#“golden” could also have been denoting the shiny nature

[my-name-is-apollo]

Dark-haired Apollo

I know everyone likes blonde Apollo, and for good reasons! A lot of poets seemed to have been fond of imagining him with long, beautiful golden hair. But dark-haired Apollo, though quite rare in the poems, also exists and I honestly like that too.

• From the Erythrean paean to Asclepius (which then continues into a paean to king Seleucus):

"Over the libations, sing of Seleucus, son of dark-haired Apollo, whom the god of the golden lyre himself begot..." – (Trans. P.A.LeVen)

> κυανοπλοκάμου (kyanoplokámou) - dark-haired is used to describe Apollo's hair here.

• From Limenius' paean to Apollo (also known as the second Delphic hymn):

"But you, O god who owns the oracular tripod, come to this ridge of Parnassus where the gods tread, and where divine possession is welcomed. Weave a crown of bay about your wine-dark hair, and drawing with your hand . . . you encountered the monstrous child of Gaia . . ." (Trans. J.G.Landels)

>It was a bit difficult for me to figure what word is used here for his hair because the original Greek text is fragmented and I'm not knowledgeable about the language - I rely on the online translations - so a disclaimer. But from what I've put together, the word used to describe the color of the hair is οἰνῶ̣πα (oinõpa) which translates to "dark", "ruddy complexioned". Also, the same hymn calls Apollo "golden-haired" in the beginning lol.

In Deipnosophists by Athenaeus, a comment is made on the poets' imagination of Apollo's hair vs the painters' preference:

"And you do not either like the poet who spoke of the golden-haired Apollo; for if a painter were to represent the hair of the god as actually golden, and not black, the picture would be all the worse." – (Trans. Charles Burton Gulick)

> according to this, the painters liked to represent Apollo with black (μελαίνας) hair. Or rather that making his golden will make the painting look worse.

And if the Roman paintings and mosaics are any proof, these painters did actually seem to prefer representing Apollo with dark hair.

So yeah, while in the myths he's often called golden-haired, dark-haired Apollo is a more common sight in the paintings.

[poutyhannie]

warnings: tsundere!minho, boxer!minho, fem!reader, mentions of d*ath, bl**d, kn*ves, violence, smut, fluff, angst :), dark cold minho finds a soft spot in y/n :))))

word count: +8k

The blisters on your hands burn as you placed the cash register on the shiny white counter. Finally, your life’s goal to begin a small cafe in town was complete, but this was only the beginning. Even the ache in your feet and back from the boxes and produce you carried in last night couldn’t shake the beaming smile you greet the empty store with. Golden light streams in from the freshly washed windows, bouncing off the racks of freshly baked breads and pastries. These beams of light must be the physical representation of the heavenly aroma of baking goods and you fill your lungs with it, content and elated at the prospect of a new chapter.

Among the normal baked goods, everyday items were placed around the counter, such as umbrellas and first aid kits. It was a small tactic to make a bit more profit or a thoughtful gesture, just in case customers needed something other than coffee and a croissant.

If you didn’t close the door soon, the cold morning gusts of wind would stale and harden the goods, but this display of openness was necessary to garner new customers so you quickly hopped from behind the counter to cover the goods with glass domes which served as lids.

The people of your city had been relatively friendly, spreading the word of your grand opening. Thanks to this, streams of customers filled your lavender-themed shop before the morning and evening rush. When the sun’s golden shine began to dissipate to cold blue, the goods were dwindling on the shelves, prepared to be restocked for tomorrow.

The front of your lavender purple apron was streaked with flour, chocolate, and jam as you wiped the counters of the same substances. The giddy excitement in your bones contradicted the cheerfully ticking clock on the wall that told you it was late into the night. When did the day spin away from you so quickly? Would all the days at your shop be this enjoyable? Sighing contently, you settle on one of the comfortable white chairs, finally feeling the pinching ache in your feet. You’d have to get employees once you made enough revenue, you were bound to only get more customers from here on out. Maybe you’d hire cleaners once a month to do a deep clean? 

Thoughts prospective of your future and the future of your shop were interrupted when the door swung open—you were concerned the force would shatter the glass door itself. In stalked a darkly clad man, his back was turned to you as he quickly scanned the shelves and displays of your shop. He’d ignored the ‘closed’ sign. Still, one more customer couldn’t hurt. “Welcome,” you greeted warmly, feet aching as you walked back behind the counter. The customer gruffly rolled your word off. 

The gloves on his hands didn’t have fingers and when he placed a small first aid kit and sandwich on the counter, you could see the beds of his nails were bleeding. However, when you saw his face, you realized his wounded fingers were not priority. A blistering red patch scored his cheek under his dark eyes. There was a fresh cut on his left cheekbone that matched his bust eyebrow and lip. At the state of his lip you quickly reached over to add a tube of chapstick to his order. “Don’t need it,” he grunted but made no move to put it back. “Its on me,” you explained, ringing him up, ignoring the roll of his eyes. Though his hoodie was pulled down, the sweaty strands of black hair were still visible, slightly blocking his vision. “Take care,” you offered him, placing the bag into his hand. The empty night was louder than him as he exited your store.

A month in and you’ve managed to perfect the flower-shaped croissants, exploiting the layers of dough and butter croissants naturally proved to achieve petal-like flares. Proudly, you arrange them on a baby blue decorative plate, fixing the eyebrow raising price tag in front of it. People would have to accept that baking was another type of art and that your croissants tasted as good as they look. Many customers have become regulars, your yellow post it note stuck on the cash register denotes what they usually get, just a courtesy. New people enter your store everyday, sometimes stopping to pose for pictures in front of the arguably aesthetic display case filled with your best work. A swell of pride always elates you and you remind them to tag the cafe in their social media posts.

Its because your shop has a softer, pretty theme that you’re surprised when you find yourself writing down what the bruised man from before would always order. Though you formally close at seven, you leave the light on as you close down for him because he usually enters at nine. At the end of every week, he replenishes his first aid kit, sporting nasty red, brown, and purple wounds on his face every day. His placement of the bandaids and salves are sloppy at best and as the daughter of a doctor, you can’t help but stop him before he disappears into the inky night once again. The accusative glare he shoots at you leaves you stuttering. “What do you want?” His words and tone almost have you denying that you even called him in the first place but you wonder why he’s always beat up and why he’s so cranky. “You’re not putting on the bandages correctly.” “What would you know about it?” “My dad was a doctor—here, just let me fix it for you.” You’re released from his heavy glare as he thinks over your proposal, eyes flitting around your shop before landing back on you. “Just make it quick.”

He’s never sat in one of your shop’s white chairs and he shifts on plush cushion, you across from him, preparing the first aid kit. No sound escapes him as he rips off his existing bandaids, though just watching him makes you want to wince. The used bandages are shoved into his pockets and he slouches in front of you. The wounds this time congregate around his jaw, a nasty blue-green bruise spreading from his chin to the end of his jaw. Cuts and rug burn-like patches are scattered around his face and you can’t picture what he’d look like without a black eye.

In the name of being prepared, you keep an extensive first aid kit under your counter. You gingerly smear the bruise with the respective salve before dousing the cuts with alcohol. All the while, the damaged man in front of you says nothing, but glares at you through his shaggy bangs. Though scared to anger him him, you softly push back his hair to reveal another bruise above his left eyebrow.

The tense silence tears at you and you blurt out, “Have you not met any left handed people? They’re always on your left side.”

“More like they haven’t met me.” 

“You’re left handed?” 

“Ambidextrous but they still never see it coming,” is his gruff reply. 

Slowly, as you spread salve on his cuts you put two and two together. “You’re a fighter.” 

“Boxer.” Though his uncomfortable silence had previously left you at a loss for words, you quickly get back into your old habits, “You’re a boxer? That’s why you’re always beat up. You must not be very good if you’re always getting hurt. Are you paid to fight other people or is it based on bets? You’re really young to be boxi—” 

The coldness in his eyes as they snap up to you has your words choking in your throat. “I let my opponents have a semblance of victory before I beat them. Its based on bets so I get more profit if viewers place more bets against me.”

He rises and you follow him to the door. “I-if you…when you get injured, just come here. It’ll heal faster if I tend to it.” 

A nod is all you get but its more than the silence you’ve been struck with by him before so you’re not complaining.

He holds you on your offer, coming in every night from nine to midnight. You don’t mind lingering at your shop longer because his scuffed boots find their way into your store every night. You learn that his name is Minho and that his boxing nickname is Lee Know. The air between you has melted from cold tension to quiet casualty. Though your heart clenches in wariness every time his battered face shows up, it also pangs in empathy for him. Empathy that he refuses to accept.

