. Learning from prior experiments and in an attempt to reduce harm to the scientists, the subject was left alone while it was in this state and no attempt was made to aid the subject.

Adam turned his head away unable to stomach what was coming next. His hands were sweating terribly. He felt cold and weak. He had seen horrible things in war and in his time, but watching this… .watching steel eye. It was just too much.

His mouth had gone dry, and his skin was hot as if he had a fever.

The dog nosed his hand but he barely acknowledged her.

Audio-visual log transcript:

The transcript begins once the Codeine begins to wear off. 

The subject begins by itching at the area around the implant, the reaction is far less violent than the prior subjects. After several minutes of ever more irritated scratching and aggressive tugging at the implant and plaintive noises the subject began to violently bash the implant against the wall. Growing ever more violent with the abuse of the implant. This continues till the test implant is mangled and ruined with the subject pulling the mangled chunks of metal off their skin, this however seems not to alleviate the subjects pain and irritation. This is likely due to the destruction of the implant not removing the interfacing needles The subject continued to scratch and pull at its skin, the plaintive noises slowly becoming screams of pain. This action continued without interruption from the scientists till the subject had torn most of the skin of its arm and taken chunks out of its musculature, the subject finally passed out from pain or blood loss after several minutes of self mutilation. 

The room spun around him, and he took a few long, deep breaths hoping that it would stop.

He wast sure he could survive another few hours of this.

He wasn’t sure at all 

[maramaramarx]

Letter #2 - Atop Crown Guard Tower

<Lacking the grace of his correspondent's care package, a burlap sack stuffed to the point of bursting arrived at the doorstep of the Emberward estate. The scent of potatoes lingered on the bag's fabric which would have remained altogether unremarkable had it not been for name sloppily inked onto it: Lady Tirrea Emberward.

Within the sack was hay, hay, and more hay. Beneath that a second sack wrapped tightly around oblong objects. Within that was a small box marred by time, the decorative gryphon carved into its face barely recognisable, its hinges rusted and stubborn as hell. Alongside the box was a bottle of Dalaran Noir, a cork stuffed into its neck and a covered in unblemished ruby wax that had oozed down the neck before fully hardening. Inside the blemished box sat a Stratholme lily and and scattered purple seedpods. The letter itself had noticeably more artistry than his previous; under direct light a faint golden cloud serpent could be seen gliding across the page, weaving above and below words, its jaws unhinged and about to swallow its creator’s signature at the bottom.>

The Kind Lady Emberward,

Had I known we would be exchanging gifts, I’d have prepared for a better means to do so! I can only pray that you found the fortitude to dig through the hay to find the contents within (and that you are capable of looking beyond my method of sending said contents). It is also with some regret that I must inform you I am, yet again, writing you from the top of something. Though the height of the tower is much less impressive than the space near the clouds Acherus occupies! Thankfully I also have a freshly brewed cup of wonderful tea to calm my nerves. Perhaps you’ve saved a life this evening.

If you might be so inclined, when next I visit I would happily accompany you to the grounds your home once stood on. Then you may at least have a friend beside you as you look at the past. As I shall say for your digression and your remorseful memories; please, share what troubles you so that I might listen. There is no need to suppress the things that linger on your mind, no matter how relevant they may or may not feel. As long as they are relevant to you, they have place in our letters. And thank you for your kind words toward Lady Ashborn, they mean more than I can properly express. I’m still not sure how I feel about the goblin you made mention of... I feel inclined to say I hated everything about it.

I did as you asked on my journey to Stratholme and wore your gift. While I’m afraid I cannot report any possession prevention, I can assure you that the person writing you is none other than the same Kelanthael you met in Quel’thalas. Though he now sports a lovely golden bracelet on his wrist. May it protect me should I have any more direct encounters with resentful spirits!

I arrived at Stratholme a mere hour after having received your package and found myself overcome by the grief that still lingers among these lands. The scent of rot still stubbornly clings to the fog around the weathered stone , as it seems the case that every step toward this city is meant to remind trespassers of the suffering that still echoes from voices without bodies. Such melancholic sights and sounds were not what I had traveled there for though! Thus I imbibed my dream brew and settled into meditation atop the gatehouse. When the noise within my head lulled I was soon pulled into a vision of the land years prior, an evening not unlike any other from the city that had already weathered destruction once prior. In the dream state, you are little more than an observer and however much you might wish to warn them of what’s to come you may as well be speaking to a wall. 

What I was privy to watch was what drew me there in the first place. A city at peace, children playing in the streets, laughter and joyous yells escaping the nearest pub’s open doors. The stone was uncracked and unsullied, store doors were open on every block, goods were carted in and out of the bustling streets every passing moment. When I awoke from my gaze into the past, I ventured in to see the ruins of what I had seen pristine only moments ago. With clever step and patience the undead that still linger aren’t wont to notice much; I suspect the ones that remain among the earliest batches have little remaining of their minds at all. I soon found myself standing in a flower shop, many of the pots shattered and littering the floor, while those that remained had little more than dust remaining where flowers once sat. Not all things are meant for death though and in your presence is proof. A Stratholme Lily clung to life, having grown from the dirt foundation beneath cracked wooden floor. Within the box I sent are seed pods I’ve harvested alongside the flower itself. If you are willing to suffer my request, my heart would love few things greater than to see the lilies bloom once more.

I fear that what I take away from this visit has not yet settled within me, as I wrestle with conflicting answers attempting to take root in my mind. I do however know one thing with great certainty and that is the upcomming gift of being shown your notes on our fishy friends. If you can escape the city for an evening, I would happily accept your company at my next planned location. We can discuss the finer details of the Murloc’s ability to out-populate intrepid adventures attempts to extinguish them.

