#She is so fine your honour and that's not a crime

[estellan0vella]

Never Felt Safer: B.C & H.J Bang Chan x fem!reader x Han Jisung (College AU)

WC: 17.4K

CW: Anxiety, panic attacks, pre-established relationship between Chan and Jisung, implied sex, mxm scenes, Minlix in the background, simp Chansung, pining Chansung, twin!Felix, protective!Felix, Comforting!Minho

The Alpha Phi living room smells like a mix of old pizza, faint cologne, and someone's leftover gym socks, probably Changbin's, based on the guilty glance he shoots toward the corner of the couch. Felix lounges at the centre of the chaos, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle on the coffee table, holding a Red Bull like it’s his life force.

“Alright, listen up, dickheads zero through five,” Felix announces, voice cutting through the buzz of chatter like a knife.

Minho, seated next to him with his arms casually sprawled across the back of the couch, raises an eyebrow. “Not me, though, right?”

Felix tilts his head toward Minho with a smirk. “Not you, Min. You’re an evil angel, and I love having you here.”

Minho grins, sharp and smug, clearly revelling in the attention. Jisung immediately leans forward from his perch on the floor, waving a hand. “What number am I?”

“Two,” Felix says without hesitation, pointing at him with the Red Bull. “Chan’s number one.”

Jisung’s face splits into a shit-eating grin, and he wiggles his eyebrows at Chan, who’s perched in the armchair nearby with his usual relaxed confidence. Without any preamble, Jisung climbs into Chan’s lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world, snuggling against him and fiddling with a fidget cube. Chan chuckles, resting one hand on Jisung’s hip.

“Fine with me,” Jisung mutters, twisting the cube over and over. “I’ll take number two if it means I get first dibs on this guy.”

“Gross,” Seungmin deadpans from the other couch, tossing a pillow in their direction. “We get it, you’re disgustingly in love.”

“Jealous?” Jisung fires back, not missing a beat.

“Hard pass.”

Jeongin, who’s been scrolling on his phone next to Seungmin, pipes up. “So, what’s up? You’re building to something.”

Felix straightens, his expression growing just a little more serious. “My sister’s coming over tomorrow.”

Immediately, a wave of groans rolls through the room, but Felix cuts them off with a sharp glare. “Shut the fuck up and listen, okay? She’s coming over to practice some SFX on me and Minho, and you know how anxious she is. So no scaring her, got it? I’m looking at you, Hyunjin.”

Hyunjin, sprawled dramatically across the other armchair with his long legs dangling over one side, raises both hands in mock surrender. “What the fuck did I do?”

“You almost gave her a stroke last time,” Felix snaps, jabbing a finger in his direction. “Which is why you’re dickhead zero, the eternal source of my disdain, affectionately, of course.”

“I told her she looked pretty!” Hyunjin protests, clearly offended. “How is that a crime?”

“You terrified her with your pretty frat boy bullshit!” Felix throws his hands up. “She has anxiety, you dumbass, and you made her turtle.”

Hyunjin blinks. “Turtle?”

Felix rolls his eyes so hard it’s a wonder they don’t get stuck. “Disappear inside her shell. Like turtles do, idiot.”

Minho, watching the exchange with a small smirk, finally chimes in. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep them reined in.”

Felix blows Minho a kiss, the pink tips of his ears betraying his casual tone. “Thanks, Min.”

The room erupts into groans and exaggerated gagging sounds, but Felix ignores them. He levels the rest of the group with a sharp look. “Best behaviour. You hear me?”

A collective murmur of agreement goes around the room. Changbin nods solemnly. “Got it, chief.”

“Scout’s honour,” Seungmin says, holding up three fingers.

Felix doesn’t even pause before snapping back, “You were never a scout a day in your life. Shut the fuck up.”

Minho chuckles low in his throat, and Felix shoots him a fond glance before continuing. “Minho’s the only one who doesn’t freak her out, so the rest of you better leave her alone. She’s coming here to practice, not to deal with you idiots.”

Jeongin, ever the instigator, smirks. “The only reason Minho doesn’t freak her out is because you and him see her once a week for dinner at her apartment. Brother, sister, and brother’s sort-of-undefined-but-basically-dating boyfriend.”

Felix’s ears turn a brighter shade of pink, and he sputters, “That’s not—”

“It was a process, believe us,” Minho interrupts smoothly, leaning forward to rest his chin on his hand. He gives Jeongin a slow, deliberate wink. “But you’re not wrong.”

“See?” Jeongin shrugs. “I’m just saying.”

The room falls into a comfortable rhythm of teasing and chatter, but two pairs of eyes linger on Felix for just a moment longer than the rest. Chan’s and Jisung’s. Chan’s gaze softens as it shifts, landing on the small space between Felix’s explanation and the mention of his sister.

Jisung catches Chan’s look, his lips quirking up into a knowing smile. It’s the same thought, unspoken but clear between them: tomorrow’s visit isn’t just about SFX practice.

It’s about seeing you.

The Alpha Phi house looms in front of you, just as chaotic and intimidating as always. The faint sounds of bass-heavy music thrum from somewhere inside, even though it’s not even noon.

You take a deep breath and clutch the strap of your makeup case tighter. The last time you knocked on this door without a plan, Hyunjin had answered, and your anxiety had spiralled out of control before you’d even crossed the threshold.

Not this time. Felix and Minho are already outside, leaning casually against the porch railing, waiting for you.

“Finally,” Felix calls out as soon as he spots you approaching. His blonde hair gleams in the sunlight, and he’s already wearing his signature shit-eating grin. “Took you long enough, slowpoke.”

You roll your eyes but can’t stop the small smile that creeps onto your face. “Traffic,” you mutter, hefting your makeup case as you reach the steps.

Minho pushes off the railing, straightening up. His red hair is pushed back today, giving him an air of effortless cool that would probably be irritating if it weren’t for the slight curve of his lips that softens the look. Without a word, he takes the case from your hands like it weighs nothing.

“Thanks,”

“No problem,” Minho says, his voice smooth and calm. He gestures toward the front door with a nod. “We’ve cleared the hallway and stairs for you. Path to Felix’s room is officially fuckboy-free.”

You let out a laugh, your shoulders easing a little. “Good. I don’t think I could survive another Hyunjin ambush.”

Felix snorts, opening the door for you. “Yeah, well, he’s banned from being anywhere near the front of the house when you’re coming over. Lesson learned.”

“Damn right,” you mutter, stepping inside. “So, no flirting this time?”

Minho smirks. “Not unless you’re into compliments like ‘you look like you belong in a museum.’ That’s what got you last time, right?”

You groan. “Please don’t remind me.”

Felix waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry, he’s not even awake yet. I think he stayed up all night painting or something. Total disaster.”

The three of you make your way up the stairs, Minho carrying your case with ease. “So,” he says, glancing back at you, “what are we doing today? Zombies? Scars? Some gory masterpiece to make my mother proud?”

You chuckle nervously. “Uh, SFX injuries, if that’s okay? I need to work on realistic wounds for my portfolio.”

“Wounds it is,” Minho says without missing a beat. He holds the case up slightly. “You brought all your murder tools, I assume?”

“Always,” you say, grinning despite yourself.

You don’t notice Jisung peeking out from the slightly cracked door of his room as you pass, his silver hair messy and his eyes wide with interest. He stays quiet, though, watching as the three of you disappear down the hall toward Felix’s room.

When you step inside, the familiar chaos of Felix’s room greets you. Posters are plastered across the walls in a chaotic patchwork of vibrant colours, and his gaming setup blinks with multicoloured LEDs in the corner. Felix flops into his gaming chair immediately, spinning in a lazy circle as Minho sets your case down gently on the bed.

“Sorry about… all of this,” you say, gesturing vaguely around the room. Your voice comes out softer, more hesitant. “Making the guys stay out of the way and everything.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Minho says, sitting down beside you on the bed. His tone is casual, but there’s a firmness to it that makes you feel a little less guilty. “The guys are a lot, even on a good day. This is nothing.”

Felix hums in agreement, spinning once more in his chair before planting his feet and leaning forward. “Seriously, you don’t have to apologize. They’re all idiots, but they know better than to mess with you. And if they don’t, Min and I will handle it.”

You glance down at your hands, fiddling with the anxiety rings on your fingers. Felix notices, of course, but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he distracts you the only way he knows how by grinning at you like he’s just had the best idea in the world.

“So, murder makeup, huh?” he says. “Think you can make Minho look even hotter with a giant gash across his face?”

“Easily,” you say, a laugh bubbling out of you before you can stop it.

Minho raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was,” you admit, feeling a little less nervous now as you pull out your supplies. “Thanks for, you know being cool about this.”

“Always,” Minho says simply, his tone so genuine that it surprises you.

Felix wheels his gaming chair closer to the bed, the wheels creaking against the hardwood floor. He plants his elbows on the edge of the mattress and leans in, watching you as you sort through your SFX makeup kit.

The little compartments are crammed with pigments, brushes, sponges, and bottles of fake blood in varying shades of grotesque. Minho leans back on the bed next to you, his sharp gaze flicking between your hands and Felix, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Alright, let’s do this,” Felix says, clapping his hands together like he’s rallying a team. His grin is mischievous, practically glowing with chaotic energy. “I wanna scare the shit out of Jisung and Chan, just like when you did that burns look”

Minho snorts, his laughter low and amused. “We should’ve filmed that for you. The way Jisung screamed when he saw you standing there? Priceless.”

Felix tips his head back and cackles. “He looked like he saw a ghost”

You shake your head, but you can’t help the small laugh that escapes. “You’re such a menace,” you mutter, pulling a headband out of your bag and holding it up. “Okay, sit still, Lix.”

Felix obeys and lets you push the headband over his head, sweeping his bleach-blonde hair back from his face. The ends stick out in every direction, and you grimace, running a finger through one crunchy strand.

“You need to put a hair mask in this disaster,” you say, holding up a particularly fried piece. “The bleach is murdering it.”

“I’ve been telling him that for weeks,” Minho says, leaning forward to inspect Felix’s hair critically. His tone is playful, but there’s an undercurrent of concern. “Baby boy, you’re gonna go bald by twenty-five at this rate.”

You gag dramatically at the nickname. “Ew. Minho, please. I’m trying to work here.”

Felix rolls his eyes, brushing both of you off. “Whatever, it’s fine. I’ll deal with it later.”

“Later isn’t good enough,” you say, wagging a brush at him like a weapon. “You’ll be doing comb-overs by the time you graduate if you don’t fix this now.”

Felix groans, but there’s no real bite to it. He stays still as you start applying a base layer of makeup to his face, smoothing out the colour to prep for the fake wounds. The rhythmic motion is soothing, and you quickly fall into a comfortable flow.

Minho grabs his phone and starts scrolling. A moment later, the opening notes of a Little Mix song fill the room. He turns the volume up, the beat bouncing off the walls. “Little Mix is undefeated,” Minho says, reclining again with a self-satisfied smile.

“You’re so right,” you reply, adding a streak of red to Felix’s cheekbone. “They’re perfect for this.”

Felix hums along to the song, swaying slightly as you blend out the faux injury. “I feel like a bad bitch already.”

“You are a bad bitch,” Minho chimes in. “You just happen to have the hair care routine of a gremlin.”

Before Felix can retort, the next song starts. The three of you are nodding along to the beat, when a loud voice from the hallway joins in, belting out the chorus with alarming enthusiasm.

Felix’s head snaps toward the door, his expression shifting to murderous in an instant. “Jisung! Go away!” he yells, his voice cutting through the music. “You know not to come near my room when my sister’s here!”

A loud, theatrical whine echoes back. “But it’s Little Mix! You can’t expect me to not sing along!”

You glance at Felix, stifling a laugh as he throws his hands up in frustration. “I swear to God,” he mutters, leaning back in his chair.

Before he can get up, another voice cuts in, Chan’s, calm and soothing. “Come on, babe. Let’s go play Little Mix in your room, yeah?”

There’s a beat of silence, then the unmistakable sound of Jisung perking up. “Really? You mean it?”

“Yes,” Chan replies, laughter evident in his voice. “Come on. Let’s go.”

The two of them disappear down the hall, but not before you hear the exaggerated sound of Jisung smooching Chan. It’s so loud and obnoxious that it sends Felix spiralling into a fit of cackles.

“They’re so fucking gross,” Felix mutters, wiping a tear from his eye as he settles back into position. “Alright, where were we?”

“Making you look like you got into a bar fight,” you reply, dipping your brush into the next colour. “Now hold still, or I’ll make it worse.”

“Can’t get much worse than it already is,” Minho teases, and Felix flips him off without missing a beat. “I’m gonna order us food. Any objections?”

Your hands pause mid-blend as you work on Felix’s makeup. “Oh, no, it’s fine,” you say quickly, the words spilling out in a rush. “I’m not really hungry.”

Felix scoffs so hard that he nearly dislodges the headband. “She’ll have the least spicy tteokbokki you can find,” he says, completely ignoring your protest. “She can’t handle spice, just like me. We’re not freaks like you, Min, who eat the spiciest shit they can find for fun. Order her food. She’s just being her little anxious self, panicking about you buying her food.”

“Felix!” you whine as you nudge him hard with your elbow. “Stop calling me out!”

Minho snorts, shaking his head as he pulls up the food delivery app on his phone. “He’s not wrong, though. You’re too polite for your own good. Just let me order you something. You can eat later if you’re not hungry right now.”

Felix grins, clearly enjoying your flustered state. “Trust Min. He’s the responsible one here.”

“Debatable,” you mutter, focusing back on the gash you’re painting on Felix’s cheek.