The glint in his eyes that he regards you with every night informs you that he scowls upon your empathy, the pout on your lips as you concentrate to clean his wounds and the worried laced in your voice as you ask him about his upcoming matches. “I’ve been preparing for the season to start. If it goes well, I can progress past my current bracket,” he explains and though his voice has been exclusively monotone, if you strain your ears hard enough, there’s a trace of hope and anticipation there. 

“You haven’t been doing matches this entire time?” You exclaim, dumbfounded that this amount of damage has been from practices and preparation for the real thing. 

For a passing second, everything in his demeanor except his voice calls you an idiot before he softens, realizing you know nothing about his underground life. “If we had matches all year, we’d kill each other in no time. No,” he laughs humorlessly, shaking his hair out. Its grown a bit longer than his eyes but you’ve secured it back, clearing his face up with a pink fluffy headband he scoffed at. “The lower division guys have up to 40 matches but the really good ones only have two or three.” 

In the beginning of your late night first aid sessions, you’d timidly ask Minho small talk questions and he’d gruffly respond with a word or two, but never a full sentence. Now, you ask him because you’re genuinely curious about his profession. “How many do you have? Do you know who you’ll go against?” 

“Twelve. Edging on the more professional bracket but still not there yet. Opponents are rolling; I don’t know until a few days before and even then, it’s not necessarily helpful. Just need to touch up on their weaknesses.” 

“What’s your weakness?” You ask him, dabbing some burn salve on the glove burn stretching over his cheekbone. At the silence stretching across the two of you, you hope your tone came across as light and playful, not offensive. Though you were acquaintances with the boxer, you couldn’t yet bring yourself relax around his dark gaze. 

“You’ll have to figure it out.” A giggle rises in your throat, maybe a nervous habit or maybe because you found him interesting.

An exhale eases out of your lungs as your legs give out, throwing yourself on your bed. The soft blue glow of your bedside lamp washes the room in a calming light but exhaustion refuses to let you bask in it. Soon, your eyelids are drooping and back is pressing into the sheets.

Danishes. 

A harsh, ringing voice rips through your head; you bolt up, pulling your neck at the speed and abruptness. Gasping, you fling your shoes on, realizing that you left the dough proofing. If it were any other dough, you’d roll over and shrug off the loss of a batch, but this dough was made with premium French artisan flour that a kind customer had gifted you. Somehow, the panic in your throat wards off drowsiness and you speed down the empty streets. Bursting into your store, you rush to remove the dough from the bowl and knead them into small loaves.

Based on how the dough smells, you don’t believe it over proofed so the worry loosens your throat allowing you to inhale a yawn, sliding dough into the warm oven.

The chairs in your cafe are plush but nothing compared to your bed. It’s making you slowly regret coming back tonight.

A loud bang rings through the silent air and immediately fear grips your heart which is thrumming in your throat. Maybe its your drowsy state that has you flinging into panic at the noise. The rubber soles of your shoes slowly squeak over the tile as you move over to grab a knife you use to score the bread. Its size won’t scare anyone off, but its sharpness is one to be reckoned with. From your fuzzy, sleepy memory, the sound came from the small storage room so with white knuckles gripping the knife, you creep over. In your rush, had the door been carelessly left open? The storage room door is ajar but you can’t see anything inside. Relaxing the slightest bit, you nudge the door open slowly, entering on tip toe. Though dimly lit, you can see that the small room is empty and relief floods you, though not completely ridding you of the former panic—your heartbeat is still in your throat.

When you return to the main room with the counter, tables, and register, cold, blinding panic returns tenfold. There’s three dark figures in your shop, crouching next to the counter, quickly stuffing their bags with the money stashed away. In a flurry, you press your back to the storage room door, cursing yourself for leaving it in there and at the front door which you left wide open.

Your mind whirls, trembling with fear and apprehension. Where was your phone? You couldn’t possibly stop these men but would the cops come in time?

“What the fuck are you bastards?” A voice rings out. Harsh. Cold. You don’t dare turn the corner to look.

A muffled cry pierces the tense air, strained grunts, and sounds of impact following in succession. There’s a loud cracking sound and a wail that raises your goosebumps and you slink back further into the shadow, hoping that whatever is happening behind the wall will leave you alone. Breathy curses and threats are thrown before visceral, bodily squelches and groans silence them. Digging your fingernails into your palms to get your hands from shaking, you tremble in the corner, even after the sounds have been reduced to low, pained moans and a pair of footsteps. They wander around, heavy and assured before edging closer to where you’re hiding. You don’t dare breath, but you don’t think breath would come even if you asked it to.

“Y/n?” At the sound of your name, your eyes grow wide, though you’re still frozen in place. The footsteps round the corner and you’re met with scuffed black boots and ripped black jeans. Squeezing your eyes shut, your mind whirls as you remember staring at those boots, tending to wounds. His wounds.

When your eyes fly open again, he’s crouching in front of you, face significantly less wounded than you’ve seen it. The sound of your knife clattering on the tile startles you into flying into his arms. He makes uncomfortable, awkward noises above you, hands floating above your back as his butt smarts from the force you knocked him over with. “Did you beat them up?” You voice is shaking and you’re either on the verge of tears or already crying into his black hoodie, filling your mind with his deep sweaty musk, “I didn’t know what to do.” 

“Yeah, its not that big of a deal though. Just call the police,” he pushes you off of him with surprising gentleness, seeing that his hands are stained with the blood of those three men. On his feet in a flash, he drops a bag onto your lap. “Here is your money.” 

There’s no proper reason why your hand shoots out to pull him from leaving. Maybe it’s because the would be thieves are still laying in your store, maybe its because you want to keep inhaling the warm scent he exudes, maybe it’s because the thought of being without him tonight scares you. “The police won’t believe that I did this,” you whisper, hoping that that will ward off his need to leave. It’s impossible to interpret what the dark look in his eyes are—you can never seem to read his thoughts. 

Only his verbal confirmation has relief flooding your chest, “Fine.” 

After tying up the perpetrators, Minho settles half an arms distance away from you, a waft of his musk filling your nose as you think you hear the piercing screech of sirens. “Were you just gonna let them take your cash?”

You were wrong. His eyes can deliver something other than blank darkness: incredulous accusation. The disbelief and an audible scoff in his question has you curling up tighter, burning with the implications he poses. You’d let these men reap the fruits of your labor; you wouldn’t try to stop them. 

“Y-yeah,” you attempt, trying to concoct a reasonable excuse that would get his disapproving stare from burning off the side of your face. “There were three of them, so of course I’d let them go.” 

A scoff rips from his throat, clawing at the back of your neck. “This won’t do. You know,” he turns to you, one eyebrow raised, “this’ll just be the beginning. Are you gonna be prepared to defend this shop, bub?” 

You bristle at his know-it-all attitude and the patronizing nickname, “Why do you care? And why were you even here this late at night?” The pale yellow suggestions of sun peak from the inky black sky as you’re reminded that you’ve gotten no sleep. Ignoring your questions, he rises, adjusting his jeans and walking over to the policemen now at the glass door of your cafe.

Even after the robbers were detained and police left, he remains, his dark scent permeating the air around you. “Listen,” he starts, hands shoved into his pockets and the regular scowl on his face, “I was just walking back from practice and saw them in here. And you need to get protection around here.” 

“And how would you suggest that?” You throw back, fueled with remaining sass. A shrug. He turns away, walking to the door. Habit says he’ll ignore you, disappearing into the lightening city horizon, but he stops, hand resting on the glass door. You slap his hand off of it, but his hand’s grimy residue clouds a part of the door already. 

His shoulders drop in annoyance before he grunts, “I could teach you how to defend yourself.” Mouth agape and eyes wide, you repeat his words, “You’d teach me how to defend myself? Isn’t your season starting up soon?” 

His gaze drops, you think he’s taken aback at your remembering the dates of his season. “Coach doesn’t want me sparring. Get healed or some shit. Don’t get me wrong, I’m offering because it’ll be good for me to refresh on the basics and the next shop is twenty minutes away. I’ll be inconvenienced if this shop closes anytime soon.” The thought of Minho scowling down at you as a personal defense teacher scares you, but the vivid memory as you clutched the knife terrifies you. 

 “When are you free?”

**

“No, widen your feet; squat more, bub,” Minho lets out an exasperated sigh and slips behind you, hands on your hips to adjust your stance in front of the punching bag. The yellow lights overhead and the pale wash of moonlight are the only things illuminating your ‘self defense’ classes. With as much punching as you’re doing, you think it’s more of a boxing lesson than self defense.

“One.” 

Your left glove strikes the bag. 

“Two.” 

Right hand. 