I will be making a brief stop in Hearthglen to make time for a friend and steal floorspace by a fireplace for a night’s rest. If you’re willing to provide me another letter to enjoy on my way to the Greymane Wall, I’d be most grateful! I suspect my next letter will not be as immediate as I would hope. Gilneas no longer lends itself well to postage. I hope my lack of response won’t brew too much worry, regardless of how much I may enjoy knowing I have you worrying after me.

Be well Lady Emberward and know that you yet another that cherishes the letters you send. I assure you I will come to no harm or at least make my best effort an effort not to. I wish you the best on your aspiring career of post-lunch napping.

Your friend & murloc enthusiast,

Kelanthael, Lorewalker Aspirant.

P.S. I enjoyed a swig or two of the wine and resealed it. Perhaps wait to drink it until next you hear from me on the off chance I succumb to the plague. If you’ve already sampled it, then I hope you’ve enjoyed the vintage beverage and that it is not your last.

< @tirrea >

#letter #tirrea #kelanthael #narrative #IC #writing

[foxofthedesert]

RQ OUaT FF | OGA: Ch. 13

Chapter 13 – The Burning Room (Ao3 Link)

"I won't give up until I'm dead or you're awake. I swear it on my love for you..."

Red awakens with a hoarse gasp.

As awareness returns, she dimly notices that she is completely engulfed in flames so high that they lick at the charred ceiling above. Everything is burning, including her lower extremities, yet she remains miraculously unharmed. No blisters form upon her pristine skin, her eyes remain free of debris, and her lungs function perfectly in spite of the searing smoke flooding them with each breath. It's so odd and horrifying and fascinating that she stares blankly at the flickering orange and yellow lights painting the ceiling until sensation abruptly returns.

A scream tears loose from her throat as she tries to move, desperate for liberation from the searing torment engulfing the lower half of her body. Only her limbs are unresponsive as if she's been paralyzed from the neck down. A prisoner in her own body, she is trapped in a terrifying hell she can't even begin to describe. Even the pain of being mauled by two packs of rabid wolves cannot compare to the unrelenting agony of being burned alive.

Is this how Regina's victims felt? The disturbing thought only sends her spiraling further into the grips of a panic that has seized her muscles and clogged her pores and dulled her ability to soundly reason.

Meanwhile the roaring inferno drowns out nearly all sound save the words she'd heard that jolted her from slumber. They echo around the chamber until the garbled voice starts to become more and more distinct. Recognition dawns, and with it renewed a surge of hysteria.

"Regina! Regina!"

A burst of white hot flames lick up her legs as she shouts for her wife who is begging her to hold on, to not give up, to keep fighting. No matter how hard she tries, Red can't quite remember what she's supposed to be fighting against. All she can feel is a blistering torment she imagines might resemble how it would feel to be tossed headlong into a swelling volcano about to empty its molten rage upon some poor, unsuspecting village. It is so intense that her heart is hammering against her ribs with a force that could crush a stone and she can hear the hot blood rushing through her veins.

Screaming in spite of the fiery ash saturating her throat and lungs, she makes a second, more concerted effort to move. Still nothing happens. Again and again she struggles to force her limbs to obey until she's openly weeping and begging for their compliance. They stubbornly refuse every increasingly desperate command. Hopelessness settles into her chest, taking up residence alongside the unending pain consuming her from the waist down.

She is nearly on the verge of passing out when she feels the ghost of a kiss against her lips, so achingly familiar, so tender and loving, that it cannot be mistaken. Regina. And just like that her limbs are loosed from whatever was holding them captive. At last free to move, she wastes no time scrambling away from the ring of fire hemming in her in. Miraculously, once she's made it to safety, the flames licking up her legs evaporate into harmless puffs of cloudy white mist. The pain recedes and she can breathe again without a raging inferno invading her lungs.

Slowly, her senses realign and with their return comes clarity. They had been so askew from the bone piercing agony that she's not quite sure how she managed to scurry the ten feet she covered before collapsing breathless onto her back. Relief so palpable she can almost taste it washes over her as the scorching agony coating her legs subsides to a sharp discomfort and then eventually dulls into a muted ache. Her chest heaves to draw in air, huge gulping mouthfuls that have her soon coughing roughly as her body tries to expel the red hot debris congesting her airway. Before long, she's curled up on her side hacking uncontrollably.

Once the fit ends and some measure of awareness returns, she shuffles onto her left hip into a half-seated, half-reclined position. Left arm propping her torso up, she surveys her surroundings. The ring of fire circling her is hedged in by an even larger flaming wall that divides what seems to be a spacious room. Vaulted cathedral ceilings cap the space, of artistry that she imagines would be unparalleled were it not obscured by roiling clouds of smoke and thick layers of soot. Currently, she's occupying the center of one side with around another ten feet of space all around between her and the three walls she has access to. Well, would have access to if there wasn't an impassable inferno barricading her from reaching them. Strange as it is, she finds herself longing to have something to lean against now that she knows she can't have it.

Regina also remains frustratingly out of reach. As the pain subsided, so too did her wife's voice, which has faded to the point Red can no longer make out what is being said. It's as if the more conscious she is in this place, the further away Regina gets. Panic gnaws at her throat as several questions flood her brain all at once.

Where is this place? What, exactly, is this place? For that matter, when is this place? And most importantly, how the hell did I get here?

No answers are kind enough to present themselves, not that Red expected anything different. She's always had to do things the hard way, and now she's landed herself in a pickle yet again. Sort of like that time some years back she'd taken on that humongous, unruly grizzly that was getting a little too presumptuous around the local village.