“Rude,” Minho says with mock offence. “I’m only ordering in because I can’t be bothered to cook. Every time I do, it’s like vultures descend on the kitchen. I make one decent meal, and suddenly it’s a free-for-all.”

“That’s because you’re the best cook in this house,” Felix says matter-of-factly. “No one else even comes close. What did you expect?”

“Not to be treated like a five-star restaurant, that’s for sure,” Minho grumbles, scrolling through the menu.

You try again, your voice quieter this time. “Seriously, though, Minho, you don’t have to-”

“Nope,” Minho interrupts, holding up a hand without even looking at you. “Also, no paying me back. End of story.”

“But-”

“Shhhhh.” He cuts you off again, this time with an exaggerated shushing noise, his tone dripping with amusement. “If you keep arguing, we’re settling this on the football field. First one to score a touchdown wins.”

You give him a flat look. “I’d lose in ten seconds.”

“Exactly,” he says with a smug grin, clicking the order confirmation on his phone.

Felix lets out a loud laugh, nearly knocking the makeup sponge out of your hand. “God, he’s so full of himself. I love it.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re impossible, both of you.”

“And you love us for it,” Felix says, winking. “Now hurry up with my face so I can take selfies to scare the shit out of people.”

Minho smirks, leaning back against the headboard as the three of you settle into the easy rhythm of banter and laughter. The lighthearted atmosphere helps ease the tight knot of anxiety in your chest, and for a while, it’s just the three of you, surrounded by the comforting chaos of Felix’s room.

Jisung’s room is a certified disaster zone. Clothes strewn everywhere, half-empty snack bags crumpled on his desk, and a pile of notebooks teetering precariously on the edge of his chair. Despite the chaos, it’s unmistakably Jisung’s space, with posters of indie bands and anime characters covering every inch of the walls.

The air smells faintly of the caramel-scented candle Chan had gifted him a week ago, though it does little to mask the underlying hint of energy drinks.

Jisung sits cross-legged on the bed, bouncing slightly with nervous energy as Sweet Melody blasts from the Bluetooth speaker on the nightstand. He hums along to the chorus, his voice light and airy, but his fingers are picking relentlessly at a loose thread on the corner of the blanket. The thread gets longer with each tug, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care.

Chan, sprawled out on his back next to him, notices. He always notices. His dark eyes flick from Jisung’s hands to his face, taking in the slight furrow of his brow and the way his lips press into a thin line between lyrics.

“I can hear your brain running a million miles a minute,” Chan says finally, his voice soft but laced with curiosity. “What’s up?”

Jisung freezes mid-bounce, the loose thread now wrapped around his finger. He glances at Chan, his silver hair falling into his eyes, and sighs dramatically. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” Chan replies without hesitation, sitting up and leaning on one elbow. “You’ve been picking at that blanket for the last five minutes, and you only do that when something’s eating at you. So, spill.”

Jisung hesitates, chewing on his bottom lip. He tugs at the thread one more time before finally blurting out, “How the fuck are we supposed to get close to her if Felix is glued to her side every second she’s here?”

Chan blinks, caught off guard by the sudden outburst, but he doesn’t interrupt. Jisung continues, words spilling out in a rush. “Like, I get it, he’s her brother, her twin, her emotional support whatever-the-fuck, and I respect that, okay? I do. But how are we supposed to make any progress if he’s constantly playing guard dog? I mean, we want her to be the third in our relationship, but we can’t even fucking talk to her.”

There it is. The frustration, the longing, the anxiety. It all comes tumbling out in a messy, unfiltered stream. Jisung runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up in wild angles, and looks at Chan with wide, pleading eyes. “What do we do, Chan? How do we even start?”

Chan leans back against the headboard, crossing his arms over his chest as he considers his words. “If we spoke to her, like, really tried to make our intentions clear, she’d probably have a panic attack.”

Jisung winces, already halfway through forming a rebuttal, but Chan isn’t finished.

“And then you’d have a panic attack for causing her panic attack,” Chan adds, his tone matter-of-fact.

Jisung gasps, clutching his chest dramatically. “Okay, so we’re just dropping truth nukes today? That was a personal fucking attack.”

“Yep.” Chan grins, entirely unbothered. “Because I know you, Ji. You overthink everything when it comes to her. You want to protect her and impress her and somehow confess your feelings all at once, but you freeze up every time she’s in the room.”

Jisung groans, flopping back onto the bed and throwing an arm over his face. “You’re not wrong, but do you have to say it out loud?”

“I do,” Chan says, nudging Jisung’s knee with his own. “Because you need to hear it. She’s not like us. She’s got walls up for a reason, and we can’t bulldoze our way through them just because we want to.”

“So what, then?” Jisung mumbles, his voice muffled by his arm. “We just sit here and pine while Felix keeps giving us death glares every time we so much as look at her?”

Chan chuckles, lying back down beside him. “No, dumbass. We take it slow. Be patient. Show her that we’re not just a couple of horny frat boys looking to make her a notch on our belt.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jisung sighs, letting his head roll to the side as Sweet Melody fades into another song. “Fine. We’ll play the long game. But if Felix cockblocks us one more time, I’m going to scream.”

Chan props himself up on his elbows, watching Jisung fidget with the loose thread again. After a moment, he sits up fully, reaching for his backpack that’s been haphazardly tossed onto the floor. “I did find this,” he says, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper. He smooths it out against his thigh and holds it up for Jisung to see.

“What the fuck is that?” Jisung asks, tilting his head as he squints at the flyer.

“It’s from the cosmetology and SFX department,” Chan explains, his grin widening. “They’re looking for part-time models for the students. Hourly pay, and they feed you.”

Jisung grabs the flyer, scanning the text quickly. His eyes widen as the gears in his head start turning. “You absolute fucking genius, Bang Chan,” he says, smacking Chan’s arm with the paper. “This is why I love you. You’re getting the dick-sucking of your life tonight, and I’ll even do that position you like to fuck me in.”

Chan smirks, leaning back on his hands. “Why not now?”

Jisung rolls his eyes, though his grin is practically glowing. “Because I want to see a peek of her before she leaves. Duh.”

Chan snorts, shaking his head. “You’re such a simp.”

Jisung flops back onto the bed, clutching the flyer dramatically to his chest. “You’re not wrong. I peeked out of my door when she came upstairs with Felix and Minho earlier.”

Chan’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, yeah? What’d she look like?”

“She was wearing this cute cropped white sweater, you know, the off-the-shoulder kind? And those mom jeans that make her ass look, like, ugh,” Jisung says, waving his hand like he’s at a loss for words. “Her hair was clipped up all messily, and she had eyeliner so sharp it could cut a bitch.”

Chan groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fuck. Wish I’d thought about peeking.”

“You missed out,” Jisung says with a sing-song lilt, flipping onto his stomach to look at Chan. “She looked like an angel. Or a menace. Or both.”

“Definitely both,” Chan agrees with a chuckle.

Jisung holds the flyer up again, studying it as if it holds all the answers to their problems. “This is fucking genius. You’re a genius. We can get close to her, right? Like, we sign up, become her models, and bam! We’re friends! She gets less anxious around us, trusts us, and then bam! She falls in love with us.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Chan says, leaning over to ruffle Jisung’s hair. “And if it doesn’t work, at least we’ll have some cool makeup looks.”

“It’ll work,” Jisung insists, his excitement bubbling over. He giggles, tossing the flyer onto the bed before pouncing on Chan, knocking him back against the pillows. “God, I fucking love you.”

Jisung peppers Chan’s face with kisses, laughing between each one as Chan tries and fails to push him off. Chan’s hands find their way to Jisung’s waist, gripping tightly before sliding down to his ass, squeezing just enough to make Jisung gasp.

“You’re obsessed,” Jisung teases, wiggling his hips in Chan’s hold.

“Can you blame me?” Chan retorts, his fingers tracing over Jisung’s waist like it’s his favourite thing in the world. “You’re fucking perfect.”

“Damn right, I am,” Jisung says, leaning down to kiss him properly this time. 

Jisung breaks the kiss with a grin, his forehead pressed against Chan’s. “My genius, sexy boyfriend,” he murmurs, voice dripping with affection as his hands rest on Chan’s chest. Before Chan can reply, the faint creak of a door opening filters through the chaos of Jisung’s room.

Both of them freeze.

“That’s Felix’s room,” Jisung whispers, wide-eyed. He scrambles off Chan in a flurry of movement, almost tripping over a discarded hoodie on the floor as he darts toward the door. Chan follows, his socked feet sliding a little on the hardwood.

They press themselves against the doorframe, carefully peeking through the narrow gap. Sure enough, Felix’s bedroom door is ajar, and you step into the hallway, your makeup case in hand. Felix and Minho trail behind you, chatting to you about something, but neither of them notices the two lurking shadows just down the hall.

Chan’s eyes immediately drop to your figure, taking in the way your jeans hug your curves. His lips part as he lets out a low whistle under his breath. “That ass,” he mutters, barely audible.

Jisung hums in agreement, his gaze just as fixated. “Fucking hell,” he says, practically purring. “Alright, seeing her ass in those jeans has me ready.”

Chan tears his eyes away from you just long enough to glance at Jisung. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jisung says, his grin wicked. “You ready to get your dick sucked?”

“Yes.” Chan’s reply is instant, decisive. Without taking his eyes off you for a moment longer than necessary, he reaches out and kicks the door shut with his foot, the sound reverberating through the room.

Jisung laughs, already grabbing at Chan’s shirt to pull him closer. “God, I fucking love you.”

“Show me,” Chan says, smirking as Jisung shoves him back toward the bed. Whatever comes next is their business, but one thing’s certain: both of them are more determined than ever to turn the object of their admiration into something far more significant.

The classroom is buzzing with energy, chatter bouncing off the walls as students set up their stations for the day. You sit in your usual spot near the back, partially shielded by a tall counter stacked with brushes, pigments, and latex prosthetics.

Your SFX kit is open in front of you, neatly organized but untouched as you twist the anxiety rings on your fingers, trying to drown out the noise. The clipped-up mess of your hair keeps falling in your face, but you don’t have the energy to fix it.

Your teacher strides in, clapping their hands for attention. “Alright, everyone! Models are here. Be respectful, follow the guidelines, and remember to thank them for their time. This is a great opportunity to work with real people instead of mannequins, so make the most of it.”

The door swings open, and a group of about ten models shuffles in, their faces a mix of curiosity and boredom. You glance up, expecting a crowd of strangers. Instead, your breath catches in your throat as two very familiar figures step through the door. Chan and Jisung.

Chan looks effortlessly cool, dressed in black cargo trousers and a white t-shirt under a black knit sweater. His silver chain glints under the fluorescent lights, matching the one around Jisung’s neck.

Jisung, for his part, looks like he just stepped out of a fashion editorial. His cropped grey long-sleeved top shows just a hint of his toned stomach, and his baggy blue jeans hang low enough to reveal his white boxers. His sneakers are pristine, white as snow, and somehow, even in this classroom setting, he looks like he’s having the time of his life.

When they spot you, their faces light up. Jisung waves enthusiastically, practically bouncing on his heels, while Chan offers a more subdued but equally warm wave. You hesitate for a second, the overwhelming urge to disappear into your shell creeping up, but you manage a shy wave back.

Their reaction is immediate. Jisung’s grin widens, and Chan nudges him, clearly amused.

The other students notice them almost instantly, the energy in the room shifting. A few of the girls near the front start whispering, throwing glances at Chan and Jisung. It’s no secret that the two of them are infamous for their openness at parties, and now that they’re in the same room, the attention is palpable.

The teacher finishes their brief introduction and waves the models toward the stations. Almost immediately, a cluster of girls swarms Chan and Jisung, practically vying for their attention. Compliments fly left and right.

“Chan, you’d be perfect for my project.”

“Jisung, I love your skin tone. It’d be amazing to work with.”

“Have you modeled before? You totally look like you have.”

Chan and Jisung, however, seem completely unfazed by the attention. They exchange a look, a silent conversation passing between them, and then, without hesitation, they make a beeline for your station at the back of the room.

“Hello!” Jisung chirps as they reach you, his voice as cheerful as ever. He drops into the chair across from you, resting his chin on his hand.

“Hi,” you reply softly, your fingers still fiddling with your rings.

Chan pulls out the chair next to Jisung and sits down smoothly, his gaze warm but focused. “What a coincidence,” he says, his voice lower and steadier than Jisung’s. “We just wanted some extra cash, and here we are.”

You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. “Well, I’m glad it’s some familiar faces who picked me rather than total strangers,” you say, though the words come out in a rushed tumble. “I mean, I guess you two are strangers with recognizable faces, but, um, still better than total strangers.”

Jisung beams at you, clearly charmed by your rambling. Chan leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “Yeah? You’re not nervous about working with us?” His tone is teasing, but there’s genuine curiosity behind it.

“No, I-” You stop, realizing you’re about to contradict yourself, and shrug instead. “I’m just glad I won’t have to meet someone completely new. Familiar faces and all that.”

Jisung tilts his head, his silver hair catching the light. “So, how does this work, exactly? What do we do?”

You shrug again, feeling slightly more at ease under their curious but non-judgmental gazes. “It’s pretty simple. I just practice my SFX and different makeup looks on you. You sit still, let me do my thing, and you get paid by the university for your time.”

“That’s it?” Jisung asks, his expression lighting up. “We just get to chill while you turn us into zombies or whatever?”

Chan chuckles, his eyes never leaving your face. “Sounds like the easiest job ever.”

“It’s not as easy as it sounds,” you mumble, already reaching for your brushes. “I can be kind of a perfectionist.”

Jisung nudges Chan with his elbow, his grin widening. “I think we can handle that.”