Minho repeats these instructions, the two words seemingly molding together into a mash of sounds. As his cold voice continues to command you, the burning in your lungs intensifies and your thighs, arms, and stomach ache, screaming at you to stop. _Give up. _ A voice lures you, reminding you of how your knees shake and eyes sting from sweat. “I can’t,” you whimper, hands retracting as you meet Minho’s disapproving stare. It makes you avert your gaze, the burning in your cheeks from something other than physical exertion. 

“I’m heading home then.” Scoffing, Minho slings his bag over his shoulder, nodding back to you, “see you tomorrow.” 

Dejected, you fumble with the straps of the boxing gloves Minho gave you, unable to grasp them when both your hands are cocooned. The usual mocking sarcastic glint in Minho’s eyes were replaced with disappointment and his abrupt departure burns your chest. Maybe you should have pushed yourself more? Maybe he shouldn’t have.

“One, two. Don’t lean into it. One, two. Rotate your wrists. One, two. Guard your jaw, he’s gonna knock you out.

“Keep going, Y/n,” interrupts the usual ‘one, two’ and your teeth grit, pulling your elbows in and snapping your punches. Minho’s lips lift from the corner of your eye and this spurs you on, extracting energy from a place you didn’t know existed. Fueled with anger—anger at yourself for having given up last session, anger at Minho for pushing you—you pummel the punching bag, breathing harshly as the sound of slapping synthetic leather fills the musky room. 

“Okay, break.” The ground collides with your body as your legs give out under you. Your breathing must have been uneven, because there’s white patches in front of your vision. After blinking them away, you’re met with Minho’s outstretched hand offering a water bottle. His face is turned away from you, but his cheeks rise, insinuating a smile. With a breathing ‘thanks’, you practically inhale the water.

“Slow down, bub. You’re gonna puke.” 

Laying a hand over your spazzing heart, you give him the best glare you can muster, “No thanks to you, Lee Know.” He smirks at your use of his boxer nickname, sprawling on the ground next to you. 

“Y’know,” you gasp in between breaths, “I don’t think this is self defense, this is just offense.” 

Minho’s head tilts in acceptance, tongue poking out to swipe at his bottom lip. “No, what you’re doing is not boxing if that’s what you’re implying.” 

“Oh yeah?” You tease, pulling a face at Minho, “I’m in boxing gloves, attacking a poor boxing bag.” 

The veins in his forearms strain as he leans back onto his hands, “I could show you real boxing, bub. I have a match next week. I can get you in.” Your heart clenches at the thought of seeing the blood and gore you’ve seen on Minho’s face being made. He senses your uneasiness and leans forward, hand brushing over your knee almost…timidly? “You don’t have to come, but you can. I’ll text you the details,” he shrugs, “show up or don’t.”

**

Maybe you shouldn’t have worn a pastel purple skirt to a boxing match but it’s too late to turn around and change. At least you had the sense to wear safety shorts and sturdy combat boots. Yelling can be heard in the distance and while you’d usually flee from sounds like that, you find the GPS on your phone leading you right to it. 

The barbaric shouts are deafening as you stand in front of a grey building. A man, who’s arms are the size of your shoulders guards the door. “You lost, little girl?” He asks gruffly, but he doesn’t seem sarcastic. 

“I-I um,” you clear your throat, “Lee Know has a match here?” Your statement comes off more as a question and you wince at how weak your voice sounds. 

The bearded guard nods, his black shirt straining as he crosses his tree trunk forearms in front of him. “So you’re the lady he’s been babbling on ‘bout.” A blue tattoo stretches on his forearm as he opens the door, a wave of stench, heat, and yells ramming into you. Thanking the man quietly, you slip through the door. It’s an arena, like a football stadium but scaled down significantly. Burly and wiry men alike fill the seats, howling like dogs. You pull your sweater closer to you and your skirt down. The lights and sounds whirl in front of you as you try to spot Minho in the crowd. Further up, closer to the boxing ring, there’s a familiar head of black hair and broad shoulders. You hope it’s him as you squeeze past the admittedly scary crowd of men.

Tapping his shoulder, you breathe in his musky scent. It almost cancels out the stale rotting stench around you. When he turns, his eyes are dangerous and dark—you almost stumble back—but when he sees you his eyebrows shoot up. “Didn’t think you’d come,” he shouts over the chaos, “here,” he pulls your shoulders into his chest, shielding you in his arms as he begins to weave through the crowd, “my match is in a little bit so I was gonna head to the back.” 

The screams are muffled now as Minho closes the door to a small, empty room. He slouches on a chair, gesturing you to do the same. “It’s always so fucking chaotic out there. I can never focus before a match. I can never think,” he mutters, mostly to himself, so you freeze, not wishing to distract him, “My mind is always somewhere else and I can’t remember anything. It’s like nothing else but my nerves exist.” 

Only after a beat of silence, after Minho turns his wide eyes up to look at you, do you realize he was talking to you. “But you’re so good. You’ve been training all year,” you blurt out, not pausing to think about your words, taken aback at how innocent and lost his eyes look, “isn’t it like muscle memory?” 

He groans, you worry you’ve said the wrong thing, “Yeah, I know but it’s just so fucking frustrating, bub.” 

Smiling widely, you tease him with a nudge on his shoulder, “You’re gonna be great. Plus, you’ll have me cheering you on.” Awkwardly, you make punching movements, “I’ll take your opponent down if you can’t.” 

That’s the first time you hear Minho laugh. A genuine, hearty laugh. Not a scoff or a mocking tease. It’s warm and sweet and surprisingly high. His eyes crinkle, still smiling at you when he stands, “Okay sounds like a plan.”

Seeing the dark glare Minho holds his opponent with as they circle the ring, you understand why Minho sports the look so often. It takes you off guard; you feel like you haven’t seen these dark eyes in a while. A strong swallow of spit tightens your throat. You blink, his opponent strikes, mitt slapping against Minho’s blocking forearm. Gasping a breath, you freeze in apprehension as the crowd around you roars to life. The sharply muscled, bald man circling Minho does not lack in speed; the blurring blue of his mitt once again slams against Minho’s forearm. The bald man tenses, charging at Minho with a flurry of attacks. Desperation clenches your throat as you will Minho to do something. He ducks his head behind his forearms, abdomen clenching at every blow inflicted to him. Soon mutters calling Minho a ‘punching bag’ and a ‘free win’ crawl into your ears. Anger flares in your chest—you know how good Minho is at fighting. Why isn’t he doing anything? However, Minho’s wiry muscled, grey haired coach standing beside you is stoic, a stark contrast to the screaming audience, hurling saliva with every abusive word they target at Minho.

“Why isn’t he doing anything?” You whisper to yourself, too engrossed in the match to care about the raw vulnerability in your voice. The bald opponent retreats, panting as Minho continues to circle him. 

Minho’s coach growls, a smirk breaking his expressionless wall, “It’s over now.” Wide eyed, you turn back to the match, taking in the sweaty, hunched—you’d daresay weary—shoulders of the bald man, heaving with pants. A relief spreads a smile across your face. Minho had been doing something. The red boulder of Minho’s mitt slams into the side of the man’s head, jerking his neck awkwardly, hurling him into stumbling, expression blank shock. An electric wave of excitement shoots through you. Minho is merciless, unwilling to let his staggering opponent recover, pummeling him with firmly resounding attacks. You recognize some basic moves he’s taught you, only now do you realize capabilities of those punches put into action.

The red of Minho’s mitt is soon darkened with the seeping blood of his opponent and the fickle crowd now screams Minho’s name, invigorating him, causing his blows to land harder, until the bald man is thrown onto the blood spattered floor. The referee slams the ground thrice and the crowd erupts into a cacophony of cheers and groans.

A satisfied smirk cuts across Minho’s barely harmed face as he unfurls his sweaty arms in victory, bathing in the cheers of those who bet on him and the cries of those who bet against him alike. His coach turns to you, a satisfied twist to his lips, a wad of cash already in his clutched, calloused hand, “This is why he wasn’t doing anything, sweetheart,” he says, shaking the money, “Minho’s a tough kid but he’s also a smart kid.” After a pause, his coach shifts, frowning in, “You’re the first person Minho’s brought to a match. Nobody else. Take care of him,” he warns.

Minho’s panting presence behind you raises goosebumps on your neck. You turn to see his glistening bare abdomen as he towels himself off with a sweat rag. Bruises bloom on his forearm and but he ignores them, receiving the majority of the cash from his coach.

“Let’s get out of here before some ass crack takes his faulty betting out on me,” he says, resting a hot hand on the small of your back, guiding you to the back exit, ignoring jeering crowd members. The empty night greets you and he nods to a black car, gruffly explaining, “You walked here, right bub?” 

“Yes, also,” you gush, “that was pretty cool." 

He looks away, deflecting with, “Yeah, get in.” 