The residents call the place Longmeer after its gruff founder. It's a cozy little place she likes to frequent on her occasional roving excursions during Wolf's Time. It reminds her of her youth spent in Perrault and helps to keep her grounded in her roots. Most of the townsfolk know her by name now, and for more than how she successfully lobbied Regina for some infrastructure upgrades to be made in her hometown. Before relocating further west, Granny was the last of countless generations stretching at least five hundred years to be born there. Naturally, the granddaughter she'd raised all by herself who became their new Queen is somewhat of a celebrity.

Red likes the attention, honestly, if only because she knows these people, especially the most poor among them, are working an angle she can actually appreciate. The nobles back at court all want to curry favor with her to get on Regina's good side, but the residents of Longmeer fawn over her because they see her as a symbol of hope. She is living breathing representation that upward mobility in a society designed to maintain the status quo is actually possible. In her they see a chance, however faint, that they won't have to remain confined to their assigned social strata or mired in poverty for the rest of their lives.

Since marrying Regina, Red has tried her best to fight for the plight of her folk at every opportunity. She likes to think she's made a difference, however marginal, though at first she was convinced she was beating her head against an unforgiving wall. Regina was sympathetic to her cause although by and large the nobles were not. Resources, Regina explained as patiently and kindly as she could, are finite and often scarce, which is why those who keep the wheels of industry and power greased get the lion's share. That is the harsh reality of how kingdoms operate to stay afloat in a world where unremitting chaos is always one natural disaster or famine or disease or war away. The peasantry props up the merchant class which fuels the nobility that supports the monarchy. The monarchy, in turn, exists for the expressed purpose to secure the stability of a realm both internally and externally against forces that would seek to tear it apart. That truth was a bitter pill for Red to swallow that went down with a large heap of bile. She still struggles at times reconciling herself to the fact that her greater duty as a monarch is often directly at odds with or has to come at the expense of the hard working, salt of the earth peoples from whence she emerged.

The villagers in Longmeer do not seem to begrudge her this frustrating conflict of interest. They often take time out of their busy days when she visits just to tell her that her efforts are not as futile as they seem. She is actually doing some good for them. In the five years since she was crowned, taxes have been cut by a third and the percentage of their products allocated to the crown has been slashed in half. Municipal services have been improved across the board and many of the rough and tumble roads in the region – if they could be called that, most of them are hardly more than poorly carved footpaths – have been significantly upgraded.

Progress is being made. It's just not enough for her. Were it possible, she would give those people the riches of the whole world. To that end, she occasionally laments to them over the slogging forward momentum, and that she wishes she could do so much more than her annoyingly persistent lobbying that achieves relatively small gains. There are, of course, those malcontents who see her as a derelict disappointment who is squandering a golden opportunity to bust up the traditions that keep peasants poor and nobles rich. But most never hold those perceived failures against her. On the contrary, they seem truly grateful that even a fraction of their burdens have been alleviated. That gratitude, more than anything, is why Red keeps going back. She needs a reminder every now and again that there are people out there for whom a little means a lot.

The nobles at the palace are in every way the opposite. They engorge themselves on every available consumable resource from clothing to precious metals to food while everyone else lives hand to mouth. It sickens her to the point she attends functions out of spite for the sole purpose of teaching them a lesson she is well aware won't take. When the Queen only partakes of measly portions, many of the nobles will follow suit merely to save face, not wanting to show up their monarch in front of their peers. So that's what she does. And as satisfying as it is to watch the overly privileged, overly rotund pricks nibble on broccoli and asparagus, it's difficult to deny herself when she eats like a horse on a good day. At least in Longmeer she doesn't have to feel bad about her healthy appetite since she pays for her enormous meals with gold from her own pocket. And at least Regina doesn't try to shame or chastise her over such infantile behavior.

To her credit, over the course of their marriage Regina has shown increasing receptiveness to the plight of the commoners.

"It's the curse of being married to one," she'll say whenever someone points it out, often Red herself. "And I'm happy to bear it."

Anyway, to get back on topic, Red was a right mess after driving that ravenous grizzly away from Longmeer. Her snout was dripping blood from a well-placed swipe of a fat paw sporting claws the size of human fingers, her hind leg was missing a hunk of meat at the hip, and her neck sported several puncture wounds the size of massive canines. Honestly, if her wolf form hadn't been growing since she fell in love with Regina, she probably would've been killed in the encounter. As it was, she passed out before she could reach the safety of the village, where she could then return to two legs for emergency triage. The villagers also knew what she was and would have been more than glad to nurse her back to an ambulatory state so she could get back home before Regina lost her shit.

Unfortunately, she didn't make it that far. When she woke up, hurting all over and groggy like she'd downed an entire keg of ale, she was still in the woods and had been missing for an entire day. Thankfully, her crazy fast healing kept her from exsanguinating on the cold forest floor dozens of miles away from home. As it was, she limped into town and hitched a ride with a friend she'd made, a rascal with a heart of gold named Flynn Rider.

Gods, Regina was unhappy about that incident. For so, so long. She ranted and raved until that bulging vein in her forehead looked like it was about to burst. Since this wasn't the first time something like this happened, she sequestered Red to the castle for three interminable weeks. The only reason Red didn't fight the dictate was because she felt she'd earned the extreme punishment. Regina is a strong woman, the strongest Red has ever known, but she couldn't hide how terrified she'd been. For three days after Red limped home, she refused herself the release of sleep in favor of making sure Red kept breathing through the night. And for at least a week more she refused to let Red out of her sight longer than five minutes.