“Alright,” you say, your voice steadying slightly as you flip through your kit. “I’m going to do bruises for you, Jisung. If that’s okay? It’s the quickest thing to start with, so you can get a feel for what it’s like and how still you’ll have to sit.”

“Okay!” Jisung chirps, his enthusiasm as boundless as ever. He leans forward slightly in his chair, watching you intently.

As you grab the foundation brush and a small compact, your fingers instinctively reach for your anxiety rings, twisting them back and forth in a soothing rhythm. You think you’re being subtle, but both Chan and Jisung notice. They exchange a quick look, just a flicker of understanding passing between them, before Chan leans back in his chair, breaking the tension.

“I’ll grab us some coffee from the table,” Chan says, standing up.

“Oh, don’t,” you reply quickly, looking up from your kit. “It’s gross. Seriously, it's undrinkable.”

Chan raises an eyebrow, amused. “That bad?”

“Worse,” you say, pulling a small coffee sachet from your tote bag and holding it out to him. “Use this. There’s a kettle in the corner.”

Jisung perks up immediately. “Ooh! I love that brand. Their hazelnut flavor is the shit.”

You smile shyly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear before turning your attention back to your kit. “It’s the only coffee I can actually stand,” you admit, pulling out your bruise palette.

Chan takes the sachet with a small nod. “Got it. Fancy coffee it is,” he says, heading toward the kettle.

As he leaves, Jisung rests his elbows on the table, leaning in just enough to stay in your line of sight. “So, you wanna get into the makeup industry?” he asks, his tone casual but genuinely curious.

You nod, focusing on applying a thin base layer of foundation to his temple. “Yeah. That’s the plan. Mostly SFX, though.”

“That’s cool as fuck,” Jisung says, his lips twitching into a grin. “When I become a famous crime reporter, I’ll hire you to make me look good on camera.”

The corner of your mouth quirks up into a small smile. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“You better,” he teases, his tone light and playful. “And when Chan opens his music production company, you can do his makeup for the promo stuff.”

You glance at him, a faint smile still on your face as you swap the foundation brush for a sponge. “The two of you have nice skin. You don’t really need makeup.”

Jisung smirks, his voice dropping slightly. “We’re a sexy couple, huh?”

Your brush falters for half a second, and you laugh softly, not trusting yourself to respond. Instead, you focus on the bruising, using purples and yellows from your palette to create a realistic-looking contusion on his temple.

Jisung doesn’t push. He sits quietly for a moment, letting you work, but his gaze never leaves your face. He notices the way your shoulders relax as you settle into your craft, your hands moving with practised ease. You’re more comfortable here, surrounded by brushes and palettes, than you ever seemed in the unfamiliar chaos of the frat house.

“You’re really good at this,” he says after a while, his voice softer.

“Thanks,” you murmur, your eyes focused on blending the colours seamlessly into his skin.

The kettle clicks off in the corner, and Chan returns a moment later with three steaming cups of coffee. He sets one down next to you with a small smile before sitting back in his chair, watching you work.

Jisung flashes him a quick grin. “Told you she’s good.”

“Yeah,” Chan agrees, his voice warm. “She’s really good.”

You glance at Chan, tapping the end of your brush against your lip in thought. “How good are you at sitting still?”

Chan smirks, leaning back slightly in his chair. “Much better than him,” he says, jerking his chin toward Jisung.

Jisung nods enthusiastically. “Oh, absolutely. I have the attention span of a squirrel who’s had crack, PCP, and coffee. Sitting still is not in my vocabulary. That was super hard for me.”

You snort, shaking your head as you pull out a small palette and sponge. “I could do scratches or maybe a split lip?”

“Do both,” Chan says. “Whatever you want. We’re here to help you, get free food, and get paid.”

Jisung grins, leaning forward slightly. “Emphasis on the helping you.”

Their casual support makes you smile, a real, unguarded smile, and you turn your attention to Chan, holding up a few shades next to his face to match his skin tone. The colours need to be just right for the scratches to look realistic, and you’re already envisioning the placement.

While you’re focused, Jisung starts poking around in your kit, pulling out sponges and brushes like he’s never seen them before. “What’s this thing for?” he mutters, holding up a stippling sponge.

“Jisung,” Chan says sharply, without even looking at him. “Sit down. Drink your coffee. Be a good boy.”

Jisung snorts, rolling his eyes but obediently sliding back into his chair. “You sound like a dad,” he mutters, taking a sip of his coffee.

Chan doesn’t respond, but the amused glint in his eye says enough.

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head as you position Chan’s face just right, tilting his chin slightly so you can work. Starting with the scratches, you dab the base colour along his cheekbone in thin, jagged lines, layering the colours to create depth. The focus required for the details blocks out the noise of the room, narrowing your world to just the colours, textures, and angles.

Chan stays perfectly still, his gaze never leaving your face. Every so often, his eyes flick to your fingers, watching the way they move with such precision. He notices the way you fiddle with your anxiety rings between steps, your thumb brushing over the grooves as if grounding yourself. It’s subtle, but he catches it every time.

Jisung leans closer, resting his chin in his hand as he watches too. He doesn’t say much, which is rare for him, but he’s captivated by how your concentration transforms you. You’re not the shy, anxious girl who fidgets in uncomfortable spaces here. You’re in your element, confident, steady, and focused. Your smiles, when they appear, are genuine, and they feel like small victories to him and Chan both.

“Does this hurt?” Jisung asks suddenly, his voice breaking the quiet.

You blink, looking up from the scratches you’re blending on Chan’s cheek. “What? No, of course not. It’s just makeup.”

“Yeah, but you’re so good it’s making me feel phantom pain,” he says dramatically, and you chuckle softly, shaking your head.

“Sit still and let her work,” Chan says, his tone teasing.

“I’m literally not moving!” Jisung retorts, throwing his hands up.

You roll your eyes but smile as you switch to the split lip. Using a small detailing brush, you draw the initial line across Chan’s lower lip, smudging the edges for realism. You add layers of reds and purples, blending them seamlessly into his skin until the injury looks raw and freshly split.

The room fades away entirely as you work, your focus narrowing to the details of Chan’s face. You don’t notice the way he and Jisung exchange glances, silently communicating as they take note of your little habits, the shifty glance you throw at your rings when the noise gets too loud, the way your shoulders tense and relax in rhythm with your breathing.

They’re careful not to draw attention to it, subtly keeping the energy around you calm and light without you even realizing it.

When the scratches and bruising are complete, you step back, studying your work critically. You add a faint smudge of purple and green around the edges of the scratches, giving them the illusion of swelling, before finally reaching for the mirror.

“Alright,” you say, holding the mirror up for Chan. “What do you think?”

Chan leans in to look, his eyes widening slightly at the realism. “Holy shit,” he murmurs, turning his head from side to side. “This looks incredible.”

“Seriously,” Jisung chimes in, craning his neck to see. “It looks like someone decked you. This is insane.”

You feel a flicker of pride at their reactions, your lips curving into a small smile. “Thanks,” you say quietly, fiddling with your rings again.

“Can’t believe we get paid for this,” Chan says with a grin. “Best gig ever.”

Jisung nods enthusiastically. “We should’ve signed up for this ages ago.”

You laugh softly, your nerves starting to melt away as the three of you fall into an easy rhythm of conversation and quiet admiration.

The room buzzes with its usual energy, students chatting and setting up their kits, but Chan and Jisung sit off to the side, waiting. Jisung taps his boots against the floor rhythmically, glancing toward the door every few seconds. He adjusts the cuffs of his cropped leather jacket, his black vest underneath snug against his torso.

Chan sits next to him, leaning back in his chair, one leg bouncing slightly. His matching leather jacket and vest combo, paired with the loose baggy jeans, gives him an effortless edge, but his eyes flick toward the door just as often as Jisung’s.

“She’s late,” Jisung mutters, chewing on his bottom lip.

“Maybe she got held up,” Chan offers, though his voice carries the same undercurrent of unease.

When the door finally opens, you step inside, your movements stiff and your hands trembling slightly as they clutch your tote bag and makeup kit. You’re dressed in a blue and white tartan mini skirt with a matching cropped blazer, your makeup immaculate despite the visible tension in your posture. The messy clip holding your hair back looks like it’s hanging on by sheer determination.

Jisung immediately notices the trembling. His eyes widen, and he nudges Chan, who follows his gaze. Recognition flashes across Chan’s face, he’s seen this before, too many times with Jisung.

Jisung jumps up first, his wide smile doing little to mask the concern in his eyes. “Hey!” he calls out, his voice bright and warm, though there’s a softness to it meant just for you. He strides over quickly, motioning for you to follow him. “Come on. Let’s go to the other room for a sec. It’s quieter there.”

Chan is already beside you, taking the tote bag and your makeup case from your trembling hands without a word. “Let’s go,” he says gently, his presence steady and grounding as he gestures toward the hallway.

You nod numbly, letting Jisung lead the way. His cropped leather jacket bounces slightly with each step, and you focus on the rhythm of his boots against the floor, using it to anchor yourself.

Once inside the empty classroom, Jisung pulls out a chair and motions for you to sit. Chan places your bags down carefully on the table, then leans against it, his arms crossed but his expression soft.

Jisung crouches in front of you, his voice light and cheerful despite the tension in the room. “You know what I need right now?” he asks, tilting his head.

You blink at him, your breathing still uneven. “What?”

“Embarrassing childhood stories about Felix,” he says, his grin widening. “Come on, you’ve gotta have loads of them. Spill.”

You let out a shaky laugh, your fingers gripping the edge of the chair. “I- I do, but...”

“But nothing,” Chan interrupts, his tone playful but firm. “Give us the dirt. I’m talking full-on Felix humiliation. We need it.”

Jisung pulls something out of his pocket and holds it out to you. A small fidget cube. “Here. This always helps me. Try it.”

Your hands shake as you take the cube, turning it over in your fingers. The clicking and spinning mechanisms give you something to focus on, and you start to feel a faint sense of control creeping back in.

“There has to be something,” Chan says, his tone encouraging as Jisung moves to sit next to you, running a hand gently up and down your back. “Don’t hold out on us.”

You take a deep breath, the fidget cube helping to steady you as you begin. “Okay, um, there was this one time when Felix was sixteen. He had a massive crush on this guy, like, total heart eyes every time he saw him.”

Jisung hums, clearly intrigued. “Go on.”

“So,” you continue, a small smile creeping onto your face, “Felix heard that this guy loved birds. Like, absolutely obsessed with them. So Felix, in his infinite wisdom, decided he was going to catch a dove and give it to him.”

Both Chan and Jisung burst into laughter, but they don’t interrupt. They let you continue, their attention fully on you.

“He spent hours in the park with a net he bought from a fishing store,” you say, your voice growing steadier as the memory takes over. “And when he finally caught one, he brought it home, named it Cupid, and tried to teach it tricks to impress the guy.”

Jisung is practically wheezing at this point. “No fucking way.”

“I swear to God,” you say, a genuine laugh escaping you. “He even bought birdseed that was, like, premium grade or whatever because he thought it would make the dove healthier and shinier.”

Chan shakes his head, his own laugh rumbling low in his chest. “And did it work? Did the guy fall for him?”

“Nope,” you say, giggling. “The guy was allergic to birds.”

Jisung collapses against the back of his chair, clutching his stomach as he laughs. “That’s fucking priceless. Felix trying to be Mr. Romantic and failing spectacularly. I love it.”

Chan grins, his eyes softening as he watches you laugh. “See? That’s exactly the kind of story we needed.”

You fiddle with the fidget cube again, but your breathing is steady now, the tension in your shoulders easing. Jisung nudges you lightly with his elbow, his grin still wide. “Feel a bit better?”

“Yeah,” you admit, glancing between them. “Thanks.”

Chan straightens up, offering you a hand. “Anytime. Now, let’s get back before someone claims your station.”

You take his hand, letting him pull you up, and for the first time that day, you feel like the world isn’t spinning quite so fast.

Chan and Jisung step inside the classroom, hand in hand as Jisung grins at whatever Chan whispers in his ear. Chan’s black cargos and fitted compression shirt make him look every bit the confident leader he is, his silver chain glinting under the fluorescent lights.

Jisung, in his black trousers and the striking red-and-black watercolour-style top, walks with a similar self-assurance, the chain around his neck catching the same light. They’re already the centre of attention without even trying, but their eyes immediately scan the room for one person. You.

You’re at your usual station, sitting on a chair, but something’s off. Your shoulders are hunched, practically touching your ears as you try to shrink into yourself. Two girls are standing in front of you, leaning in far too close, their voices carrying just enough for Chan and Jisung to catch snippets of what they’re saying.

“Come on,” one of them purrs. “You know them, right? Set us up, just for one night. That’s all we’re asking.”

“They’re into sharing,” the other adds, her tone smug. “Everyone knows it. It’s not like they’d say no.”

You’re gripping the edge of your chair tightly, your knuckles turning white as you avoid eye contact. The tension radiates off you, your lips pressed into a thin line. Your green cargo trousers and white sleeveless turtleneck are immaculate, your hair clipped up messily but beautifully, and your makeup flawless as always, but the way you’re folding into yourself tells them everything they need to know.

Chan’s jaw tightens, and Jisung’s grip on his hand briefly tightens before he lets go, stepping forward. “Oi,” Chan snaps, his voice sharp enough to cut through the chatter in the room. “Leave her alone.”

Both girls turn, startled but not deterred. Their faces light up when they see Chan and Jisung approaching, and they immediately shift gears, their tones turning flirtatious.

“Oh, hey, guys,” the first girl says, batting her eyelashes. “We were just talking about you.”

“Yeah,” the second girl chimes in, smiling coyly. “We’ve been dying to get to know you better.”