“Why do you do it?” You ask, strapping your seatbelt on and retrieving the makeshift first aid kit from your purse.

The car murmurs to life and Minho’s voice is surprisingly quiet and soft, “I got into a lot of fights up to high school so coach came up to me and asked me if I wanted to make it a profession,” a pause and Minho murmurs, “he took me in, taught me how to channel the joy I got from fighting. Turn it into something better. Focused.” 

“He seems really proud of you,” you observe, leaning over to rub a salve onto his shallowly cut lip. “You should put on more chapstick, Minho. Where’s the one I gave you?” 

Under flash of passing yellow streetlights, you can almost make out a dusting of pink on Minho’s cheeks. “I lost it,” he admits, tilting his head slightly to give you better access to his lip.

Sighing, you settle back onto the carseat. “I can take better care of you when we get there.” Minho’s eyes are wide, looking back from the road to you, “Where?” 

A clench of nervousness holds your gut, but you shrug, “Yours, mine, I don’t care.” 

It’s Minho’s turn to be flustered; he nods quickly.

**

Minho’s apartment is bare, only cluttered with various trophies and medals, a ground table, a tv, and a small couch. You set down his bag, you insisted you carried it and Minho opens a cabinet, retrieving the first aid kit. He settles on the couch, legs crossed tightly underneath him. For some reason, its stupidly endearing. The alcohol on his cut stings and Minho’s eyebrow furrows in pain. “Y’know, you don’t have to be tough around me, Minho.” 

His eyes are blank, “What do you mean?” 

“You barely let yourself feel pain, you’re always glaring at something, and you never open up about anything. You don’t have to be like that around me, Minho.” 

An eyebrow lifts and he tilts his head to the side slightly, “I told you about coach,” he offers. 

You nod slowly, “Yeah, that’s true. I guess, I just like seeing you smile,” you shrug, “that’s all.” 

Suddenly bashful, Minho looks down, biting his lip to repress a smile.

“That’s what I mean!” You exclaim, placing your hands on his cheeks to cradle his face, forcing him to look up at you, your heart in your throat. He groans, an endeared smile finally breaking out, “Quit being so fucking cute and maybe I could think enough to talk properly to you, bub.” 

Burning excitement fills your chest and you pose with a peace sign, “You think I’m cute?” 

An exasperated roll of his eyes is all the answer you need. “Well,” you say, patting his head, “you’re very cute too.” 

This time, his scoff is soft, “I’m a boxer.” 

You press a bandaid over his cut, “Yes, a very adorable boxer who needs to smile more.” He breaks out into laughs, filling you with bubbly warmth, gazing down at you with eyes that are anything but dark and dangerous. It’s warm and tender.  He is.  Sobering up, Minho tilts his head slightly, his eyes traveling down to your lips. 

Anticipation fills your chest and your mind whirls, not knowing what to do so you blurt out, “Oh yeah! Chapstick,” leaning over, you retrieve a tube, “Here.” Minho, however is unfazed by your awkwardness and cocks an eyebrow, suddenly confident, nodding to the chapstick, “Put it on for me.” 

Its your turn to blush, but you do still, not realizing that this isn’t clear chapstick. Its only when you pull away do you realize his lips are painted a pretty shade of pink. Clapping in joy you shove your phone camera in his face. “You’re so pretty!”  

Stuttering in surprise, his eyes bug out but he doesn’t make any move to wipe it off, “The fuck?” 

“So pretty!” You exclaim, holding his face to put more on, laughing at his shocked expression.  Minho pulls back, tumbling you with him until you’re staring down and all your laughter has been swallowed. Silently, his hand travels up to the back of your head, gently pulling you towards his freshly moisturized lips. Smiling because of nerves, you don’t need his hand to guide you.

His lips are surprisingly soft but perfectly sticky with your pink chapstick. Almost timidly, his tongue caresses your bottom lip and you whimper as he eases your lips apart. Saliva gathers at the corners of your mouth and your arm cramps from holding yourself up over him but he’s so gentle and careful with the kiss you don’t want to stop. Your arm gives out and you press against Minho, snaking your fingers into his slightly sweaty hair. Panting, Minho pulls back as he gazes up at you, his eyes wide and sparkling. “I don’t want to go too fast, Y/n,” he whispers, thumb gently caressing your cheekbone.

Brazen with unfound confidence, you pout at him, “No. Be mine now.” Minho smirks, laughing softly as his eyes crinkle up, “Okay, okay,” he reassures you, pulling you down to lay on his chest, “I’ll be yours.”

**

“Don’t you dare do that, Y/n. I’ll sue you,” Minho threatens, eyes wide but voice joking.

Giggling, you ignore him, continuing to create a new dessert of your own design called the ‘Minho Mochi��. It’s a soft peach mochi covered with waffle cone. “No, I take inspiration from you and plus,” you mention, “you said yourself that the juxtaposition of the soft sweet mochi and the shell of the waffle cone was good.” 

“Yeah,” he groans, plucking a mochi ball from the counter and popping into his mouth, “but that was before you decided to use my name for it, bub.” 

Reaching up to clean the potato starch residue on his lip you correct, “I made the mochi with you in mind first, not the other way around.” Minho mumbles half heartedly, turning away to smile but you tug his arm. He’s blushing and grinning softly; your heart clenches in adoration. 

“I can make you one for every match you have, would that make you feel better?” 

Minho laughs, bringing your potato starch and rice flour covered hand to nuzzle his cheek, “Fine, I guess this is what I get for having girlfriend that owns a purple bakery.” 

“Hey!” You deny, pulling back, “This is lavender, not just purple.” 

“Yes, yes,” he agrees quickly, tugging you into him. “I’m covered in flour,” you protest into his chest, his deep musk a relieving break from the sweet scent of mochi. You feel him press kisses to the top of your head as his arms tighten around you so you relax into him, circling his waist with your arms.

**

“You should really decorate this place, Min,” you comment, gesturing at his bare apartment. You’re comfortably draped across his shoulders from the couch as he sits on the floor. He looks back from the TV, eyes wide and a puppy-like pout graces his now well moisturized lips, “What do you mean? I have my trophies as decoration.” 

Groaning you protest, “No, those are trophies. You need proper deco here, it’s just sad.” 

A familiar, flirty smile spreads across his face and he winks at you, “You’re prettier than any other decorations I can get.” 

Though you feel your face burning, you roll your eyes at him, trying to suppress the smile bubbling in your chest. He gets up to sit next to you on the couch. Still smiling, he pats his lap, making your stomach jump in excitement. Settling down on his thighs, you play with the collar of his shirt, avoiding his stare. He ducks his head, forcing you to look at him. “Why you shy, bub?” 

“I really love you, Min.” 

His eyes are soft and you don’t expect him to say it back. You’re just content that he knows. 

“I love you too, bub.”

**

You’re at Minho’s apartment basically every day for the past year and today’s no different. The soft beating of his heart resounds in your ear while the other listens to the calming voice of the audio book you guys are working through. The plot follows a personified kitten who tries to find her place in the world that is too cruel for her. Despite the objectively morbid theme, this part of the story is hopeful—the kitten has found friends and feels at home. 

When the narrator concludes the end of the chapter, Minho reaches over to turn the recording off. You take the opportunity to crane your neck up and plant a kiss on his lips. He smiles softly, grabbing your waist so that you’re straddling his hips. One hand travels up to gently tug on your chin, deepening the kiss. His tongue is hot and lavishes against yours, a juxtaposition between his hand, methodically stroking your hair. Your fingers dance across his face, stroking his cheekbones, tracing his jawline and neck. 

Soon, your fingers are replaced by your mouth and Minho’s Adam’s apple bobs with the groan he lets out. The fire in your chest and the beginning aching in your core has you tugging at the hem of his soft black tee shirt. His breath is shaky on your cheek as you pull the shirt over his head, softly dropping it next to the bed. Sitting back on his hips, you gaze down at his bare chest, wonder and admiration filling your heart as your hands travel across his toned torso. The lightest breeze of pink blush blows across his cheeks so you lean down to reattach your open mouth to his. The whirling in your mind rids your thoughts of everything except how he feels under you. His wet lips against yours, rising of his chest against yours, his hips pressing against yours. 

So his tense voice catches you off guard, “Y/n, are you sure?” He’s pulled back and his eyebrows are furrowed softly, his pretty lips red and swollen but glossy with your spit. 

Your gaze drops, hands fumbling to play with his hair. “I want to but if you wanna still take it slow, I’m fine wit—” 

“I want you too, Y/n,” he whispers. Hungrily, he pulls off your shirt, sitting up to cradle you in his arms as he nuzzles your breasts, pressing hot kisses against your skin. Sighing contently, you unclip your bra and try not to blush at the dumb, awestruck look on Minho’s face. His rough hands come up to gently fondle them and you press kisses to his forehead and cheeks.