But this current predicament? This is far, far worse. Not only does Red have no earthly idea where she is, but she knows instinctively that she is trapped someplace that is unnatural and from which she likely will never be rescued by conventional means. Magic has her clamped within it's greedy iron vice, and it will never let her go of its own volition. She can feel the corrosive power in her bones and smell the tempestuous energies in the sulfuric air.

Sulfuric air. Something about that particular phrase has the back of her mind tingling with familiarity, as if she's encountered the scent before. And then it hits her. The witch. The garrison's destruction. Robin's death. Regina's palpable anxiety over the month that followed. Her own fear over the threats that had been so spectacularly leveled against her wife. Who will protect Regina without her there?

Suddenly the gravity of the situation slams into her like a runaway carriage. She has to get out of here. Right now! She has to! It's a matter of life and death. Not for her but for Regina, and that makes the situation all the more dire and her panic all the more acute.

Heedless of the danger, Red springs toward the circle of flame, only to reel back when it flares upward twice as hot as before. So hot that she can feel her eyebrows singe as she approaches. Her skin starts burning before she can get close enough to touch it.

With a cry of pain, she flails back, falling hard on her ass. She lays there, motionless, unable to move, as if all of her energy has suddenly been drained out of her in one fell swoop. She laughs bitterly as a lonely tear carves a winding path down her soot-matted cheek. A crazy woman is trying to kill her wife, slaughter their people and destroy their kingdom, and she's stuck here in hell with no discernible avenue to freedom. Regina is going to die and there's nothing she can do about it. The realization sucks what little strength remains in her right out.

Fear begins crawling up the length of her body in the absence of her vitality. It slowly clambers up an inch at a time until settling menacingly over her chest. She can almost see it, as if the magic of this place gives her vision into the nether where invisible monsters reside. Monsters with dripping fangs and beady eyes and talons that can pierce flesh without leaving a mark. Dread, it's faithful companion, follows behind, equally as gruesome, and Hopelessness the most terrible manifestation of them all joins the fray not long after. Beasts of no name they are that exist solely to torment their victims, and Red is their latest quarry.

Helpless to fight again their vicious, unremitting assault, she surrenders to despair. She cries and cries and cries, drawing little consolation that there is no one to hear the miserable sounds that wrench free from her lips with every breath. Her sole companion is the seemingly infinite inferno imprisoning her. The harsh licking of the flames provide a sinister accent to her suffering, as if they are feeding upon the anguish pouring out of her in great heaving torrential waves.

How long she remains mired in a dejection that clings to her like a second skin, she can't begin to fathom. Time in this place has no meaning that she can ascertain. There are no windows through which to judge the position of the sun, nor is there a nifty mechanical time piece handy like Geppetto makes for her to consult. The magic here has all of her senses out of whack, so that even her normally reliable internal clock has been rendered useless.

What she does know is that her throat, already ravaged by the smoke she's inhaled, is a track of burning raw flesh. Her eyes are so dry that it hurts to blink. Lips parched and cracked are lanced by jolts of pain with every minute movement. The incessant crackling of the flame wall irritates her sensitive ears and exacerbates the dull, pervasive ache that has taken up residence inside her head. Her hair is greasy and unkempt and disgusting, and she feels in general as if she hasn't bathed in months.

And then for the first time she recognizes a knot curling deep in her stomach, which is craving water and food that does not exist here, nor does she imagine there to be any available outside this hellish place. Unquenchable thirst and insatiable hunger only deepens her misery. With no relief in sight, she dreads the coming hours. At least she might not be crying again any time in the near future – a macabre fringe benefit to her state of dehydration if there ever was one.

Idly, she wonders if there is any outside of which to speak. One thing is certain, with magic at play, anything is possible. It's just as likely that the chamber is located in the middle of one of the lush rainforests she's read about in Regina's books as it is that it's suspended in some sort of phantom dimension between the physical and spiritual. The latter possibility is one she could never have imagined to be real had she not personally witnessed Regina hide things in such an invisible pocket. Only small items could be stored with that particular spell, as the energy requirements to form more than a tiny breach into the plane between life and death are more than any single magician can muster. If that is where this place is, whoever constructed it had to have been either powerful beyond imagining or part of a much larger group of magic users. A coven, or two or three, of witches perhaps. Whatever the case, she isn't keen on meeting the person or persons responsible. Werewolf or not, she'd be mincemeat in the face of such a formidable foe.

Exhausted from her fit of self-indulgent sorrow, Red curls up into a fetal position on the floor, squeezes her eyes shut, and begs for unconsciousness to claim her. Sadly, it refuses to oblige. Yet another torturous aspect to her confinement, it seems, is an inability to sleep. Will she be forced to stay awake forever here with no reprieve from the suffering? If so, her initial assessment of her unenviable predicament seems woefully optimistic. Still, stubborn as she is, she continues to try, if for no other reason than she has nothing better to do. Passing the time within the familiar confines of her own mind seems a viable alternative at the moment to staring blankly into the dancing flames.

Hours pass. Maybe. Maybe it's minutes. She cannot be certain here. All she knows is that she has run through a dozen scenarios involving Regina unsuccessfully confronting the warped witch who has it in for her, each of them more grotesquely detailed than the last. If she does ever make it out of here, will Regina still be alive to greet her?

Abject terror grips her heart. Unbeknownst to her, that paralyzing fear for Regina's safety will join the unending conflagration that surrounds her as a second, ever-faithful companion. In a place from which there is no escape, it seems to her a fate worse than death.

#once upon a time fanfic #red queen ouat #regina x ruby

[versatilepoetry]

Commit This Sin. Again And Again And Again.