Jisung rolls his eyes so hard it’s a wonder they don’t get stuck. “Both of you, piss off,” he says flatly, his voice dripping with irritation.

The girls falter for a moment but recover quickly, leaning into their usual tactics. “Don’t be like that,” the first girl says, pouting. “We know you like adding a girl to your relationship. It’s your thing, right?”

The second girl glances toward you, who’s practically curled into yourself at this point. “You two seriously can’t be considering her,” she says, gesturing toward you with a sneer. “I mean, come on.”

Chan’s glare is immediate and lethal. His dark eyes narrow, and his jaw clenches as he takes a threatening step forward. “Watch your mouth,” he says, his voice low and dangerous.

Jisung scoffs, turning his full attention to the girls. “What? You think we’d go for you? Don’t make me fucking laugh.”

The girls’ confidence wavers under the combined weight of their disdain, but they don’t leave right away. Jisung doesn’t wait for them to figure it out. He turns back to you, his expression softening as he crouches slightly to meet your eyes. “Fuck this noise,” he says gently. “You wanna come with us to grab coffee?”

You glance up at him, your hands still trembling slightly, and nod, your relief visible even through your lingering anxiety.

“Good,” Jisung says, standing up. He grabs your tote bag without hesitation while Chan picks up your makeup kit.

As they turn to leave, both of them shoot the girls looks that could kill. “Stay the fuck away from her,” Chan warns, his voice quiet but ice-cold.

Jisung doesn’t bother saying anything else, but the sharp glare he throws over his shoulder speaks volumes. Together, they guide you out of the classroom, their presence on either side of you making you feel safer with every step. The noise and tension of the room fade behind you as the door swings shut.

Once you’re in the hallway, Jisung flashes you a small, reassuring smile. “Let’s go get something sweet”

Chan nods, his expression softening now that you’re away from the chaos. “You’re with us. Don’t worry about anything else.”

The campus café is quiet at this time of day, a soft hum of conversation blending with the low buzz of the espresso machines. Chan leads the way to a corner table in the back, where it’s more secluded. He sets your makeup case down on the floor beside the table as Jisung pulls out a chair for you before plopping into one himself.

“What do you want to drink?” Chan asks, his voice steady and calm as he takes the seat opposite you.

You shake your head quickly, fiddling with the edge of your sleeve. “I’m fine, really.”

Jisung raises an eyebrow, leaning forward on his elbows. “Nope! Anxiety will not let you dehydrate on my watch,” he declares, his tone light but firm. “How about this, you can pay for the coffee next time. Sound good?”

You hesitate, glancing between them, but their expressions are so genuine, so patient, that you finally nod. “Okay. An iced caramel mocha, please.”

“Good choice,” Jisung says with a grin, leaning back in his chair.

As Chan heads toward the counter to order, Jisung places your tote bag on the table, his eyes lighting up when he notices the corner of a sketchbook sticking out. “You have a sketchbook?” he asks, already tugging it free.

“Yeah,” you reply, feeling a little self-conscious but smiling faintly. “If cosmetology and SFX don’t work out, tattooing is the backup plan.”

Jisung’s face lights up like it’s Christmas morning. “Can I peek?” he asks, his voice practically buzzing with excitement.

You nod, and he immediately cracks it open, flipping through the pages with wide eyes. “Ooh, I want that one,” he says, pointing to a minimalist snake design winding around a crescent moon. “And that one.” He gestures to a geometric wolf. “Oh, absolutely that one.” His finger lands on an intricate floral skull.

You can’t help but laugh softly. “If you like them so much, pencil your name next to the ones you want.”

“Done,” Jisung says, digging into your tote bag for a pencil. Instead of a pencil, his hand brushes against a box of tattoo pens, and he pulls it out, eyes sparkling. “Oooh! Can I have one now?”

“Sure,” you say, sliding the box toward him. “Pick a colour.”

Jisung immediately grabs a black pen and places it in your hand instead. “Draw something cool on me.”

There’s a smile on your lips as you grab his hand. His fingers twitch slightly as you adjust his position, your own hand steady as you start outlining a skeletal hand on the back of his. The pen glides smoothly over his skin, and you fall into your rhythm, focusing on each careful line.

Jisung watches you intently, his eyes darting between your concentrated expression and the design appearing on his hand. “This is so fucking cool,” he murmurs, tilting his head to watch you work. “Seriously, how are you this good?”

You shrug, not looking up. “Practice.”

By the time Chan returns with the drinks, Jisung’s hand already resembles a realistic skeleton hand in progress. Chan places your iced caramel mocha in front of you before sitting down with his own coffee. His gaze falls on Jisung’s hand, and his eyebrows raise slightly. “What’s this?”

“She’s giving me the coolest skeleton hand tattoo,” Jisung says proudly, holding his hand up briefly before letting you continue. “It’s semi-permanent. How long will it last?” he asks, glancing at you.

“About two weeks,” you reply, still focused on adding shading to the bones. “If you’re careful.”

“Careful?” Jisung scoffs. “Have you met me?”

Chan chuckles, leaning back in his chair to watch you work. “Guess we’ll see how long it survives. It’s a good look for you, though.”

Jisung grins, wiggling his fingers slightly, earning a small scolding from you as you steady his hand again. “I feel like a badass already.”

“You already are,” Chan says with a smirk, taking a sip of his coffee.

You finish the final details on Jisung’s skeleton hand, stepping back to admire your work. The clean black lines trace over his skin perfectly, each bone detailed with just enough shading to make it look almost real. “There,” you say, setting the pen down for a moment. “Done.”

Jisung twists his hand to get a better look, his grin widening. “Holy shit, this is incredible. You’re a fucking magician.”

“You’re being dramatic,” you reply with a faint smile, wiping your hands on a napkin.

“No, seriously. It’s so good!” Jisung glances at you, his grin turning sly. “So, can I have another?”

You arch an eyebrow but grab the pen again, motioning for him to roll up his sleeve. “What do you want this time?”

He taps his chin, pretending to think. “How about a sword? With a snake wrapped around it. Make it badass.”

“Got it,” you say, leaning over to begin sketching on his forearm. The pen glides smoothly over his skin as you map out the shape of the blade, the hilt, and the curling snake.

As you work, Jisung leans back slightly, looking over at Chan with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Hey, Chan. Baby. Sexy man.”

Chan gives him a flat look. “What.”

“How do you feel about Jisung’s bitch on your forehead with the tattoo pen?”

“No.”

Jisung pouts dramatically. “No hesitation? Not even a little consideration?”

“Not even a little,” Chan replies, sipping his coffee calmly.

You shake your head, biting back a smile as you continue detailing the snake coiling around the sword. The tip of the blade points toward Jisung’s wrist, and the snake’s head curves menacingly near the hilt, its fangs bared.

“Could we count this as a date?” Jisung asks suddenly, his voice casual but his grin anything but.

Your hand falters slightly, and you cough, your head snapping up to look at him. Before you can respond, Chan kicks him under the table, the dull thud making Jisung wince.

“Kidding! Kidding!” Jisung says quickly, throwing up his free hand in surrender. “Totally joking.”

You narrow your eyes slightly but don’t say anything, your focus snapping back to his arm as you continue detailing the snake’s scales with delicate precision.

While your attention is on the drawing, Chan leans forward slightly, his eyes narrowing at Jisung and he mouths, What are you doing?

Jisung shrugs dramatically, mouthing back, What?! It was worth a shot!

Chan rolls his eyes and mouths, Idiot.

Jisung grins, leaning closer to mouth back, At least now she might realise we’re interested.

Chan glares, his lips pressing into a tight line, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he leans back in his chair, his gaze softening as he watches you work.

You finish detailing the snake’s body, adding a hint of depth to its scales, before leaning back to examine your work. “Done,” you say. “What do you think?”

Jisung lifts his arm, turning it this way and that to admire the sword-and-snake design. His grin stretches from ear to ear. “It’s fucking perfect. You’re a genius.”

Chan nods in agreement, his voice warm. “It looks incredible.”

You glance between them, your cheeks warming slightly at their praise. “Thanks.”

As Jisung continues marvelling at his arm, you finally allow yourself a small smile, feeling a strange but welcome sense of ease in their company.

The Alpha Phi frat house is quieter than usual, a rare lull in the usual chaos. You make your way up the stairs, your sneakers squeaking faintly against the worn wood. Felix is at a culinary practical class, which means you have a golden window of opportunity to talk to Minho without your overprotective twin hovering nearby.

Reaching Minho’s room, you hesitate for a second before knocking twice and pushing the door open. The familiar scent of his room, clean laundry mixed with a faint hint of cologne, greets you as you step inside.

“Hey there, anxiety bundle,” Minho greets from his bed, where he’s lying with his phone in hand, scrolling lazily. He glances up, a small smirk playing on his lips.

You can’t help but grin, hopping onto the bed beside him. “Hi, Min.”

He sets his phone down, propping himself up on one elbow to look at you more closely. “So, what’s up? You look like you’ve got something on your mind.”

You take a deep breath, fiddling with the hem of your cropped turtleneck. “I wanted to talk to you about Chan and Jisung.”

Minho raises an eyebrow, his smirk widening slightly. “Chan and Jisung, huh? Have you ever even spoken to them?”

You bite your lip, nodding. “Yeah, they’re, uh, my models for my cosmetology and SFX extra credit stuff.”

“Interesting,” Minho says, his tone light but curious. He leans back against his pillows, giving you his full attention. “Go on.”

“They’re actually super cool to hang out with,” you admit, your voice softening as you pick at an invisible thread on the blanket. “But, we went to a café a couple of days ago, and Jisung asked if it was a date.”

Minho’s other eyebrow joins the first, his expression shifting to something more knowing. “You can’t tell they’re both into you?”

You blink at him, caught completely off guard. “Huh?”

Minho rolls his eyes, sitting up fully. “Come on, everyone in the frat but Lix knows. They’re not subtle. They like you and want you as a third in their relationship. A little polyamorous trio.”

You freeze, the words sinking in like a stone dropping into a still pond. “No. No way. No, I can’t- Nope. Nuh-uh. I am not relationship material. Nope. No way.”

Minho stares at you for a moment before letting out a low chuckle. “Okay, no breakdowns here. Deep breaths. You’re spiralling.”

“I’m not spiralling,” you protest weakly, even as your chest tightens.

“Right.” Minho reaches for the edge of his blanket, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m going to blanket burrito you and then cuddle you until your stresses flow out of you. Arms free, of course, so you don’t feel too restricted.”

Before you can argue, he’s already wrapping the blanket around your shoulders, tucking it securely but leaving your arms free just as he promised. “There we go,” he says, satisfied with his work. “Comfy?”

You hum softly, leaning into his side as he pulls you closer. “Yeah. Surprisingly.”

Minho shifts slightly, adjusting the blanket around you as he tucks you closer into his side. His warmth seeps into you, and for the first time today, the tension in your shoulders starts to ease.

“So,” Minho begins, his tone light but teasing, “what do you wanna talk about? We cannot under any circumstances talk about black-haired football captains and silver-haired journalism students who wanna fuck you in what could possibly be the hottest threesome and three-way relationship to walk the earth. Anything but that horror, which I am wildly jealous of but we can’t discuss because you’re in an anxiety burrito.”

“Shut up!” you exclaim, smacking his arm lightly, though you can’t help the small laugh that escapes.

Minho gasps dramatically. “Excuse me. Everything I say is a blessing. Don’t silence the gospel.”

You roll your eyes, relaxing further against him. “Fine. Let’s talk about you and Lix. What’s going on there?”

Minho groans, tilting his head back against the headboard. “We’re, like, together. Without the labels.”

“Loser,” you mutter, smirking as you nudge his side.

His head snaps back down, and he glares at you playfully. “Listen here, brat. It’s your brother’s fault, alright? One minute he’s all over me, sucking my dick like it’s the cure to cancer, and the next, he’s chatting up and fucking every Theta Tau asshole who so much as glances in his direction.”

You grimace but can’t stop yourself from laughing. “Oh my God, Minho.”

“It’s true!” Minho insists, throwing up his hands. “Do you know how fucking confusing that is?”

You sit up slightly, resting your chin on your hand as you consider him. “Have you ever considered that Felix wants you to make the move?”

Minho pauses, his brow furrowing. “Huh. No. No, I did not. That actually makes sense.”

“You’re welcome,” you say with a smug smile. “I give sound relationship advice. Can’t follow it myself, but hey, it’s called anxiety.”

Minho snorts, ruffling your hair affectionately. “Fucking nerd. Alright, Yoda, explain this wisdom to me.”

“It’s simple,” you say, leaning back against him. “Felix probably doesn’t want to make things official because he’s scared of messing it up. He’s waiting for you to say something.”

Minho hums thoughtfully, his arm tightening slightly around your shoulders. “Okay. Fair point. I’ll think about it.”

There’s a beat of silence before Minho glances down at you, his smirk creeping back onto his face. “Now, back to you.”

“Nope,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “We’re done talking about me.”

“Look,” Minho begins, ignoring you completely. “You’re hot. Chan’s hot. Jisung’s hot. And those two have got it bad for you, sweetcheeks. I’m talking down horrendously bad. Me mooning over your brother? Nothing on those two.”

You groan, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. “Minho, stop.”

“Not a chance,” he says, his voice growing more serious. “You think you’re not relationship material, but I’ve seen the way they look at you. They’d bend over backwards to make you happy. You deserve that. You really do.”

You don’t respond, your fingers absently twisting the blanket’s edge. Minho doesn’t push further, letting his words sink in as he pulls you closer to his side, his presence steady and comforting.