“You’re beautiful, Y/n,” he breathes, his hands firm against your bare waist as he gingerly turns you over so your back is pressed against the cool sheets. “We can take it slow.” Nervousness tightens your stomach and you’re sure he can feel the thrumming of your pulse as he slowly drags down your pants, maintaining eye contact. An endearing toothy smile spreads across his face and he hides it by kissing your tummy, trailing down to your pantie covered core. “Tell me if you’re uncomfortable or wanna stop, okay?”

You smile softly, “Okay, you too.” Minho nods, reaching up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. “I’m gonna make you feel so good, Y/n,” he murmurs, reaching to tug off your underwear. Being completely bare underneath someone would make anyone ashamed or uncomfortable and your face burns as his glossy eyes take your most vulnerable state in. His lips are parted slightly and the soft glow of the lamp casts shadows of his eyelashes onto his red cheeks. A harsh swallow has his Adam’s apple bobbing. “God, you’re dripping, Y/n” He whispers, eyes shining, “Are you ready?”

“I’m ready, Minho,” you confirm. He slides his finger into your hot, aching core, his lip caught in his teeth as he watches his digit being sucked in. Slowly, Minho pushes his finger deeper into you, gaze dancing from your face to your core.

“M-more please,” you whimper, consumed by the unfamiliar feeling of your velvety walls around something. When he adds another finger deep inside you, you gasp, a hand traveling down to clutch his free one. His thumb strokes the back of your hand as his other continues, scissoring into you as wet sounds fill his bedroom. When his fingers curl up, hot white pleasure shoots through you and Minho smiles proudly, working at that spot.

“H-holy fuck,” you moan, head rolling from shoulder to shoulder at the unfamiliar pleasure. 

“I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you curse, bub,” Minho muses, releasing your hand to push himself up the bed so that your faces are close together.

“I-its because of you, Minho.” 

That triggers something in him and his eyes turn dark, but rather than scaring you, it makes the coil in the pit of your stomach tighten. When Minho removes his fingers from you, it unwinds slowly but clenches at the sight of his now solid length being pulled out of his sweats. His eyelashes flutter closed on his cheeks as he strokes himself with his fingers, still slick from your juices as he retrieves a condom from the bedstand and rolls it on, hissing at the friction. “Are you ready, Y/n?” He pants softly, eyes hooded as he stares down at you, hand still moving up and down his red glistening cock in a way that has your pussy throbbing and mouth salivating. You respond by hooking your legs around his hips, smiling as he leans down to kiss your lips softly. His tip pokes at your hot core and you sling your arms around his shoulders.

Minho’s eyes are piercing as he gazes darkly at you, searching for the slightest trace of hesitance on your part. Painstakingly slowly, he slides into you. Maybe the foreplay did help to prepare you, but the stretch has tears pooling at the corners of your eyes and he’s not even all the way in you. Shakily, Minho exhales, eyebrows furrowing as he tries to hold back from pistoning into you. His lips press into the tears forming and spilling over at your eyes and he nuzzles your cheek with his nose softly, staying still until you reassure him, “Okay, you can keep going.” 

His teeth and tongue travel over your neck as he fully enters you, but his soft hiss has you unintentionally tightening around him. “Ah, Y/n don’t,” he groans, lifting his head from looking at the place you two are connected at to to smile at you. “Can I start?” 

You nod, hooking your ankles around his hips, “Yeah, just go slow for now.” Minho starts thrusting deep into you, angling his hips and going slow enough to feel the drag of your soaking walls rub against his throbbing cock. “You feel so good,” he moans, reaching to hold your hand as his hips continue to rock against you.

“I-I feel so full,” you whisper, squeezing his hand and he smiles softly at you, eyes crinkling up. “C-can you go faster?” 

His tongue pokes out to wet his lips and he snaps his hips into yours, groaning. The lustful and loving sounds of skin slapping resounds in the room, mixing with both of your moans to create a beautiful sound you tuck away in your mind. Minho pulls out till the tip before slamming into you, sweat forming at his forehead. With his free hand, Minho reaches down to rub your clit in tempo with his powerful thrusts. Moaning loudly, you whimper, “P-please, Min I-I think I’m gonna,” your words get swallowed by another moan when Minho’s hips increase their pace, his stamina through the roof.

“Me too, Y/n,” he pants, “Cum for me.” 

The hot coil tightens and you squeeze your eyes shut, overwhelmed at the sensation until white, electric pleasure crashes through you and you release around Minho’s length. He moans loudly, quickly chasing his high. His face twists in pleasure as he reaches his high and your fuzzy brain is left awestruck at his beauty. Minho collapses next to you, removing the condom, chest heaving in deep pants as he stares into your eyes, smiling like an idiot.

“How was that, Y/n?” He asks, arms circling your shoulder, pulling you close. 

You giggle into his chest, fingers tracing imaginary doodles, “That was fucking crazy, Min.” 

Minho’s chest bubbles with laughter and he boops your nose, scrunching his own nose up, “That’s great cause I was kinda worried about giving you a bad experience and all.” 

Looking up and tapping your chin with a finger in mock thinking you smile, “I loved it, but I want you to call me cute names, Min.” 

“I call you bub. But you mean like princess? Babygirl?” he says, an eyebrow raised. 

You roll your eyes, “Bub is not a cute name but yes, the others are okay.” “Okay,” Minho laughs, gently rubbing his nose against yours, “You’re my princess, you’re my babygirl, and you’re always my bub.”

Minho shuffles in the sheets, turning to face you, an excited smile on his face, “Just move in with me. You’re already here more than your own place and it’s unsafe there.” Still after loving him for so long, your stomach churns with nervousness, but you laugh softly, scooting closer so that you can bury your nose into his bare chest to breathe his scent in deeply. “This apartment building is safer than mine?” His arms find their way around you and he hold you close, his chest rumbling against your face with every word, “It’s safer because I’m here.” Laughing you pull back, supporting your weight with one arm as you gaze down at him. He lifts an eyebrow, stretching his arms towards you and you can’t help but collapse into them. “Okay, I’ll move in with you.”

A shining smile breaks out across Minho’s face and he nuzzles his nose into your hair softly, gently stroking your bare back.

[the-archpriest-and-the-outcast]

Horizons

Scorching sands are never fun to walk through. Especially under the brutal sun of a distant world that only knew heat and chill in their extremes, where there would be only the sun for a few days and only the stars for others. 

And yet, one such wanderer endured. He marched endlessly under the sun's heat, the wetness on his skin from the lifeblood of others having long since dried. Taking time to try and scrub off what remained on the sands would be a useless endeavor, costing him precious time and energy. He knew his endurance was far beyond those he travelled with, but even he had his limits, and he could feel it. Exhaustion was starting to drag at him. He had stopped running a few hours ago.  At the very least, he told himself, the sun was beginning to set. It was not as brutal out here as it was when he first headed off to finish off the failed mutineers. Hopefully he would return to everyone come Coldfall, or perhaps before then.  His legs were numb, machine like as they marched through the sands. Occasionally an annoyed scorpion or sand crab would pinch at him, but he hardly had a care. He just had to continue walking. He just... ... looked up into a sky full of nightmares, seeing swirling vorticies with screaming faces and grasping claws, with a chorus of voices yelling at him and begging him for salvation, to save them, to...

... kept walking. The sands were hot. The day was long. At least it gave him time to think. Time to contemplate what he had been taught thus far. This was a time of trials, after all. A time for him to prove himself worthy before the Powers themselves. The initial task was completed without much issue. A few of the wounds he had sustained from a few lucky blows had already begun healing over at this point. They didn't bother him, but they did add to this exhaustion he felt. 