O! Yes. Entirely and Unstoppably passionate was I. After the inscrutably teasing tresses in your ravishing hair; which inevitably compelled my fingers to come near; caress and timelessly disentangle, O! Yes. Entirely and Fervently passionate was I. After your lusciously inviting lips; which rekindled the fire to live in my scraggily impoverished veins; even as I was buried a countless feet under heartless snow, O! Yes. Entirely and Unsurpassably passionate was I. After your articulately heavenly fingers; which spawned an undefeated gorge of artistry in the complexion of my otherwise robotically bedraggled life, O! Yes. Entirely and limitlessly passionate was I. After the insuperable compassion that enshrouded every ingredient of your blood; for every fraternity and dimension of pricelessly inimitable humanity, O! Yes. Entirely and Unconquerably passionate was I. After your voluptuously enamoring hips; that made even the tiniest element of my persona ecstatically sway; under the impeccably tenacious moonlight, O! Yes. Entirely and Tirelessly passionate was I. After each footprint that you embossed on pristinely moistened soil; which carved the most victoriously infallible trail for me to follow in my penurious life, O! Yes. Entirely and Inexhaustibly passionate was I. After your tantalizingly gyrating belly; which drew me out of my deathly corpse; and into the untamed wilderness to once again sniff freshly exuberant life, O! Yes. Entirely and Irrevocably passionate was I. After your mellifluously tinkling laughter; which made me feel like a prince effortlessly floating in the amiable clouds; for a countless more births of mine, O! Yes. Entirely and Insanely passionate was I. After each droplet of silver sweat that dribbled from your arms; in the transparent mirror of which I could relentlessly stare into the candid intricacies of my life, O! Yes. Entirely and Unrelentingly passionate was I. After each sensuous whisper that emanated from your throat; which quelled even the most truculently unbearable of my misery; into the magical heartbeat of existence, O! Yes. Entirely and Unceasingly passionate was I. After the invincible warmth of your magnetic bosom; in which I found divinely solace; amidst the most tumultuously hideous apocalypses and storms, O! Yes. Entirely and Endlessly passionate was I. After each uncanny goose-bump on your reverberating skin; which triggered the most unassailable infernos of fertility; in all my brain; body and soul, O! Yes. Entirely and Unimaginably passionate was I. After your bountifully Omnipotent palms; in each fold and line of which; was written and rewritten every aspect of my destiny; yet to royally unfurl, O! Yes. Entirely and Bizarrely passionate was I. After your mysteriously intrepid shadow; that fomented me to fantasize beyond the realms of extraordinary utopia; in its shades of insatiably evoking lust, O! Yes. Entirely and Unfathomably passionate was I. After every pinch of soil that you caressed; applying the same consecrated ash now on each of my wounds; to grant them eternal liberation and rest, O! Yes. Entirely and Undyingly passionate was I. After your rustically enchanting simplicity; which forever led me in search of nothing else; but the absolute truth nestling in each ingredient of the planet divine, O! Yes. Entirely and Imperceptibly passionate was I. After your honey laden nape; which made me feel the wealthiest man alive; as I gently nibbled through its nimble catacombs of profound womanhood, O! Yes. Entirely and Unreasonably passionate was I. After your fierily ebullient breath; which never ever let me quit my life; forever enveloping it with rhapsodic desire; blessing it with the invincible essence to survive amongst a pack of wolves, O! Yes. Entirely and Unshakably passionate was I. After every beat that leapt uninhibitedly from your immortal heart; which taught me that there was nothing else but love; in the starting and ending alphabet of life, And now if the worthless world outside says; that falling into passion was committing a dreadfully unpardonable and inconsolable sin; then I for one was ready to commit this sin; again and again and again and again.

[biofunmy]

36 Hours in Naples, Italy

A city of glorious but tattered beauty, known for its vibrancy and, yes, a frisson of menace, Naples is now humming with visitors. In this Mediterranean capital watched over by the still-kicking Vesuvius volcano, tourist numbers have more than doubled since 2010, crime has dropped (notably, the murder rate is down 44 percent in 2018 over the previous year, according to the Ministry of the Interior), and the intransigent piles of trash are far fewer. Elena Ferrante’s beloved Neapolitan Novels (and the ongoing HBO adaptation of them) — along with the gritty “Gomorrah” books, movie and TV series — has roused curiosity about a destination long considered little more than a steppingstone to Capri, Ischia and Amalfi. And while the Museo Archeologico, with its extraordinary collection of antiquities, remains a bit neglected, most of the city’s art, culture and social scene are on an optimistic bender, and the charms of Naples — the Baroque excess, the indulgent cuisine, the mesmerizing fugue state of it all — beckon as they did in the city’s Grand Tour glory days.

Friday

1) 3 p.m. Dream home

Naples is a city of masquerades, of staged operas and tromp l’oeil pomp. Acquaint yourself with the pageantry at the Villa Pignatelli, a house museum built as a private mansion in 1826, which harks back to the end of Naples’ heyday during the Bourbon reign here, when the city was one of Europe’s most dazzling capitals. It’s not quite the Reggia di Caserta (the 1,000-plus room palace 18 miles outside Naples, built on the model of Versailles), but this neo-Classical jewel is a sumptuous introduction to the florid tastes of the city’s golden age, with its gilded chandeliers, frescoed Pompeii-style bathroom, intricate boiserie panels and spectacular English garden, all putting on the airs of earlier illustrious eras. Admission: 5 euros, or about $5.50.