“Anyway,” Minho says after a moment, his teasing tone returning, “I’m pretty sure Felix and I are the blueprint for dysfunctional relationships, so if I can make it work, you’ve got no excuse.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me for it,” he replies, grinning. For now, the weight of his words lingers, but it feels less like a burden and more like a possibility you can slowly start to consider.

The classroom hums with the usual pre-class energy. Students chatting, tools clinking against palettes, and brushes being sorted. Chan and Jisung are already seated at your station when you walk in, your steps hesitant. You’re dressed in green cargo trousers, black Converse, and a black cropped turtleneck, your hair messily clipped up as always. Your makeup is, as usual, flawless, the sharpness of your eyeliner contrasting starkly with the apprehension in your eyes.

But today, something’s off.

Chan notices it first. You don’t greet them like usual, instead setting your tote bag and kit on the table with trembling hands. Jisung picks up on it seconds later when you don’t return his grin or meet his gaze. You sit down silently, immediately busying yourself with unpacking your materials, your movements stiff and hurried.

“Hey,” Jisung says softly, leaning forward slightly. “You good?”

You don’t answer, pretending to focus on your brushes as if they’re suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. Your fingers fumble as you arrange them, the clinking sound drawing Chan’s attention. He exchanges a quick glance with Jisung, his brow furrowing.

“Y/N,” Chan tries, his tone low and gentle. “What’s going on?”

Still, you don’t respond. Instead, you grab your palette and turn to Jisung, gesturing for his arm. “I’m starting with the scarring,” you mumble, your voice so soft they almost miss it.

Jisung hesitates but holds out his arm, watching as you grab a brush and start applying a base layer. Your focus is razor-sharp, but something about the way your hands move feels mechanical, like you’re running on autopilot. You won’t look at him, your gaze glued to your work.

Jisung glances at Chan again, his worry evident. “Okay,” he says cautiously, trying to keep the mood light. “Guess we’re skipping the chit-chat today.”

No reaction.

As you work on creating realistic scarring up his forearm, Jisung tries again. “You know, I was thinking, maybe I should start a petition for you to do our makeup at frat parties. You’d probably get us a shit ton of attention.”

Still nothing. You don’t even crack a smile, your brush moving methodically as you blend shades of red and brown into his skin. The silence stretches, heavy and uncomfortable.

Chan leans back in his chair, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the table as he studies you. He doesn’t say anything, but his dark eyes flicker with concern, his lips pressed into a thin line.

When you finish Jisung’s arm, you finally glance up, just to grab another tool, before quickly averting your gaze again. “Switching to facial injuries,” you mumble, turning toward Chan without waiting for a response.

Chan shifts in his chair slightly, his posture relaxing as he nods. “Go ahead.”

You step closer, your movements still stiff as you start creating a gash on his cheekbone. Your hands remain steady, but your avoidance is glaringly obvious. You don’t meet his eyes, even when you have to angle his face toward the light. Instead, you keep your focus strictly on your work, avoiding any interaction.

Jisung leans his chin on his hand, watching you carefully. “You know, we’re here, right?” he says softly, his usual playful tone replaced with genuine concern.

Your hand falters slightly, but you quickly recover, your expression unreadable. “I know,” you mutter, still not looking at either of them.

Chan tilts his head as you add depth to the injury, his voice low and steady. “You don’t have to say what’s bothering you if you’re not ready. But you can. We’re not going anywhere.”

Your hands are trembling so violently now that you can barely hold the brush. The classroom feels too loud, too bright, too crowded, like the walls are closing in around you. The edges of your vision blur as you inhale sharply, your breaths coming too fast and too shallow.

“I- Excuse me,” you manage to choke out, your voice trembling as much as your hands.

Without waiting for a response, you push back from the table, nearly knocking over your chair in your haste to leave. You don’t even think to grab your tote bag or kit as you rush out the door, the classroom’s noise fading into an overwhelming silence.

Chan and Jisung are on their feet immediately, exchanging a single, knowing look. They don’t need to speak to understand what’s happening. Jisung recognizes the signs, he’s been there too many times himself, and Chan has seen this far too often when helping Jisung through his panic attacks.

“We’re going after her,” Jisung says, already heading for the door.

Chan nods as he follows. “Of course.”

They move quickly through the hallway, scanning for any sign of you. It doesn’t take long for Jisung to notice the slightly ajar door to the empty classroom they’d taken you to before. He pushes it open gently, the hinges creaking faintly, and the sight inside makes both of them freeze.

You’re crouched down near the far wall, your head in your hands as you tug on your hair with trembling fingers. Your whole body is trembling, and your breaths come in short, ragged gasps that hitch and catch painfully in your throat. It’s clear you’re spiralling fast.

Jisung and Chan exchange another glance, unspoken understanding passing between them. Chan steps forward first, closing the door quietly behind them while Jisung pulls the blinds down to block out the outside world. They’re careful, their movements measured and deliberate, as if any sudden motion might make things worse.

Jisung crouches down in front of you, his voice soft but steady. “Hey, what do you need? I know it’s hard to answer right now, but I’ve been here before. For me, a hug helps, a tight one. It compresses my nervous system and calms me down. You’ll fight it at first, but it’s just me and Chan. You’re safe with us, okay?”

You nod faintly, your fingers twitching as you try to loosen your grip on your hair. Your breaths are still shallow, but you’re trying, and Jisung can see it in the way your shoulders rise and fall unevenly.

“Good,” Jisung says gently, shifting to sit behind you. He carefully takes your hands, pulling them away from your hair and holding them in his own for a moment before guiding your body to rest against his. “I’m gonna hug you now, alright? Just let me help.”

He wraps his arms tightly around your chest, holding you firmly but not uncomfortably, his chin resting lightly against the top of your head. “Just me,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”

Chan crouches in front of you, his eyes soft with concern. “My turn,” he says quietly, leaning in to wrap his arms around both you and Jisung, enveloping you in a warm, grounding embrace. You’re sandwiched between them, their bodies a protective barrier against the storm raging inside you.

“Just breathe,” Chan murmurs, his voice low and soothing. “We’re here. You’re safe.”

Jisung presses his cheek against the back of your head, his voice equally calm. “Deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Slow and steady.”

It’s hard. Your chest feels tight, and the panic claws at you, but their warmth and steady presence start to chip away at the edges of the fear. Jisung’s hold is grounding, his arms firm and secure, while Chan’s presence in front of you feels like a shield against the world.

“You’re doing so good,” Jisung says softly, his fingers lightly brushing against your forearms. “Just keep going. We’ve got you.”

Chan’s hands rub gentle circles on your back, his movements synchronized with Jisung’s reassurances. “That’s it. Keep going. One breath at a time.”

Slowly, the tension in your body begins to ease. Your breaths become a little less ragged, a little more controlled. The trembling subsides bit by bit, though your body still feels exhausted from the panic.

“You’re okay,” Jisung whispers, his voice soft as he rests his forehead against the back of your head. “You’re safe. We’ve got you.”

Chan pulls back slightly to meet your eyes, his hands still resting gently on your shoulders. “Better?” he asks, his voice warm and patient.

You nod weakly, your voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah. Thank you.”

Jisung presses a light, reassuring kiss to the top of your head before helping you sit up straighter. “No need to thank us. We’re here for you. Always.”

“Want to talk about why you’re an anxious bundle of nerves today?” Chan asks gently, his eyes locked on yours. There’s no judgment in his tone, just patience and concern.

You hesitate for a moment, chewing on your bottom lip, but the warmth of their presence gives you enough courage to speak. Once you start, though, the words spill out in a frantic, barely coherent rush.

“It’s—it’s Minho,” you stammer, your voice shaky and fast. “He said you two like me, and not just like me, like like me like me, and then he said something about polyamory and a three-way relationship, and I-look, I can’t do that. I don’t want to come between you two, you’re perfect together, and I don’t even know how to be in a regular relationship, let alone something like that! I mean, I’m definitely not relationship material. I overthink everything-”

“Wait, wait, slow down,” Chan says, his lips twitching in an effort to suppress a smile as he tries to keep up with your rapid-fire rambling.

Jisung giggles, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Silly girl,” he says, his tone playful and affectionate. “You wouldn’t be coming between us. There’d be three of us in the relationship. That’s kind of the point.”

You pause, your brain short-circuiting at the simplicity of his words. “I… what?”

Jisung squeezes you tighter, his grin widening. “Three of us. Not you versus me or Chan. All of us together. Team effort.”

“Exactly,” Chan chimes in, his voice steady and calm. He leans in slightly, his dark eyes warm as they meet yours. “Tell you what. Jisung and I will take you on one date. Just one. No pressure, no expectations. If you decide polyamory isn’t for you, we’ll stay just friends. No hard feelings.”

You blink at them, your heart racing as you try to process everything. “One date?” you echo, your voice almost disbelieving.

“One date,” Chan confirms, his lips curving into a soft smile. “Just to see how it feels. No strings attached.”

Jisung nods eagerly. “And if it’s not your thing, that’s fine. We still get to hang out with you and be your friends, which is already pretty fucking great.”

You look between them, the sincerity in their expressions making your chest tighten in a way that’s equal parts terrifying and comforting. Finally, you nod, the tension in your shoulders easing just slightly. “Okay. One date.”

Jisung cheers softly, his arms tightening around you. “Yes! I’m calling this a win.”

Chan chuckles, resting a hand on Jisung’s back as he looks at you. “Thank you for trusting us.”

As you sit there, sandwiched between them, the panic that had consumed you earlier feels like it’s beginning to fade, replaced by a tentative sense of hope. Maybe, just maybe, this could work.

The low rumble of a sleek black convertible echoes through the quiet street as Chan pulls up outside your apartment building, the hood already down. The car gleams under the dim glow of the streetlights, a perfect reflection of its owner’s effortless confidence. Jisung sits in the backseat, his cropped leather blazer catching the light as he leans against the side of the car, a casual grin on his face.

Chan, in black trousers and boots with a white half-buttoned shirt over a black turtleneck, rests one arm on the steering wheel as he glances up at your building. He checks the time briefly before looking at Jisung. “You think Minho’s keeping Felix distracted long enough?”

Jisung snickers, adjusting his silver chain. “Please. If anyone can manage Felix, it’s Minho. The man dragged him to a love hotel. They’re probably too busy fucking to even think about anything else right now.”

The sound of the building’s front door opening pulls both their attention, and their conversation stops. You step outside, your beige flares swishing slightly with each step, white sneakers bright against the pavement. Your white bandeau crop top hugs your figure, and your half-up, half-down hair style gives you a polished but relaxed look, the little bun at the back bouncing slightly as you walk.

Jisung’s grin widens as he scrambles out of the backseat and around to the sidewalk, opening the door for you with a dramatic bow. “Your chariot awaits, milady.”

“Thank you, kind sir,” you reply with a teasing smile, sliding into the backseat next to him. Your movements are smooth, but there’s a flicker of nervous energy in your hands as you buckle in.

Chan glances over his shoulder, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You like fast driving?”

You nod, settling into your seat. “Yeah, why not?”

Chan doesn’t need any more encouragement. He slams his foot on the gas, and the car roars to life, speeding down the street. The wind whips through your hair, and your laughter spills out, unrestrained and genuine. You throw your hands up, tipping your head back as the city lights blur into streaks of colour.

Jisung wraps an arm around your shoulders, his touch light enough to give you space to pull away if you want. Instead, you lean into him, your laughter bubbling over as the wind rushes past. Chan watches the two of you through the rearview mirror, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he navigates the empty streets with ease.

“Disclaimer,” you say between giggles, “I had an edible brownie to help my anxiety, so I’m kind of stoned right now.”

Jisung’s eyes widen with delight. “Oh my God. When I thought you couldn’t get any hotter.” He nudges Chan with his free hand. “She’s one of us, Chan! A stoner!”

Chan snorts, his eyes flicking to the mirror again. “I’m sober, don’t worry. I wouldn’t drive stoned.”

“Obviously,” Jisung says, grinning. “I had a joint earlier, though, so we’re vibing, Y/N. You and me? Stoner solidarity.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Good to know I’m in good company.”

Chan hums thoughtfully. “I will steal one of those brownies later, though, if you’re offering.”

“Sure,” you say easily, your gaze softening. “I’ve seen your place already. You can come over and meet my dog. He’s a golden retriever. His name’s Simba.”

“Dream woman,” Chan says, his voice warm and genuine. “Dog lover, brownie maker, and she likes fast cars. What’s not to love?”

You laugh again, feeling the edges of your nerves melt away in the company of their easy banter. The car speeds forward into the night, the three of you riding the high of the moment, figuratively and, in your case, literally. It feels like freedom, like something new and exciting, and for once, you’re more eager than anxious about what comes next.

The sleek black convertible pulls up to the brightly lit bowling alley, its neon sign casting a kaleidoscope of colours on the pavement. Jisung hops out first, his black trousers swishing as he moves, and he offers you a hand with a playful grin, and you take it, sliding out of the car.

Before you can step away, Jisung wraps an arm around your waist, his fingers brushing lightly against the fabric of your beige flares. “You ready for this?” he asks, his tone warm and teasing.

You glance at him, your nerves bubbling up again, but before you can respond, you feel Chan’s gaze on you. His dark eyes are soft but questioning, waiting for permission. You nod shyly, and he steps closer, draping his arm over your shoulders with a casual ease that makes your heart skip a beat.

“Now we’re ready,” Chan says with a small smirk, steering you toward the entrance as Jisung keeps his arm snugly around your waist.

The trio walks through the glass doors, greeted by the bustling atmosphere of the bowling alley. The place smells like popcorn and pizza, and the sound of bowling balls crashing into pins echoes around you. Chan leads the way to the counter, where a guy in a red-and-white uniform greets him with a friendly smile.

“Got a booking under Bang,” Chan says smoothly, his tone low and confident.