The desert sands seemed endless. Nothing but dunes, which was occasionally broken up by dried earth. Shrubs, somehow able to sustain themselves despite the horrid conditions, also marked the land. Perhaps, if he was lucky, he could see the winding trail of a sandwyrm wriggling through the dunes, or watch a lizard or two run across the sands. Once or twice he did stop to catch one. He needed to eat something, after all. It was not favorable food, but it was enough to help him keep walking.  He had stopped only once, when the deed was done, to rest. He knew he had to hurry. He did not want the others to think him injured, or perhaps even dead. He was a symbol to so many of them, a symbol representing hope, endurance, perhaps even mercy, and... ... a symbol of faith, a symbol used to kill unbelievers, a symbol whose name was whispered and murmured countless times by countless souls on countless worlds across the galaxy itself... ... he couldn't let them down. They were good people, even if his own master wanted to try and convince him otherwise.  One in particular had become almost like a second mentor for him. He remembered his advice and teachings well, taking them to heart. He tempered the lessons with his master with the teachings of a slave. A good balance, he told himself. Occasionally he would pick up things from the others too, be it their languages, their heritages, their demeanors and vices, their... ... possessions, their lives, their souls, all to benefit one above him, always being subservient, always obedient and searching for his next master to serve, never fighting for himself, letting other people do what they will with him... ... cultures. Through them, he began to learn much about the people beyond the tribe he was first found within, to learn what others were like on this barren world. After all, did the prophets not do the same?  That thought was one to give him pause. He heard others calling him a new Prophet, a sign of the Powers. Did he think himself to be one? Could that explain his extraordinary nature? No. He was not like the Prophets. He was simply born, or perhaps made, differently. For what purpose, he could not tell. Not yet, anyway. He had a feeling everything would be made apparent one day. Would it be in the same manner of revelation as other Prophets and preachers? He could not tell. He did not know if he hoped it would be so. Perhaps he would only need to inspire others, as he was already doing among the congregation he was part of.  A soft wind blew over him, causing some of the dried blood to flake from his sun-darkened skin. He heard others liken it to gold. He found that to be interesting. They thought gold was a precious substance, one denoting wealth. A few of the slaves had hidden small golden trinkets, like rings or necklaces. Fear that others would take their precious items was common. He knew gold had a significance, but... why? Why gold in particular? Is that just something innate to humanity? That desire to have something shiny and golden?  Always asking questions. His master had little patience for them. He still did not understand why. But he accepted his judgement, for his judgement was the Will of the Powers, and... ... he should have defied him, he should have led the mutiny, he should have gotten rid of him ages ago, the fact that the spiteful worm yet lives was yet another mark against him, another reminder of his failures... ... the Powers were to be obeyed.  Twilight began to fall. The sun was setting, now. That interested him, too. He swore it was wake-main of Post-noon not that long ago, and yet, here it was. Duskeve already. The unforgiving heat was beginning to finally lessen, and soon it would give way into unforgiving cold. Finally, at the edge of the horizon, he could spy it. The silhouette of the caravan he was travelling with. The hopeful souls within, awaiting his return to them. The... ... place where we would be given his proper title, one that would give him his superiority over his master, one that he would carry until his dying day, the... ... Bearer of the Word awaited him. So, he marched ever onward, met halfway by some of the souls of the congregation, and he reached for the ladders... ... but never grasped them. All sensation fled from him. He could feel his own body changing, as the winds shifted and a whisp of cold air hit his face. No longer was he a youth, climbing the ladders to a temple-rig, but a being transformed by the gods themselves. He was bigger. Stronger. His tattoos, what they meant and said, forever changed and changing. Even his eyes, the very ones that had shocked so many when they looked into him, had changed.  He was different now.  The child walking the sands and the man staring into the mirrored glass before him were so different, they could be considered their own people. It was... humbling, to remember who he once was. That he, like the untold millions who inhabited the world that acted as a new home, was once an ignorant and bumbling child. Oh, how much could have been changed, if only he had known.  But he did not. What had happened had happened. He was no longer on his homeworld, now nothing more than a scorched rock, inhospitable to life, wandering the sands with an ousted preacher and band of zealots. He was where he was meant to be, now. He was who he was meant to be. The preacher. The Archpriest. The Urizen. The Bearer of the Word.  Aurelian.

[ghostsofruefell]

Residents of Ruefell

(species explanations at the bottom)

S-736, otherwise known as Seven: A 33 year old bull Zhivat. Like all bulls, he was born in the country Rakea and, like all bulls, he was a slave and a soldier. His escape was not an easy one. Now he lives in Ruefell and makes a living doing all kinds of physical labor for the town. He’s unfriendly and tends to have a short temper, but he’s left the violence of his past actions behind. In his own way.

Seven is 6′8 and very physically strong, as shown by his big, well-developed muscles. His skin is light and both his body and face are scarred. His hair is black, cut into a lazy mohawk. His eyes are deep purple. Denoting his Zhivat nature, Seven has short claws instead of nails, his ears are pointed, and he has big ivory, L-shaped bull horns protuding from the sides of his head. He has a German-esque accent.

Brooklyn “Bookie” Jones: You’re welcome to call him Brooklyn or Bookie, but Brook is reserved for his brother. He works closely with you as his shop, The Carrier Pigeon, deals in the shady business of magical imports. In other words he’s your mysterious and sardonic supplier of magic ingredients, witty advice, a lazy, smug smiles. He’s definitely hiding something. Probably many things.

Brooklyn is 6′0 with a lean body and dark tan skin, with a patch of facial hair on his chin. His eyes are light green and his hair is rather short and such a dark brown it almost looks black. A long scar cuts into his eyebrow and down his eye to his cheek. He’s always seen with thin-framed, dark shades, a plain dark, long-sleeved shirt, dark jeans, and combat boots. A small cross dangles from his earlobe and his fingers are decorated with several blocky rings.

Theo “Teddy” Jones: Do not call him Theo. Teddy is Brooklyn’s quiet and grumpy twin brother. Despite being the older twin, Teddy is often being taken care of by Bookie, evidenced by the fact he moves in with his brother to continue his recovery from opium addiction after 6 months of being clean. He’s gloomy and prefers to stick to the shadows, but perhaps you’ll be able to get close to him somehow?

Just like Bookie, Teddy is 6′0 with dark tan skin and a lean body, but is slightly underweight as he continues trying to put on the weight he lost to drugs. His eyes are light green and his hair is very dark brown, almost black, and wavy, reaching his shoulders. Like Bookie, he also wear multiple rings on his fingers. He wears a sleeveless shirt, dark jeans, and knee-high boots. He’s never seen without his hooded cloak on.

Key Rosevein Lavella: A 26 year old holy knight, the personal knight of the heir to Fair Gloria. Agender, like every Fair Glorian citizen is raised as. They blind themself outside of their country, as is tradition for Fair Glorian royalty and knights, but that has no hindrance on their skilled, graceful swordplay. They are rather charming, kind, and very level-headed but they seem to have a side that enjoys teasing you. Perhaps the most loyal person you’ll meet... if you play your cards right.

Key is 6′2 and physically masculine, with a swimmer’s build and pale skin. Their hair is short and a light almond color. Their eyes are constantly covered by a shiny, metal plate bordered by vine engravings. They wear armor bearing their country’s lyrebird crest.

Voca: A former guardian angel. They retired several years ago and are now allowed to live peacefully among mortals for their service to the heavens. They’re a laidback person, someone who smiles easily and is always there with encouragement and support. They enjoy visiting your shop, even if they don’t buy anything. Perhaps as an angel the strong magical energy is soothing to them.

Voca is 5′8, thin, and androgynous, ageless but appearing to be in their 20s or 30s. Their skin looks almost golden, their eyes are engulfed in black. Their hair is a pastel rainbow and cut into a fluffy, floaty mohawk. Two spotless, white wings sprout from their back. Their halos are pastel colored and used like glowing accessories, one around their throat and 4 more on their upper arms, two per bicep. They often sport flowy, loose clothing, always without sleeves.

Reiya Hallegard: The 22 year old daughter of the wealthiest family in town. She’s a bit sheltered, a bit shy, a bit awkward, a total bookworm. She prefers to spend her time in the library than with her family and is very interested in studying magic books, despite her connection to magic still being weak. She admires the MC for their strong magical connections. But there... seems to be something off about her family.

Reiya is 5′4 with a slender body and light, freckled skin. Her eyes are hazel and her very long, deep blue hair is kept in double buns. She wears round, thin-framed glasses, a blouse and skirt with tights and a waistcoat corset.

Melanie “Mel” Gorden: A 25 year old Intravenus. She and her father are more or less the town’s builders. Her father actually helped in the construction of your grandfather’s shop and she has since been the one to maintain it all these years  until you could finally come and claim it as your own. She’s a very smart and tough, but friendly and easygoing, girl. She likes trying to invent things and aspires to one day be a true engineer and take over her father’s business to run her own way.

Mel is 5′9 with a strong, toned body and violet skin. Her white hair is long and curly and kept loose in her free time, kept in a ponytail or bun when working. Two small horns poke out of her forehead. Her eyes have blue irises and black scleras. She is almost always seen wearing a tank-top, baggy pants, boots and gloves, only occasionally with a hooded, buttoned sweater.

MC: Fully customizable. You come from a long line of witches and at 25 years old you inherited the magic shop your late grandfather ran in Ruefell once upon a time. And, perhaps because of your generational magical ability, you seem to be chosen by a spirit as the only one who can help him... uh... do something? Well, you haven’t figured out what he wants, but it’s only a matter time... right?