2) 5 p.m. Chic boutiques

The Chiaia neighborhood offers a slew of Italian luxury brands, but also some distinctively local shops, like Livio De Simone, a fabric printer since the 1950s. The house’s nearby atelier silk-screens a line of dresses, bags and textiles whose bright, geometric patterns carry over to the store’s ceramics made in nearby Vietri. In this city renowned for sartorial men’s wear, custom-fitted suits and shirts may require time, but Naples’ artisan tie makers offer quicker gratification, as at Ulturale, where handmade, tailored neckwear is available in a rainbow of classic versions with good luck charms sewn inside. For an even more colorful adventure, stop into Dr. Vintage, where the owner, Rosario Recano, regales visitors with tips for his city while showing off his pristine secondhand designer collection. And jewelry lovers can tuck over to Leonardo Gaito on Via Toledo, a family-run shop that’s been around since 1864, where new works from local artisans complement antique creations.

3) 7 p.m. Aperitivo up high

On Via Toledo, the main street known as Spaccanapoli (“Naples splitter”), take the funicular to the upscale neighborhood of Vomero, a long sleepy enclave that’s home to a handful of spirited destinations. Start with Riot Laundry Bar, a concept store run by a young team, and a magnet for the reawakened music scene in Naples. Beyond the street wear and ecological jeans on offer, there’s an energetic ground-floor bar (beer, 5 euros) and Futuribile, a basement record shop with Italo disco, boogie and 1980s-era albums recorded in Naples. Opening at 8 p.m. up the block, Archivio Storico is improving the art of drinking in Naples with cocktails (around 10 euros) based on antique Neapolitan recipes as well as classic American styles, served in an underground network of intimate grotto rooms.

4) 9 p.m. Family dinner

Just behind the waterfront promenade, Casa di Ninetta serves what the owner, Carmelo Sastri, calls “my mother’s and my grandmother’s home-cooking” in this decade-old operation run with his sister, the well-known Italian singer and actor Lina Sastri. Under an ornate, late-19th-century ceiling, with classical music in the background, the restaurant prepares magnificent renditions of Neapolitan traditions, like bocconcini di baccalà (fried codfish balls; 10 euros), and the dense onion ragù of pasta Genovese (11 euros). Cleanse your palate with a basil amaro from nearby Capri (6 euros), and stroll along the seaside to appreciate the ancient block of Castel dell’Ovo illuminated on the water.

Saturday

5) 9 a.m. Breakfast bliss

Perhaps the least healthy but happiest way to start a day in Naples is with a sfogliatella, a pastry pocket of fresh ricotta with candied fruit and frolla (smooth) or riccia (ridged) shell, all made crumbly with lard. (Note to vegetarians and vegans in Naples: Expect lard where you would least expect it.) Scaturchio, making the same flawless recipes since 1905 in this Piazza San Domenico Maggiore location, serves an extraordinary sfogliatella riccia (1.70 euros) with a gossamer crust and a delicate orange-flecked cream.

6) 10 a.m. Contemporary city

Naples was a magnet for new art in the 1970s; after a long lull, the city’s art scene is buzzing again, epitomized by last year’s opening of an exhibition space by the London-based Thomas Dane gallery inside the 19th-century Villa Ruffo. Also in the Chiaia district, the Galleria Lia Rumma has presented the works of Anselm Kiefer, Mario Merz, Marina Abramovic, Alfredo Jaar and other groundbreaking artists here since 1971. Another pioneering gallerist of the 1970s, Giuseppe Morra, opened the Casa Morra in 2016 to exhibit his extensive personal collection inside a crumbling 18th-century palazzo.

7) 1 p.m. Lunch special

The family-run Trattoria San Ferdinando offers a cozy respite from Naples’ hectic streets. At this establishment, whose butter-yellow walls are hung with copper pots and antique musical scores, the menu changes daily “according to nature,” as the owners like to say. The excellent fish-focused offerings may include dishes (around 12 euros each) like bass carpaccio marinated with oranges and lemons, or zigoli pasta with zucchini flowers, mussels and a light basil pesto. Desserts, like the velvety ricotta cake with orange marmalade, are equally enchanting.

8) 2:30 p.m. Hushed havens

Naples’ religious sites are marvels of artistry. Steps from the Duomo, the often-overlooked Donnaregina convent complex encompasses the soaring naves of two churches — a 14th-century, intricately frescoed Gothic church, and an extravagantly gilded Baroque church in multicolored marble — as well as the Museo Diocesano, housing ecclesiastical artworks, mostly from the Naples school of painters, which includes the 17th-century painters Luca Giordano and Andrea Vaccaro. A few steps away, the 14th-century Santa Chiara cloister encircles a citrus garden ornamented with majolica-tiled columns and benches. Hand-painted by the ceramists Donato and Giuseppe Massa in the mid-1700s, the tiles, festooned with flowers, vegetables and storytelling scenes, were the exclusive delight of the nuns who lived there in seclusion for nearly 200 years, until monks took their place and opened the grounds to the public in 1925.

9) 5:30 p.m. Cafe culture

It’s a tenacious fight for the top coffee spot in Naples — the city is often said to serve the best espresso in Italy — where the local method produces a dense syrup of an espresso shot, often with a hefty dose of sugar already mixed in unless otherwise specified, and served alongside sparkling water to cleanse your palate beforehand. For an espresso in what is surely the most exquisite cafe in town, grab a red velvet cane chair in the gilt-edged rococo environs of Gambrinus (4 euros for a table-service espresso; 1.20 at the counter).

10) 7 p.m. Street life

For all its bygone splendor, Naples is a casual city, dominated by street food and cheap bars. For an authentic taste of it all, head to Via Tribunali, the principal thoroughfare for pizza, peppery Neapolitan taralli, and deep-fried everything. At the friggitoria (fried food stand) of Di Matteo, the cuoppo, or paper cone, of deep-fried items like potato fritters, polenta and eggplant is an unmissable Naples delicacy. Down the road, enjoy a pre-dinner drink at Perditempo, a scruffy, beloved local bar and an unpretentious literary cafe hosting occasional book readings, but more frequently blasting reggae music into the crowd gathered streetside.