The employee nods, checking the screen and handing him a set of shoes. Meanwhile, Jisung leans closer to you, his voice conspiratorial. “Must be nice, huh?”

You giggle, glancing at Chan as he talks to the guy like it’s second nature. “I’d be half passed out by this point talking to another human like that.”

Jisung snorts, his laugh low and infectious. “Right? Meanwhile, Mr. Smooth over here acts like he owns the place.”

Chan turns back to you both, raising an eyebrow. “You two gossiping about me?”

“Always,” Jisung replies without missing a beat, his grin cheeky as Chan rolls his eyes and leads you down a side hallway.

At the end of the hallway is a door marked Private Lane. Chan opens it with a flourish, stepping aside to let you and Jisung walk in first. The private lane is sleek and modern, with plush seating and mood lighting that makes it feel more like a lounge than a bowling alley.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Mr. Smooth,” Jisung says, plopping onto the couch with a dramatic sigh.

Chan ignores him, instead turning his attention to you. “So, have you ever bowled before?”

You hesitate for a split second before shaking your head. “No,” you say, your voice soft.

Chan quirks an eyebrow, and Jisung’s grin widens. “Never?” Chan asks, his tone somewhere between disbelief and amusement.

“Nope,” you lie smoothly, hoping they won’t catch on.

“Well then,” Chan says, grabbing a bowling ball from the rack and holding it out to you, “we’ll have to teach you.”

“Absolutely,” Jisung chimes in, standing up and grabbing another ball. He rests it on his hip as he walks over to you. “This is gonna be fun.”

You smile, biting back your nerves as they both step closer, their expressions eager and intent. You might not be a complete novice at bowling, but right now, the idea of their hands guiding yours and their attention entirely on you feels worth a little white lie.

Chan rolls up his sleeves and grabs a bowling ball from the rack, his silver chain catching the light as he steps to the lane. “Alright, Y/N,” he says, holding the ball out to you. “Let’s start simple. Just grip it here and here.”

You take the ball, the weight of it heavier than you expected, and Chan steps behind you, close but not overwhelming. His hands rest lightly on your elbows as he adjusts your stance. “Feet shoulder-width apart. Bend your knees a little.”

Jisung lounges on the nearby couch, a smug grin on his face. “Don’t drop it on your foot.”

“Helpful,” Chan mutters, shooting him a look before turning back to you. “Ignore him. Now, swing it back gently, then forward. Let it roll off your fingers when it feels right.”

His voice is low and patient, and you nod, following his instructions. With Chan’s hands steadying your arms, you swing the ball forward. It rolls down the lane with a satisfying thud, wobbling slightly before knocking over a few pins.

“Not bad,” Chan says, his voice warm with approval. “Let’s try that again.”

The game continues, and for the first few rounds, either Chan or Jisung is always there, standing behind you, guiding your movements. Jisung’s approach is less methodical than Chan’s, he’s more playful, cracking jokes and deliberately leaning close enough to make you laugh as he adjusts your grip.

“Alright, superstar,” Jisung says during your next turn, resting his chin on your shoulder for a moment as he lines up the shot with you. “This time, aim for the left side. Trust me.”

You roll your eyes but follow his advice, and the ball takes out a solid chunk of pins. Jisung cheers loudly, throwing his hands up like you’ve just won a championship. “See? I’m a genius!”

Chan laughs from his spot on the couch, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “You’re ridiculous.”

The real chaos begins each time it’s Jisung’s turn. Instead of bowling normally, he walks up to the lane, turns his back to the pins, and bends over, rolling the ball between his legs. It glides perfectly down the centre of the lane, knocking down every pin in a clean strike.

“Fuck yeah!” Jisung yells, spinning around with his arms raised in victory. “Did you see that?”

“That shouldn’t even count,” Chan calls out, shaking his head in disbelief. “You didn’t even look!”

Jisung shrugs dramatically, grabbing another ball. “Jealousy isn’t a good look on you.”

His next turn, he lies flat on his stomach at the start of the lane, pushing the ball forward with both hands. Once again, it rolls perfectly down the lane and crashes into the pins, scattering them everywhere.

“This is bullshit,” Chan mutters, standing up and grabbing a ball. “There’s no way you’re this lucky.”

“It’s not luck!” Jisung insists, grinning from ear to ear. “It’s raw talent.”

You can’t stop laughing, your sides aching as Jisung continues his streak of absurd bowling techniques. He tries spinning the ball while crouched like a frog, rolling it while hopping backwards, and even attempting to launch it from his lap while sitting. Somehow, every ridiculous method he tries results in a strike.

“You’re unbelievable,” you say, shaking your head as you watch him collapse onto the couch, arms raised in mock exhaustion.

“Unbelievably good,” Jisung corrects, winking at you.

“Annoying is more like it,” Chan quips, his smirk softening the words.

The second game kicks off, and you decide it’s time to step up. Chan and Jisung exchange a glance as you grab a ball, their eyebrows raised in mild surprise.

“You got this,” Chan says, leaning casually against the scoring console.

Jisung smirks from where he’s sprawled on the couch, his silver rings glinting as he gestures toward the lane. “Show us what you’ve learned, superstar.”

You roll your eyes but can’t hide the smile tugging at your lips. With confidence, you line up your shot, swing the ball back, and release it. It glides perfectly down the lane, straight into the pins, scattering them in a deafening crash. A clean strike.

The room falls silent for a split second before Jisung shoots up from the couch, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “We’ve been fucking hustled!”

You turn to him, feigning innocence as you shrug. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Jisung’s jaw drops dramatically. “Oh, you’re good. Real good. You just wanted us to feel you up, didn’t you?”

You duck your head, biting your lip to hide the shy smile that betrays you and Chan laughs as he steps forward, ruffling Jisung’s hair as he passes. “Oh, she did,” he says, his voice warm and teasing. “But don’t tease her too much, Ji. Look, you’ve made her all shy.”

Jisung grins, unbothered, and strides up behind you. Before you can step away, he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you against him. “Be honest,” he murmurs near your ear, his voice low enough that only you can hear. “You’ve bowled before, haven’t you?”

You nod once, still too shy to speak, and his nose brushes lightly against the side of your neck as he chuckles. “Little liar,” he whispers, his tone playful and affectionate.

Chan takes his turn at the lane, his throw smooth and precise, though he leaves two pins standing. He shakes his head as he turns back toward you, grinning as Jisung presses a kiss to the top of your head before letting you go.

While Chan preps for his spare, Jisung leans over to the control pad on the table and presses a few buttons. “You drink?” he asks, glancing at you.

You tilt your head curiously. “They have cocktails?”

Jisung nods, scrolling through the menu on the screen. “Yep. What’s your poison?”

You hum thoughtfully, tapping your lip as you consider. “Hmm. Sex on the Beach.”

Jisung freezes for half a second before turning to you with a grin so wicked it makes your heart skip. “We could have sex on the bowling lane.”

Your jaw drops as you stare at him in shock, your eyes wide. “Jisung!”

He bursts out laughing, his arms wrapping around you again as he pulls you into a tight hug. “I’m kidding! You’re so easy to mess with, it’s adorable.”

You huff, though you can’t fight the laugh bubbling up as you swat his arm. “You’re impossible.”

“And you like it,” he quips, his grin softening as he rests his chin on your shoulder.

Chan returns to the table, his spare successfully picked up, and raises an eyebrow at the two of you. “What’d I miss?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly, shooting Jisung a look as he chuckles under his breath.

“Sure,” Chan says, his eyes narrowing slightly but the smile on his lips giving him away. “Whatever you say.”

Jisung, still grinning, reaches for the pad to confirm the drink order, adding a mock toast under his breath. “To bowling hustlers and adorable liars.”

The sleek convertible pulls up in front of your apartment building, its engine purring softly before Chan cuts it off. The night air is cool, brushing against your skin as you step out of the car andJisung hops out after you, his cropped leather blazer catching the streetlight as he stretches.

“This is the part where we find out if you’re a hoarder or if you’ve got some hidden skeletons in your closet,” he teases, falling into step beside you.

Chan chuckles, locking the car as he joins you both. “Don’t scare her off, Ji.”

You lead them up the stairs, your sneakers tapping lightly against the concrete as the three of you climb to your floor. At your door, you unlock it with a faint click and push it open, flipping on the lights. The warm, lived-in space comes into view, shelves lined with books and figurines, Attack on Titan posters framing one wall, and a collection of Harry Potter merch spread across various surfaces.

Jisung steps in first, his eyes immediately scanning the room. His mouth falls open slightly as he takes in the decor. “Anime and Harry Potter?” he says, his voice filled with awe. He turns to you with a playful grin. “You’ve officially made me fall in love.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head as you kick off your shoes. “It’s not that impressive.”

“It’s fucking heaven,” Jisung declares, his eyes darting from the Levi Ackerman figurine on your shelf to the Hufflepuff throw blanket draped over your couch.

Chan is about to respond when the soft patter of paws echoes through the apartment. Simba, your golden retriever, pads out from the hallway, his tail wagging lazily as he stops in front of Chan, sniffing curiously.

“Oh my God,” Chan breathes, crouching down immediately to pet the dog. His hand brushes over Simba’s soft fur, his face lighting up with pure joy. “He's adorable"

You watch Chan coo at Simba, scratching behind his ears. The dog leans into his touch, clearly pleased.

Jisung flops onto your couch, letting out a dramatic sigh and you sit next to him. “No, seriously. This apartment is heaven. Anime, Harry Potter, and now a golden retriever?” He looks at you, his grin softening into something more genuine. “You’re perfect.”

Before you can respond, Jisung leans forward and presses a quick kiss to your lips. His touch is fleeting, like he’s testing the waters, and his eyes widen immediately as he pulls back. “Uh, shit, sorry, I-”

You cut him off by leaning in and kissing him again, your hands lightly brushing against his chest. His surprise melts into a quiet groan as he deepens the kiss, his fingers tangling gently in your hair while his other hand finds its way to the small of your back.

Behind you, Chan stands up slowly, his dark eyes locked on the two of you. There’s a heat in his gaze, his tongue swiping over his lower lip as he watches, his hands slipping casually into his pockets.

Jisung pulls away just enough to look into your eyes, his breath warm against your lips. “You’re dangerous, you know that?” he murmurs, a grin playing at the edges of his mouth.

“Only to you,” you tease, your voice barely above a whisper.

Chan steps forward, his boots clicking softly against the floor before he leans down and cups your face in his hands. His touch is gentle but firm as he tilts your chin up, his eyes searching yours for permission.

When you don’t pull away, he leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s slower, deeper, and filled with intent. His thumbs brush against your jawline as he holds you steady, the kiss sending a shiver down your spine.

As Chan kisses you, Jisung doesn’t move far. Instead, he wraps his arms around you from behind, his lips finding the curve of your neck. He presses a series of soft, lingering kisses along your skin, his breath warm and his touch featherlight.

Chan pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against yours as he glances at Jisung over your shoulder. “You good back there?” he asks, his voice rough with a mix of humor and something darker.

Jisung grins against your neck, his hands tightening around your waist. “Oh, I’m very good,” he replies, his voice muffled as he presses another kiss to your neck.

Chan brushes his thumb gently against your cheek, his gaze steady and soft despite the heat simmering in his dark eyes. “If you don’t want to go any further, let us know,” he says quietly, his voice low and reassuring. “There’s no pressure.”

You take a deep breath, the tension in your shoulders easing at his words. Meeting his gaze, you manage a small, shy smile. “My bedroom is the door at the end of the hall.”

A flicker of surprise crosses Chan’s face before it’s replaced with a warm, knowing smile. He takes your hand, his grip firm but careful, and starts leading you toward the hallway. Behind you, Jisung remains attached to your back, his arms draped loosely around your waist as he follows your movements step for step.

The short walk feels longer than it is, your heart racing with anticipation. When you reach the door, Chan opens it for you, stepping inside first to take in the space before turning back to you and Jisung. The room is cosy and well-kept, the bed neatly made with soft, neutral tones, and fairy lights strung up around the walls giving it a warm glow.

Jisung’s eyes sparkle with excitement as he steps inside, still clinging to you. “Oooh! I get to dom! I haven’t done that in a while. Chan doesn’t let me dom him!”

You let out a shy giggle as he twirls a strand of your hair around his finger. “Is that so?”

Chan snorts, closing the door behind him. “That’s because you’re a menace, Ji.”

“And you love it,” Jisung retorts, grinning as he tugs lightly on the strand of hair before letting it fall back into place.

Chan steps closer, his gaze dropping to meet yours, his voice taking on a teasing edge. “You ready for all other men to be ruined for you?”

You nod, biting your lip nervously but unable to suppress the small, eager smile that tugs at your mouth.

Jisung’s grin softens as he gently cups your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “You know this isn’t just a one-time thing, right?” His voice is quieter now, almost tentative, as if he needs to be sure.

You nod again, your hands lightly resting on his chest. “I know.”

Something shifts in Jisung’s expression, a mix of relief and exhilaration, before he leans in and kisses you, his lips warm and eager against yours. His hands slide down to your waist, gripping you firmly as he deepens the kiss. In one swift motion, he lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he presses you back against the wall.

Chan steps closer, his hands brushing against Jisung’s shoulders as he tilts his head to kiss the side of Jisung’s neck. His lips trail up slowly, leaving warm, open-mouthed kisses along Jisung’s skin, making him shiver slightly even as he keeps his focus on you.

Jisung pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his breathing uneven but his grin still intact. “Ready for this, baby?”

You nod, your hands curling around the back of his neck as your chest presses against his. With both of them here, surrounding you with their attention and warmth, you’ve never felt safer or more wanted.