Species information

Zhivat: Zhivat are basically animal people. Though their skin is smooth and their bodies human in shape, they’re marked by animal features, ranging from horns to ears and tails, claws, fangs, wings, and more. Though each subspecies of Zhivat have a connection to a real animal (cats, bulls, rabbits, for example) don’t confuse them as the same. Some Zhivat don’t even share the exact same features as their mirror animal. (Seven, for example, only has horns and his other animalistic features aren’t connected to bulls at all.) Zhivat are believed to have come long after humans and other races, though how they evolved and just how old their species actually is is unknown. It doesn’t matter to most, as Zhivat are generally deemed as lower than humans. Some countries like Rakea full on enslave entire subspecies of Zhivat, while others are free and Zhivat can even find very accepting people, but free doesn’t always mean equal. (The MC can be a Zhivat, if chosen.)

Intravenus: Their real name is lost to history, but they were called that because it sounds similar to intravenous, due in part to their so called “love drug”. They’re known as real-life succubi and incubi but others may call them the black widows of polite society instead. They’re known by their rainbow skin (a variety of colors, never human-looking), and horns, as well as other features that mark them as inhuman unique to individuals, and for being very attractive. This is because, while their looks are nothing to scoff at, they continually release hormones that cause them to be quite literally very attractive to others not of their kind (though, it doesn’t work if their gender doesn’t match the preference of whoever is near). However, their skin can also secrete a poison that can paralyze and then kill in seconds. For a long time this was not something they could control, making them deadly to everyone outside their race. However, since integrating into society a long, long time ago, they’ve evolved to be able to only secrete their poison as self-defense. Luckily, it’s not needed often and the love drug is a rare way to die. (The MC does not have the choice to be Intravenus)

[rohad93]

Magic & Monster Ch5

Ruby picked through the herbalists stall for the right herbs and grasses needed to brew golden oriole potion and draconid oil. Both would be essential in this fight.

She picked up a handful or ergot seeds and put them on the bundle the herbalist was currently putting together for her.

“That will be all, thank you.” She took the bundle and handed the crooked over old man and handed him back two ducats.

“I think that’s everything I need.” She mumbled to herself as she stashed the bundle in Zwei’s side bags and climbed into the saddle.

She nodded to the merchant before spurring Zwei on back toward the castle. He tossed his head and snorted.

It promised to be another beautiful summer day. The sky was bright, clear and devoid of clouds. A gentle breeze was moving over the fields, tossing at Zwei’s mane and blowing her own black and red locks into her face.

The bright and warm sunlight was filtering through the trees growing along the side of the road, their broad leaves allowing only a few beams to breach the shade. The occasional beam hit her face as she rode at an easy trot down the dirt path.

The trees ended a few hundred yards from the castle, leaving her more exposed to the late morning sun. The heat felt good on her back, for now. Within a couple more hours the sun would reach its zenith and the constant heat and light would be unbearable.

For now she soaked up all the warming sunlight she could considering that after sunset she would be descending once again into the catacombs beneath the castle to find and slay the basilisk.

She gave the guards on the ramparts a lazy wave as she rode through the large open gates and through the courtyard to the stables.

A few stable hands were milling about taking care of all the other horses in residence. Ruby nodded and waved at them, most of which returned her greetings happily, save one. An elven servant with slicked back red hair, a white bandana wrapped around his forehead, hanging low and almost covering his eyes.

She waved at him and he ignored her, hauling a square bale of hay out of the stables and out into the field where the horses were currently being allowed to stretch their legs.

She just shrugged, she was long used to the sometimes standoff nature of elves, despite the fact that she was a Witcher (Vatt’ghern in the elder language used by elves) and often considered a race unto themselves, to elves she was D’hoine, a human. An interloper just like her ancestors who had been stranded in this world by the conjunction of the spheres several millennia ago.

She hauled herself off Zwei and gathered all her things from his saddle bags after hanging the saddle up.

She had a lot of work to do before nightfall.

A servant showed her to the castle lab and she quickly got to work grinding the seeds and other ingredients for the draconid oil while the potions were brewed over the course of a few hours. Once the oil was ready she poured it into a small vial. She wouldn’t apply that until after she was down there.

She watched the distillery slowly brew her potions one drip at a time as she sharpened her sword. She was trying to focus on the hunt ahead of her but all she could think about was snowy-haired Sorceress.

She hadn’t seen Weiss since she’d left her room the night before. She’d taken her breakfast in the kitchen with the staff, it was more relaxed than having breakfast with Oobleck and Weiss. Not to mention she was still a little embarrassed that Weiss had heard her thoughts about wanting to run her fingers through her hair. Just thinking about it made her stomach flip uneasily.

After some thought she realized that yeah, she kind of liked Weiss. She was smart and quick-witted, if a little cold. Some people were just like that, not everyone could make an entire inn worth of strangers into their best friends like her sister.

She was also very beautiful, though that went without saying.

Really, she was surprised the Sorceress hadn’t told her off. Weiss didn’t seem the type to shy away from confrontation. Maybe she was just trying to spare them both some embarrassment?

She sighed and looked at the slowly distilling potions, she had a couple hours and her sword wasn’t going to get any sharper. She did need to find Weiss and tell her that she was going down alone this time. No doubt the Sorceress would be displeased by that.

She stood from the workbench and slid the sword back into its sheath across her back before going in search of Weiss.

A servant was able to point her in the direction of the library after a half hour of searching. The walk to the library was quiet and leisurely. Until she turned a corner and ran smack dab into a familiar face.

“I’m very sorry, please forgive me.” It was the golden eye’d servant from last night. She begged for forgiveness.

“No, it’s my fault.” Ruby waved away her plea as she stooped down to start picking up the linens the other woman had been carrying.

Ruby was quick to scoop them up before the servant had a chance and handed them back.

“Here, I wasn’t looking where I was going, forgive me…” She paused.

“Oh… Blake.” She finally said. “My name is Blake.”

“Please accept my apology, Blake.” She held out the linens. Blake hesitated a moment before taking the laundry back and nodded.

Ruby smiled and gave a nod before continuing on her way to the library.

She quietly pushed open the door and peeking inside.

Shelf after shelf of large leather bound tomes filled the room as far as the eye could see. Massive floor to ceiling windows dotted every wall of the room, allowing as much light as possible to fill the room.

She walked silently through the rows of books, running her gloved fingers over their spines as she went. The scent of old parchment and ink tickled her nose.

Books covering every subject from magic to shoemaking could be found. She stopped and glanced at a book about fairy tales. And couldn’t stop herself from pulling it from its place on the shelf. The weighty tome was thick and bound in deep red leather with shiny gold embossing.

“ Fairy Tales from the Beyond.”

She might have some time to read this either after the job or in the morning. Either way she tucked it under her arm to deposit in her room for later.

She continued stalking through the books until her prey was found.

Weiss was leaned back in a plush chair, with a heavy tome settled across her lap. She seemed completely engrossed in it as Ruby walked very clearly across the middle of the room, though she made no sound, a byproduct of her training. It couldn’t be helped.

Of course where her movements never betrayed her, her curiosity always did in the end.

“Whatcha reading?”

Weiss nearly jumped out of her own skin at the sudden voice. She scowled, turning toward the intruder.

Her eyes landed on Ruby standing beside her chair.

“We are under constant threat of assassination.” She whispered harshly. “Must you sneak around like that.” She grumbled.

“I don’t think you would have heard me if I had slammed the door open and knocked over every shelf on the way.” She smiled at how engrossed she was in the book on her lap. “What’s so interesting?” She tried again.

“Nothing of interest to you, I’m sure.” She started to turn the book away but Ruby was faster and leaned over to read the title.

“A compendium of Witcher facts and practices?” There was a surprised lilt to her voice that colored Weiss’s normally pale cheeks.

“I was curious about the extent of your abilities.” She explained. “The book seems to have more speculation than facts.” the sorceress groussed, making Ruby chuckle.

“Witcher’s aren't really the talkative types...” She started but Weiss was giving her a disbelieving look. “Most, aren’t.” She amended, setting her book on the table. “Also, if you wanted to know something all you had to do was ask.” She sat in the chair next to Weiss and gave her a questioning look.

Weiss carefully closed her book and set it on the table before folding her hands over her carefully crossed legs.

“Very well….” She started. Looking at the Witcher thoughtfully. “You’ve said before that most poisons don’t bother you. Is that the extent of your enhanced immune system?” She questioned.

“I’m immune to all sickness and diseases. The mutations they give us change our entire body chemistry. It of course does other stuff too, like make us sterile, but ya know…” She lifted and lowered her hands like a scale.

Looking closely at the Witcher she spotted the wolf head medallion sitting on her chest.

“Your medallion.” Weiss started. “The book said that without it you’re powerless...” She stopped when Ruby snorted.  