11) 9 p.m. Downtown dinner

In a convivial dining room embellished with its original 1941 frescoes of Naples and portraits of bygone Italian celebrity regulars, Mimì alla Ferrovia serves dishes that have themselves barely changed over time, with an equally immutable and formally dressed staff. A dynasty of four family generations of owners and three in the kitchen put continuity at the heart of this restaurant in the central (and sketchy) train station neighborhood. Serving mostly locally caught Mediterranean fish, the chef, Salvatore Giugliano (grandson of the restaurant’s first chef), has tweaked the traditional recipes, excelling with bass ravioli with butter, broth, shrimp and squid (12 euros), and a ricotta of the region’s special buffalo milk topped with his housemade Vesuvian tomato jam (2 euros).

Sunday

12) 10 a.m. The Naples underground

To truly appreciate Naples, old and new, head into its subterranean belly. Since 1995, metro stations have been embellished with more than 200 public artworks; next year will see a new Duomo station by the architect Massimiliano Fuksas that pays homage to the Roman temple discovered amid the excavations. And at 130 feet below, wonders of the ancient world are revealed, as the Napoli Sotterranea organization’s tour (10 euros) takes you into a maze of caves that stretches over 280 miles, carved into the volcanic tuff bedrock by the Greeks in the 4th century B.C. The 90-minute tour guides visitors past a Greek-Roman theater where Nero once performed, and through the archaic hollows where Neapolitans took shelter during World War II air raids.

13) noon. Elevated art

A new shuttle service running from Piazza Trieste e Trento to the Museo Capodimonte (16 euros round trip, including museum entrance) makes this under-visited treasure trove more accessible. The gargantuan castle, begun in 1738, was constructed as a hunting lodge for the Bourbon king Charles III. Perched on a hilltop with views across the city to Capri and Ischia, Capodimonte is surrounded by the 300 acres of woods and parkland that originally served as royal hunting grounds. Inside, the staggering collection of art includes masterpieces by Titian, El Greco, Caravaggio and Raphael.

14) 2 p.m. Pizza party

No one comes to Naples to get skinny, and the pizza, invented here in the 19th century, is still probably better than anywhere else. At Concettina ai Tre Santi, the chef Ciro Oliva may be the most talented pizzaiolo in town, the fourth generation of a family dynasty running this folksy dining spot in the working-class Sanità neighborhood. For the very hungry, the chef proposes the hedonistic 12-course pizza-tasting menu (45 euros, call ahead), alongside single pies (8 euros) all made with local ingredients, and a well-researched wine list that includes a decadent Pertois-Moriset Champagne. Menu highlights include the Parthenope, a fried pizza stuffed with buffalo ricotta, smoked ricciola, seaweed, orange zest and ground pepper. No reservations, but it’s worth the wait.

Lodging

Airbnb offers affordable options throughout the city (average rate, $73), with plenty of stylishly modern apartments in the swankier Chiaia neighborhood.

The new wave of tourism has produced an elegant crop of small-scale modern hotels, like the eight-room Artemisia Domus (from 119 euros a night), which opened inside a former fourth-floor residence in 2018, rebuilt with wood beams, the remains of a fresco, and a few other original details intact. Some stairs are involved, but the hotel rewards you with spacious rooms, some with a sauna or Jacuzzi.

Located in Naples’ pretty, seaside Posillipo neighborhood, Primo Piano Posillipo (from 105 euros a night) — conceived by the architect Giuliano Andrea dell’Uva, and opened in February — is a colorful vision of contemporary style, showcased in its four airy rooms, including one with a stunning Mediterranean view.

For traditional grandeur, the 137-year-old, nine-story Grand Hotel Vesuvio (rooms with seaview balconies, from 290 euros), on Naples’ pedestrian waterfront, overlooks the Castel dell’Ovo and the Bay of Naples. Its upholstered walls, Murano chandeliers and liveried staff suggest the old-school sophistication of another age.

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[mrpristineblade]

My design for Voice of the Smitten! A sweet but fragile soul that tries to embody the pure power of love. I really tried to reel back on finding the "perfect" symbolism for him, because I spend way too long breaking my brain over Skeptic last time.

Still got lots of notes to give under the cut, though:

Hair made of roses, for obvious reasons. Pink roses specifically, because I couldn't choose between white and red. Pink roses generally stand for sweetness and joy.

He's a glass vase to put the roses in, but also as a nod to Cinderella's glass slipper, symbolizing him as the Princess's "perfect fit" or "true love". When his passions truly become too great to be stifled, the heat starts melting the glass, signifying his more unstable nature.

I also gave his outfit the classic "Prince Charming" look to go along with this.

A boob window chest opening to show his open intentions from the heart. The heart was made into a sea conch on a chain that he makes music through. This is related to the Brazilian folklore story of the Yara, where a young man gets tempted by the Yara's singing to leave his fiancée on their wedding night. His lover finds out about this and gifts him a necklace with a seashell, which contains her singing voice inside for him to listen to. His love for her makes her singing more appealing to his ears, which breaks the spell when he encounters the Yara again on the wedding night itself.

The crown has a crossbow design and honey droplets for jewels, which are vaguely associated with Eros/Cupid, greco-roman personification of love. The arrow is also a unicorn horn, which refers to his power of true belief.

Lastly, Smitten's outfit and cape strike semblance to Christmasvine, a plant that is seen on the statue of Xochipilli, the aztec god of friendship, parties, flowers and male forms of love.