Three Months Later

The Alpha Phi frat house is as chaotic as ever, laughter and the faint hum of music filling the space as you step inside with Chan and Jisung. You’re wearing black cargo trousers, a lilac cropped lace camisole, and black Converse. Your hair is clipped up messily, stray strands framing your face, and your makeup is flawless as usual.

Jisung struts beside you, his black baggy jeans slung low enough to reveal the waistband of his black boxers. His cropped black long-sleeved top and silver chain make him look effortlessly edgy, and Chan, on your other side, is the perfect counterpoint with his black cargo trousers, sleek black t-shirt, leather jacket, and matching chain.

The three of you are greeted by the sight of Minho lounging on the couch with Felix perched in his lap, their positions far too cosy for anything innocent. Felix is giggling about something, his blonde hair tousled as Minho’s arms keep him firmly in place.

“What’s going on?” Felix asks, his bright eyes darting between the three of you as you hesitate near the doorway. There’s a curious tilt to his head, but his smile is easy and warm.

You open your mouth to speak but quickly close it again, glancing at Minho with wide eyes. At the same time, Jisung nudges Chan, who scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. Minho’s grip tightens on Felix’s waist as if bracing himself for impact. His knowing smirk is the only indication that he’s been expecting this moment for weeks.

Felix frowns slightly, leaning back against Minho. “I feel like I’m missing something.”

“Uh, yeah,” Jisung says, dragging out the words with a nervous laugh. “You could say that.”

Before Felix can ask anything else, you and Jisung simultaneously push Chan forward, using him as a shield as you step behind him. “You tell him,” Jisung whispers urgently, peeking over Chan’s shoulder.

Chan sighs, giving both of you a side-eye before turning to Felix. “Okay. Felix,” he starts, his tone careful but firm. “You know Jisung and I are together, right?”

Felix blinks, his expression turning incredulous. “Obviously. I’ve heard you two fuck in every part of the house.”

Chan pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath before continuing. “Right. Well, we added a third to our relationship.”

Felix’s face lights up with excitement. “That’s great! Who is it?!”

Minho stares at Felix in disbelief, his lips parting slightly before he mutters, “Oh, Lix. You’re so pretty. So, so pretty.”

Jisung, still partially hidden behind Chan, snickers. “But dumb. Even compared to me.”

Felix’s head snaps toward Minho, his frown deepening. “Well?! Who is it?”

Minho sighs, rolling his eyes like he’s explaining something painfully obvious. “It’s Y/N.”

Felix tilts his head further, the frown deepening into confusion. “My sister Y/N?”

Chan, deadpan, replies, “No, another Y/N on campus.”

Felix’s eyes widen, looking between all of you. “Really?”

Minho groans, his hand dragging down his face. “So, so pretty.”

Everyone goes quiet, waiting for Felix to piece it together. Jisung and you peek over Chan’s shoulders, your expressions nervous but slightly amused as you watch the gears turning in Felix’s brain.

But nothing happens. Felix’s brow furrows, his mouth opening and closing like he’s about to speak but can’t find the words. Minho watches him for another few seconds before shaking his head in resignation.

“It’s not computing, is it?” Jisung whispers to you, his voice barely audible as he stifles a laugh.

You shake your head, biting your lip to hold back your own giggles. “Not at all.”

Felix finally bursts out, “Wait, so you’re telling me-”

Everyone leans in slightly, hopeful.

“-you, Jisung and Y/N are… like, all three of you?” His eyes dart between you, Jisung, and Chan, still visibly processing.

Minho buries his face in Felix’s shoulder with a groan. “Yes, baby. Yes, that’s exactly what we’ve been saying. God, you’re gorgeous, but your brain…”

Felix’s eyes narrow at Minho’s tone. “Shut up. I get it. I’m just surprised!” He turns to you, his voice higher-pitched now. “You? Really?”

Jisung pats Chan on the back. “We might be here a while.”

It’s been twenty minutes, and Felix is still sitting in Minho’s lap, staring blankly at the floor. His mouth occasionally opens as if he’s about to say something, only to snap shut again. Meanwhile, you and Jisung remain firmly behind Chan, who’s started tapping his foot against the hardwood floor, his arms crossed as his patience wears thin.

Minho gently strokes Felix’s arm, his voice soft but laced with teasing. “I know your little brain has processed it by now, baby. Come on, some emotion. Anything. You can do it.”

Felix blinks a few times before his gaze slowly shifts to you, his expression finally breaking out of the fog of shock. “Wait, wait, wait,” he says, his tone incredulous as he points at you. “You’ve never had a serious boyfriend in your life. Ever. Just random hookups! And now you come back with two boyfriends?”

Your eyes widen, and you glance at Jisung, who’s biting his lip to keep from laughing. Chan sighs heavily but stays silent as Felix continues his rant.

“What the fuck is this bullshittery?” Felix exclaims, throwing his hands in the air. “It took me twenty fucking years to lock down one man! One! She meets these guys and bam! Two boyfriends! Just like that! The universe is sexist and homophobic!”

Jisung finally bursts out laughing, clutching his stomach as he leans on Chan for support. “It wasn’t like bam!” he protests between giggles. “There was a buildup, okay? Like two months of it. And now we’ve been happily dating for three months.”

Felix’s head snaps toward him, his jaw dropping. “Three months?! How the fuck did I not notice?”

Minho, who’s been quietly holding back his own laughter, smirks. “You didn’t notice because I was deployed as your distraction.” He leans closer to Felix’s ear, his voice dropping slightly. “Every time Chan and Jisung left to see Y/N, I railed you into next week.”

Felix makes a choking noise, his cheeks going bright red. “Minho!”

Minho grins shamelessly, brushing a strand of Felix’s hair back. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Felix glares at him for a moment before sighing dramatically and turning back to you, Jisung, and Chan. He points at you, his expression serious. “Okay! Fine! But if either of you hurt her,” he says, directing his attention to Jisung and Chan, “I did taekwondo for twelve years, and I’ll fuck you up.”

Jisung salutes him, his grin wide. “Noted.”

Chan nods solemnly. “Fair warning. Got it.”

Felix leans back against Minho, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “Now, Minho, take me somewhere where I can cry, scream, and throw up to process this bullshit. Because now I have the knowledge that my friends are Eiffel towering my sister!”

He gags dramatically, covering his face with both hands as Minho finally loses his composure and laughs openly. “Alright, baby,” Minho says, standing up and hoisting Felix with him like he weighs nothing. “Let’s get you somewhere private to let it all out.”

As Minho carries Felix toward the stairs, Felix shoots you one last look, his hand flailing in mock accusation. “This isn’t over, Y/N! I need therapy!”

As Felix and Minho disappear up the stairs, you let out a heavy sigh. “Booze,” you say firmly, your tone decisive. “I need booze.”

Jisung perks up immediately, grinning like the devil himself. “The kitchen is more of a bar than a place we store food. Let’s go.” He takes your hand, leading you toward the kitchen as Chan follows, shaking his head fondly. “And hey, if you’re nice, I’ll roll us some joints.”

You raise an eyebrow at him as you step into the spacious but chaotic kitchen. “Am I not always nice?”

Jisung freezes for a second before turning to you with wide eyes and an apologetic grin. “Kidding! Kidding, baby!” He tugs you closer and presses a quick kiss to your temple. “Tell you what, we can even use my cherry papers.”

That earns a smile from you, the edges of your tension softening. “Deal.”

Chan rolls his eyes, already moving toward the counter to pull down glasses. “You two are impossible,” he mutters, but there’s no bite to his words.

Jisung skips over to a cupboard and pulls out a tin labelled Jisung’s Shit in bold, slightly crooked letters. He pops it open on the counter, revealing a neatly arranged collection of rolling papers, a grinder, and a stash that smells distinctly skunky and sweet. “What’ll it be?” he asks over his shoulder, wiggling his eyebrows. “Straight joints, spliffs, or my famous two-layer combo?”

“Famous?” Chan interjects as he pours three hefty servings of whiskey into the glasses. “Last time you made that, you couldn’t get off the couch for six hours.”

“Which means it worked,” Jisung retorts, sticking his tongue out before turning back to you. “Your call, baby.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head as you lean against the counter. “Keep it simple tonight.”

Jisung mock-salutes you, grabbing the papers and his grinder with an exaggerated flourish. As he works, Chan slides a glass into your hand, his own already in his other. “Here,” he says, his tone warm.

You take a sip, the burn of the whiskey grounding you almost immediately. Jisung hums softly to himself as he rolls, his hands deft and practised. It’s a strangely comforting sight, the three of you falling into this rhythm together, the chaos of earlier fading into the background.

Jisung finishes quickly, holding up the joint with a grin. “And voilà. Cherry perfection.” He lights it with a flourish, taking a quick puff before passing it to you.

You take it carefully, the sweet smoke curling into the air as you take a slow, cautious drag. The tension in your chest eases a little more, replaced by a warmth that’s equal parts the whiskey, the weed, and the presence of the two men beside you.

Chan clinks his glass against yours, his smile soft but teasing. “So, what’s the verdict? Does this make up for your brother’s meltdown?”

You snort, shaking your head. “It helps. He’s going to be a drama queen about this for weeks, though.”

Jisung leans against your side, draping an arm over your shoulders. “Good thing you’ve got us, huh? We’ll keep you sane.”

“You say that like you two aren’t half my stress,” you tease, earning a loud laugh from both of them.

As the night wears on, the three of you settle into easy conversation, the kitchen filled with laughter and the faint haze of smoke. It’s not perfect, and the chaos of the day still lingers at the edges, but for now, it feels enough. You’re surrounded by warmth, care, and a sense of belonging that you hadn’t expected to find but now that you have it, you’re not letting it go.

General Taglist: @nightmarenyxx

Requested By: @omgsquee2001

[imacrispian]

Now tell me why she looks like she just bought the chiefs with change to spare 🙂‍↔️

[mochinek0]

Daminette December 2022: 26-Honour

Marinette looked back at her phone, trying to follow the directions to Cosmic Threads. She was new to Gotham, but it had been listed as one of the best fabric stores in the city. She couldn't wait to create her latest design.

As she turned the corner, she was bowled over by a group of older boys.

"Sorry!" they shouted, as the continued to run down the street.

Marinette sighed as she picked up her phone from the floor. As she picked it up, she noticed a black wallet on the floor.

'Must belong to one of those boys. I can drop it off on my way back from the store.'

Suddenly, her arm was grabbed and she was face to face with The Penguin.

'Son of a bitch! No wonder why they ran! They at least could have warned me!'

The batboys winced when they saw the girl they had run into, in the arms of The Penguin. He had his umbrella gun pointed right at her and she didn't look happy. She didn't even look scared; she looked pissed off. Once they entered the fight, it wasn't hard for him to claim her as a hostage. All it had taken was a well thrown batarang to knock the umbrella out of his hand, but he had quickly tossed her off to the side. Red Hood protected her and told her to run through a side exit and was gone. No more distractions. Marinette quickly ran out only to run into the cops.

'Looks like I can't go shopping today. Guess I might as well return the wallet.'

Marinette looked inside and saw a Gotham ID. The wallet belonged to Damian Wayne.

After Marinette had given her statements, she turned to leave. She turned towards the crowd and saw the boys from before. Marinette walked up to them and threw the wallet at them.

"Thanks for the tip, Assholes!" she shouted.

Damian picked up the wallet and looked inside, "So, how much did you steal?"

Marinette was quick to punch him in his face, breaking his nose.

"You-" he cried out.

Jason and Dick held Damian in place, as she glared at him.

"How honorable you are, Coward." She sneered.

Marinette turned away and quickly let the scene. Jason let go of Damian's shirt and started laughing. Dick called for a medic to come look at his youngest brother. Tim sighed, and looked down.

'Blood? Was she injured by the Penguin?'

Tim left to follow. It hadn't been that hard to catch up with her.

"Hey, are you okay?" He asked her.

"I'm fine." she growled and continued walking.

Tim looked her over and noticed a gash on her leg. Rapidly, he picked her up. Marinette started struggling, trying to break free.

"Hey! Put me down! Help! Help!" Mari began to scream, as Tim took her back to the crime scene.

"Hey!" Tim called out, "She needs medical attention. She's just stubborn!"

"I can take care of myself" Marinette cried out.

"Oh, really?" Damian questioned, as he held a cloth to his nose, "What were you going to do? Stitch yourself up?"

"Yes." Mari answered.

Damian recoiled in shock. He looked her up and down. The gash was the length of her inner calf and appeared deep.

"I doubt you have the medical training to handle something of that magnitude." Damian declared.

"And I doubt you know how to be a gentleman!" she replied, "Oh, wait! You already proved that."

Damian glared at her as Drake hesitantly set her down.

"I can do it myself." Marinette explained.

"I can't allow that!" the EMT stated

"I was brought back against my will and do not wish to receive medical attention." she spoke, crossing her arms.

"Where are your parents?" the EMT questioned.

Marinette smiled, "Isn't emancipation the best."

The Wayne boys and the medical attendant looked at her in shock.

"Can anyone look after you?" they asked, "I have to accept you refused treatment, but I'd rather not have you go later to a hospital for blood loss."

Marinette rolled her eyes and picked up the cleaning solution from the ambulance. After she sprayed the solution on her, she grabbed the stitching needle with the thread. She quickly and easily stitched herself up. She wrapped her leg with cotton and gauze.

"Like sewing a shirt." She quipped.

Marinette hopped off the back of the ambulance and walked away.

Damian quickly grabbed her hand. Mari turned and glared at him.

"You are right. I should have spoken up as we rushed by, even grabbed your hand." he stated, "Let me do the honor of walking you home."

"I don't know." Marinette spoke, "You might attract more rouges along the way."