Ruby closed her hand around the dark grey metal hanging from her neck.

“That’s an old myth.” Ruby said. “ My medallion has nothing to do with my abilities.”

“Than why have it?” Weiss questioned, curious.

“All Witchers have one. It’s imbued with magic and tells me when magic is nearby, illusions, monsters… It's invaluable, but I can kill a monster just fine without it.” Ruby assured. “Besides, it denotes which school you’re from and I’ve often gotten jobs based on my school's reputation over the years.”

“And which school is that?”

“The school of the Wolf, of course.” She held up the wolf head medallion proudly for Weiss’s inspection. “There are six Witcher schools that I know of, the Wolf and as you mentioned the other day, the Cat.” She explained.

“And the other four?” Weiss’s love of learning kept her asking questions.

“I don’t know much about them but the other four are the Bear, Viper, Griffin and Manticore schools.” She laid the snarling wolf head back on her chest.  

“That sign you used, last night, on the snake. How many of those are there?” The sorceress questioned. Weiss was always interested in learning about different types of magic and how they were employed. Ruby suppressed the smile that threatened to spill onto her face.

It felt like she was back in class at Kaer Morhen, except now she was the teacher.

“There are five basic Witcher signs. Axii, Igni, Aard, Quen and Yrden. Actually most mages I’ve known have always been kinda snooty about it cause it’s really basic compared to what people like you can do.” She admitted. “I know the things you can do are amazing in comparison but there’s no reason to be snotty about it.” Ruby grumbled, crossing her arms and leaning back in the chair.

Weiss rolled her eyes at the Witcher’s whining but couldn’t stop the corners of her mouth from twitching upwards at the pout on her face.

“Considering how stoic and serious I’ve heard Witchers are supposed to be how did you get to be such a… dolt?” She asked with a cocked brow.

“That’s all natural to me.” Ruby smiled in what she hoped was an adequately charming grin. Judging by the way Weiss turned away sharply, rolling her eyes she thought it might have worked.

They sat in companionable silence for a minute, Ruby just enjoying the company and the warm sunlight streaming down on her from the large window they sat under.

The comment of hers of it being natural to her reminded Weiss of something she had been trying to look for in the book.

“How… do the trials of the grasses work?” Weiss questioned, turning back to the pleased Witcher.

Ruby’s face immediately turned more serious, her smile dropping away and the air seemed heavier than it had only a moment before.

“The trials…” She started slowly. “Are what makes us Witchers, like I’ve said before. The trial of grasses is a secret concoction of herbs and things that is given to us through our veins when we have completed the first steps of our training.” She turned away from Weiss, looking out into space.

“It breaks us down from the inside. As children, were more malleable and our bodies more open to change. It breaks us down and then they induce the mutagens that build us back up, into Witchers.” Ruby’s hands fisted into the material of her pants. “It takes days… and as you can imagine just because your body is more open to change does not mean that it comes easily…” She looked back to Weiss. “Sweat, vomit, fever, convulsions and hallucinations, all while strapped to a metal table, but the worst part is the pain… ” She trailed off, her eyes looking far off and Weiss could see the memories flashing there.

“Ruby…” The Witcher didn’t move. “Ruby!” She called again. This time she jerked, coming back to herself.

“Ah, sorry. Weiss.” She apologized looking down.

“No,” Weiss said. “Don’t apologize for something that isn’t your fault.” The Sorceress said, standing up and brushing the imaginary wrinkles out of her dress.

“I’m sorry I got so heavy, there…”

“What did I just say?” The Sorceress scowled, pointing a finger straight at the Witcher, who starred crossed eyed at the digit just an inch from her nose.

“Ah… ok.” She nodded complacently.

“Good,” Weiss said, picking her book off the table and walking over to a shelf with a single empty space and pushing the book back into its place.

“If you’re ready, Oobleck created a list of the servants who have gone missing.” She said, walking back over to the table and picking up a piece of parchment Ruby had taken no notice of until now.

“Oh, right, sure.” She stood and followed Weiss out of the library and across the castle where most of the servants quarters were located.

“This is the first room.” Weiss indicated as they stopped in front of the first door.

The inside looked quite different from Ruby’s room. It was obviously a servants room. It was sparsely decorated, the walls were not the only thing bare though. There was a small pallet pushed up against the wall in one corner. The blankets thrown back probably from the last time the rooms occupant had been in them. A short bedside table stood next to it, a single candle sat tipped over on it.

A threadbare rug laying on the cold stone floor was torn and dirty. It was impossible to tell what was the cause of a struggle and what was just in disrepair. Ruby and Weiss both went over the room with a fine tooth comb but came back with nothing except the fact that the scattered bedding seemed to indicate that its owner had been dragged from it. Not much to go on.

Weiss lead the way to the next room and it was nearly identical to the last.

Searching through the bedding Ruby did find one distinct difference.

Strewn about the pillow was a fine white powder.

Pulling off her glove Ruby ran a hand through it and rubbed her fingers together.

“What is this?” She mumbled to herself.

“Let me see.” Weiss was suddenly at her side, peering at the mysterious substance. Before Ruby could stop her she had scooped a miniscule amount onto her finger a testingly touched it to her tongue.

“What the hell are you...!?” Ruby started, shocked that the sensible Sorceress would just taste something she found in a stranger's bed.

“As I thought. It’s fisstech.” She said after making a face.

“The narcotic?” Ruby blinked. Weiss sent her a look that made her flinch.

“No, like the cat. Of course the narcotic.” She huffed. “There’s nothing unusual about a servant with a fisstech habit though.”

“It’s the only interesting thing we’ve found so far though.” Ruby. “How do you know what fisstech tastes like?” She asked as an afterthought as they left the room.

“I’ve used it in mixes for elixirs before.” She insisted.

“Uhuh,..” Ruby grinned at the pointed look Weiss gave her.

The next few rooms were just as empty as the first two but in nearly all of them they found traces of fisstech in the beds.

“One or two servants is one thing, but all of the victims? That can’t be a coincidence.” Weiss pursed her lips in thought.

“I don’t see the connection.” Ruby frowned.

“Fisstech is often used as an anesthesia, to render patients docile or unconscious.” She hummed.

“So… maybe it’s being used to drug them in their beds so it’s easier to get them down to the catacombs, where the basilisk is waiting for an easy meal…” Ruby picked up on the Sorceress’s train of thought.

“It’s an idea.” Weiss nodded.

“The best one we have so far.” Ruby agreed as she glanced out the window. The sky was turning a vibrant orange. It was almost time.

“I need to go back to the lab and get my potions. It’s time for me to go back down.” She turned back to Weiss who glanced out the window with a nod.

“Let me go change.” She started.

“Actually…” Ruby hesitated. “I’m going down alone this time.”

Weiss glared but before she could utter a word Ruby held up her hands.

“I appreciate that you want to help, Weiss, but you don’t know how to fight a basilisk, you are just as susceptible to it’s poison as a regular person.” She reminded. “Besides, while I’m sure your spells are powerful they probably aren’t fit for the kind of close quarter combat that will be going on down their.” Ruby reasoned with the glaring Sorceress.

“Fine.” She clipped and turned on heel and strutted down the hall. Ruby watched her go until her white hair disappeared around the corner.

“Well… I guess that could have gone worse…” She sighed, shaking her head.

She walked quickly back to the lab and was pleased to find her potions had finish distilling. She poured them carefully into vials and tucked them into the pouch at her waist as she went over her mental checklist.

She had her oil, potions and her sword was sharp and ready.

‘Let’s do this.’ She thought as she walked down the stairs leading to the dungeon.

The usual guard was standing there, keeping watch over the entrance to the catacombs. What surprised Ruby was to find Weiss standing there as well.

“Weiss…” The Witcher started just to be cut off.

“I will wait here for your return, Witcher.” She said haughtily. Perhaps for the guards benefit, or perhaps because she was still mad at her, probably both. Ruby nodded nonetheless and pulled the small bottle of Golden Oriole potion from her pouch and pulled out the cork.

It was an unpleasant yellow color.

“That doesn’t look at all safe to drink…” Weiss eyed the bottle warily.

“For you? Absolutely not. For me? Ehh….” She wiggled her hand in a so-so motion that made Weiss’s eyebrows disappear into her hairline as she tipped her head back and drank the whole bottles worth.

“Blegh!” She made a disgusted face after swallowing the last drop. “Never will get used to that…” She smacked her lips as she pulled out the next bottle and downed it all as well to Weiss’s silent horror. The cat potion quickly took effect, enhancing her eyesight.

“Alright. I’m ready.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve.

The guard nodded and unlocked the old door.

She started down the steps and just before the door closed behind her she was able to make out a voice, barely audible even to her hearing.

“Be careful.”