I make sure every voice has an aspect of them that connects them back to the mirror and for Smitten, that is his bee wings. Bees as another connection to Eros while also taking the bee as a general symbol of loyalty to a "Queen"

He has horse legs and hooves instead of feet. I forgot why. Probably to give a bit of "noble steed" to his "Prince Charming" flair.

Hero/Contrarian/Skeptic/Smitten (you're here!)

#slay the princess #stp the voices #stp voices #stp #voice of the smitten #my pristine carvings of artistry

[mrpristineblade]

My first ever voice design, Voice of the Hero everyone!

I was inspired by the term "white hat" to give only him white feathers and then the inspiration behind the armor and lightning/cloud themes came from *Trito, a Proto-Indo-European culture hero who became the trendsetter of the "hero/warrior" within every "sky/good vs earth/evil" myth throughout European history and beyond.

And yes, bird legs are supposed to have THREE PARTS, NOT TWO, so I made these extra doodles for reference purposes :)

Hero(you're here!)/Contrarian/Skeptic

#slay the princess #stp the voices #stp hero #voice of the hero #my pristine carvings of artistry

[mrpristineblade]

Second on the interpretation train is Voice of the Contrarian!

I wanted him to have contradictory traits to Hero without being a complete opposite. So there are demonic horns, but they're wooden like fae would have. More earthly than chthonic. With lilies-of-the-valley at their tips, which represent the return to happiness in floriography!

Oh, and also golden upside-down fairy wings on his shoes! Because:

1. Hero has normal-facing wings on his head (which I forgor to draw in the comic, my bad)

2. Hermes/Mercury had wings on his shoes and he was both a trickster and a psychopomp (between earth and the underworld) and

3. Fae and other trickster deities commonly used gold to trick others.

But I still needed a more individual element to complete the picture, sooo TOYS! Jack-in-the-box for his surprise impulsive blade throwing, and sorting box with blocks as an ironic wink to his disorganized nature.

Hero/Contrarian(you're here!)/Skeptic

#slay the princess #stp #voice of the contrarian #stp the voices #stp voices #my pristine carvings of artistry

[mrpristineblade]

Our third! The thunker, Voice of the Skeptic! Not a lotta doodles this time, but certainly a lotta symbolism behind his design!

My general theme was "katabasis", a mythological story about a hero who has to descent into the underworld.

Usually to help someone down there escape (like a certain imprisoned princess we might be familiar with) or to ask for wisdom/knowledge from the dead (like a certain remnant of a dead person we might be familiar with).

From there I just started grabbing whatever facets of these heroes I wanted to use:

Most of my inspiration came from the Mesopotamian goddess Inanna (more popularly known as Ishtar), because her clothing was a key component in her descent. She had to wear many layers, which were then stripped from her with every layer of the underworld she entered, including a turban, a palla dress (it became more of a makeshift pallium without the hood, because of how awkward the palla looked with the turban), a lapis lazuli necklace (became a key chain for the same reasons), A pectoral (why it has a keyhole, I'll get to later wink wink) and a lapis lazuli measuring rod.

Though it doesn't really look like your typical measuring rod, does it? It's more like a golden branch. Or, as Virgil would describe it, the Golden Bough. A golden bough Trojan/Roman hero Aeneas had to find on a tree to allow his descent.

My main motif between designs is that, because the Long Quiet is depicted as a collection of wings, all the voices need a pair of wings. Skeptic has butterfly wings and moth fur on his head, a reference to Psyche, who became Greek goddess of the soul after having also traveled to the underworld and back. I guess you can also see the soul as the true self hidden underneath and Skeptic loves his truths.

Lastly, we're going up north to the Norse/Germanic side of mythology. There we meet Baldr, a divine ball of sunshine who was protected from every form of harm by his mother, making him indestructible... except against mistletoe. It was Loki who figured out a way around the rules (like Skeptic did with the head) by guiding Baldr's blind brother Hodr to unbeknowingly shoot Baldr in the heart with an arrow of mistletoe, leading him to become trapped in the underworld. Except I made it a keyhole for recognizability sake. Skeptic, in this situation, being the one vulnerable to trickery due to a lack of information, both as the blind shooter and the shot, which gets us in the Drowned Grey.

Hero/Contrarian/Skeptic(you're here!)

#slay the princess #stp voices #voice of the skeptic #stp the voices #voice of the hero #the long quiet #my pristine carvings of artistry #Hope I can remember to add image ID to my drawings #I wanted to do them since I posted Hero's design but I forgor

[mrpristineblade]

Skeptic and Contrarian reminding Hero how much they love him. Hero had secretly forgotten it was Valentine's Day and is trying to be normal about it (failed miserably).

#slay the princess #stp #my pristine carvings of artistry #stp the voices #stp voices #voice of the contrarian #voice of the hero #voice of the skeptic #skepticontrahero #my personal ot3 of all time

[mrpristineblade]

Some doodles of my interpretation of the Narrator + our favorite long boy ✨

#slay the princess #stp the narrator #stp narrator #stp the long quiet #the long quiet #also my long quiet is one-winged in this due to personal lore reasons yet to be revealed #stp #my pristine carvings of artistry

[mrpristineblade]

A The Good Place STP AU doodle I did a few days ago. Hero and Contrarian are "soulmates" in this, because of course they would be.

#slay the princess #my pristine carvings of artistry #stp the voices #stp voices #voice of the contrarian #voice of the hero #STP The Good Place AU

[mrpristineblade]

Welp, I rambled about Crossdressing Skeptic, so now I might as well post the crappy concept art too (with some SkeptiContraHero on the side)

#voice of the skeptic #slay the princess #stp the voices #stp voices #voice of the contrarian #voice of the hero #skepticontrahero #my pristine carvings of artistry