"Dinner then?" he suggested, "Come have dinner with us and I can make sure you are given a ride home."

She sighed, "You're not gonna stop until you redeem yourself, are you?"

"I'm told I stubborn." Damian declared.

Marinette looked at him and relented.

"Fine, but if I don't go home by seven, I'm calling the cops for kidnapping." she answered, "I'm already behind work because of you and have to get up earlier to get what I need now."

"Your injury won't hinder you?" he questioned, "Can't your boss give you a break?"

"I'm my own boss." Marinette smiled, "I do comission work from my own home. I was on my way to Cosmic Threads for some fabric."

"Maybe I can pay for your fabric then." Damian inquired.

Marinette winced, "I take hours to shop. I know exactly what I need and I'm picky when it comes to the quality of my work. It also won't be a frugal purchase."

"Don't worry." he smirked, "I can pay for it."

"Your wallet's funeral." She smiled back.

TAG LIST: @maribat-calendar-events @animeweebgirl @a-star-with-a-human-name @meme991001 @vixen-uchiha @abrx2002 @alysrose-starchild @fandom-trapped-03 @dood-space @moonlightstar64 @saltymiraculer @marveldcedits20 @09shell-sea09 @icerosecrystal @animegirlweeb @insane-fangirl-of-everything @blueblossombliss @nickristus-dreamer @megawhitleycalderonpaganus

[rrachnid]

" with great power comes gr - f ⭒ ck !! i'm late for rent again . . . "

( ji hansol , for rejects hq . ) what's up, silver ?! ji hansol , jake , geomi . twenty three on the verge of turning twenty four . expert at staying up late to work on my latest ( and brightest ! ) idea . most definitely the guy in the friend group you'd host an intervention for ( my mom totally agrees that it's part of my charm , by the way . )

⭒ DOSSIER ⭒ ABILITIES ⭒ BACKSTORY ⭒ PLOTS ⭒ TAGLIST ⭒ REJECTS ⭒

you ever brain rot on a muse so hard you feel like your excited might just force you to implode ?! yeah . . . same here !!!! i'm tenzen, and i'm so eager to shove hansol down everyone's dash!!! ^0^ i am been WAITING and dreaming to write a spider mark and i hope that you all can truly forgive my unoriginality with this one but what was i supposed to do? simply ignore this blessing???? aaaanyways... here's the intro, which also serves as a tldr because i yapped a LOT in my backstory !! additionally, please like this post if you would like me to reach out for plotting !! if you'd like to add me on discord since it's easier to plot there, please let me know!

THE BASICS !! ⭒ born in vancouver, canada, on one of the hottest summer days ever - which is ironic, truly, considering how bad he hates the weather. ⭒ mostly known as jake, though he always secretly preferred to be called hansol. ⭒ though he knew of the gene, he still happened to be a late bloomer: got it in the middle of math class, spurted silky web threads all over the hair of his crush and became a social reject after that! ⭒ his ability is arachnid physiology, by the way. ⭒ which, as you can imagine, didn't do well with people considering that spiders are apparently enemy number one of the state! ⭒ regardless, he somehow got through high school: the lack of party invites forced him to focus more on his studies, which ultimately made him graduate with honours. ⭒ and there was the scholarship too - thank god for it, considering how broke his parents were. ⭒ ( real nice folks, by the way. ) ⭒ so went to college in software engineering and his parents moved back to south korea. it was fine, totally. got amazing grades until he started to slip ( which coincidentally happened when he began to play superhero with his friends at night. ⭒ and instead of studying, naturally, he thought it would be a good idea to hack into his grade portals to turn his d's into a's. ⭒ like, honestly, it worked for a month or two. until someone noticed, until he got expelled. ⭒ though truthfully, he honestly didn't care much for school anyways. his only ever felt real drive when perched over his desk at night, working on engineering his own suit: he would get scraps he'd find in mechanical engineering labs, he would spend nights dissecting little gadgets and incorporating them in his suits. he would spend a lot of time with spiders, too - though he hated them at first, he grew to love them. they were like him in more ways than one. so he would study them until he could fully and truly become them.

⭒ he spent the next year or so in vancouver doing just that: engineering his suit, swinging around buildings, and fighting petty ( and not so petty ! ) crimes behind his mask. ⭒ he also conveniently forgot to tell his parents about the whole college thing. ( they always sounded so proud and happy on the phone: did he HAVE to disappoint them ?! )

THE PRESENT . . . ISH !!

⭒ he rushes to south korea upon hearing that his mother is sick : they tell him that it isn't bad over the phone, but when he first visits her, he can see how much she has wilted in the cold hospital bed. ⭒ he doesn't hate seoul because it sucks - he hates it because he can feel it reject him. it doesn't feel like vancouver : he doesn't know each and every corner of the city, he doesn't understand the intricacies of it. ⭒ his parents are still under the impression that he attends school in software engineering, that he has a stable job, that he isn't late on rent every . single . month . ⭒ it takes him a hot minute to adjust, but soon enough he finds himself swinging between the tall buildings of the city. people begin to recognize him here and there, and while most of them talk about him like he is a nuisance (considering the damage he often causes when fighting crime), he still does some good. ⭒ maybe it isn't so bad, after all. maybe with time, it will get better. he has always preferred to be called hansol, anyways.

[soup-of-the-daisies]

Thank you @padfootastic for tagging me ♥️♥️ I, too, have decided to make this a Saturday Snippet (because I’m working tomorrow and won’t have any time)

This is a snippet from one of the future parts belonging to they are married, your honour, my married!Prongsfoot series, featuring decent (and amusing) Orion and Walburga.

“Means we’ll share a bed, mum,” James says, very matter-of-factly. He tugs Sirius a little bit closer and squeezes Sirius’ bicep, then slides his hand lower and rests it on Sirius’ hip. “Does that explain it?”

Effie and Monty are smiling fondly. Dad looks vaguely bored. Mum looks as though she’s swallowed paint thinner.

“Good grief,” she mutters, mouth trembling. Sirius reckons it’s a little bit overly dramatic of her. “Truly, Sirius?”

Sirius opens his mouth to answer with a, ‘Yeah, mumsy, we’re shagging like rabbits’, but decides he wishes to neither die nor kill his mother today, so he doesn’t. Mum would go straight for his jugular or collapse with an acute heart attack. Both rather terrible outcomes, really.

“If you’re suspecting what I think you're suspecting, then you’ve got the right idea, mama,” he says instead.

It’s enough: mum pales dramatically, fans herself briefly with her hand, before plucking dad’s handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbing her forehead. Dad, in a show of some surprisingly blatant physical affection, briefly pats her clothed knee.

“You’re unwed,” mum informs them, rather shrilly. She then turns to Effie and leans forward, trembling. “Euphemia, they are unwed!”

“I’ve heard it’s all the rage for their generation,” Effie muses dreamily. “As long as they get married in… say, a year, I’m fine with it, Walburga. It’s not as though sodomy is a crime in Britain anymore.”

James chokes on air. Mum’s eyes seem to bulge out of her head. It’s both entertaining and terrible, and Sirius has the oddest urge to either sink through the floor or laugh.

tagging: @groundzero-v @padfootswhiskers @plecotusauritus and anyone who’d like to do it :))

[blogdeepbelieverbouquetworld]

David Tennant says Bafta film awards will be ‘evening of generosity and joy’

David Tennant has said the Bafta film awards will be an “evening of generosity and joy” rather than stars being roasted when he hosts the show this weekend.

The Scottish actor, 52, will be helming the star-studded ceremony at the Royal Festival Hall in London’s Southbank Centre on Sunday, where Oppenheimer will be leading the pack with 13 nominations.

Tennant, who recently reunited with his Doctor Who co-star Catherine Tate for the show’s 60th anniversary episodes, teased that she could make an appearance with him.

Ahead of the ceremony, he told the PA news agency: “There are some wonderful famous examples, of course, of people making terribly near-the-knuckle comments and some very funny things that we’ve all enjoyed in previous awards ceremonies, that’s not probably my style anyway, and I know that’s not what Bafta are going for.

“We want to have an evening that’s a celebration and that won’t make people feel uncomfortable and won’t have people being roasted in any way, so it will hopefully be an evening of generosity and joy and a love for this industry that is one of the great success stories of this country.

“We’re very good at the arts. There’s lots of things that we we struggle with, but the arts is something that remains one of Britain’s greatest exports, so let’s celebrate it and enjoy that and trumpet it to the world.”

Tennant admitted he felt a bit “bewildered” when he was first asked to host, but then thought: “What a laugh, what a lark.”

“It just felt like an honour and a privilege to be asked to do something so august”, he added.

“It’s just nice to be on that side of it. It’s obviously thrilling for everyone who’s nominated and there’s so many exciting films to be celebrating, but also that’s pretty nerve-racking, I just have to stand up.”

Tennant, who has also starred in crime drama Broadchurch and fantasy comedy Good Omens, has previously presented as part of Comic Relief’s Red Nose Day line-up.

He said hosting not being his normal day job has taken some pressure off of him, adding: “I sort of don’t have anything to prove, because this isn’t really what I do.

“It’ll either work and everyone will be terribly nice about it or it’ll be a total disaster and I’ll never be asked again. Either way – it’s fine.”

The actor revealed he was feeling “pretty relaxed” ahead of the show but thinks the prospect of it will become more “nerve-racking” in the lead-up to the big night.

Asked if his co-star Tate could make an appearance alongside him at the show, he said: “Listen, there’s nobody I enjoy working with more than Catherine, so who knows?”

In 2023 Tennant appeared with Tate at the TV Baftas to present the best features award to Joe Lycett VS Beckham: Got Your Back At Xmas.

As the host, he said he was staying “entirely neutral” on who he thinks could win big at the award show but praised the level of talent in the world of film this year.

“It’s been a big old year, hasn’t it? And there was that Barbenheimer moment in the middle of the year where suddenly everyone’s talking about going to the cinema and being part of an audience,” he said.

“We’re bouncing back (after) the world went through a slightly weird thing, where we all locked ourselves in our house.

“Cinema, as with theatre, which is another area that is hugely important to myself and to the arts world, they are all about people having a collective experience and sitting in rooms together…

“And it took a minute and I think this is the year where that’s bounced back…

“You look at the the shortlist and there’s some extraordinary stuff on it, extraordinary performances and brilliant pieces of work, so it’s a great year to be hosting this event.

“It feels like a bit of a bumper crop and I feel like I’ve won a prize without being up for it or having to worry about that side of it.”

Daily Record

[simpingforsimjake]

The Guilty Defence - Chapter Four

Yawning, Y/N stood up from her desk and stretches before seeing Jake come into the office in a rush.

"Late again, Sim?"

He chuckled before placing some documents on her desk and sighs.

"Sorry, l was up all night double checking these verdicts for the trial. They seem fine, and the evidence list is also in there.”

“That's good... what about the witnesses? They understood the rules of the court? We don't want them committing perjury." Y/N replied while starting to put the robes on and glances at him.

"Yes,yes. One of them testified for an another case based on their file, so it’s fine don't stress." he said before yawning tiredly.

"Don't tell me you didn't have a wink of sleep last night, you look dead."

"Not even a minute of sleep. Now let’s go, the trial is starting in 30 minutes."

----—————---

Live on SBS News: Kim Seongkyu's first trial will be held confidentially at Seoul District Court today at 2:30pm. He will be trialled for the suspection of the hit-and-run murder case of Mr Park Daeseong that occurred on the 6th March 2021 and we will find out the outcome soon. The results of the trial will be broadcasted live on SBS News at 6pm tonight. Again, if you have any suspicious details linked to the crime, please call emergency services on 119.

————————————

"Prosecutor Kim, you may begin to cross-examine the defendant."

"Yes, your honour." Y/N says before standing up and goes over to the witness stand.

"Kim Seongkyu, on the morning of the 6th March between 8:10am and 8:30am, could you explain what you were doing?"

Mr Kim sighs before replying:

"I was on my way to work after dropping my son off at college."

"However, you got into a hit-and-run and caused the murder of Mr Park Daeseong? You do realise that you could be imprisoned for five years if you are to be found guilty?" Y/N interrogated before turning to the screen with the CCTV footage.

"Sir, in the footage, you can see that Mr Kim seemed to be in a rush before hitting Park Daeseong at 8:30am that morning. But he then just sped off without checking for any injuries-"

"It was involuntary! I needed money to pay off my-" Mr Kim exclaimed before getting interrupted.

"No talking unless asked, defendant." the judge said before looking at Y/N. 

"You may continue."

Y/N sighs before glancing over at Jake and then back at Mr Kim. 

"It shows in your medical records that you were guilty of drunk driving two years ago Mr Kim. Was that also unintentional?"

"Objection your honour! She's misleading the defendant." Jake said before staring at Mr Kim and then at Y/N before sitting back down in his seat.

"Prosecutor Kim, please refrain from misleading the case." the judge said.

Y/N nods before turning back to Mr Kim. 

"So, Mr Kim, you are claiming to be innocent, but did anyone coerce you into doing the hit-and-run for money? Does this person have any connections with you?"

"Why would I do it on my own behalf-"

"Only answer with a yes or no, Mr Kim." Y/N retorts at him. 

He grunts before answering,

"Yes, but I needed money! I was told that I would get money to pay off my debt if I did the hit-and-run and he said that he would definitely pay me-"

"'He'? You also mentioned this 'he' person during your interrogation. Could you tell us who it is?" 

Mr Kim just stayed quiet, before sipping on some water and clears his throat.

"No more questions, your honour." she stated before going back to her seat, the tension in the air getting heavier with each passing minute. 

"We will take a short 25-minute break." the judge said before standing up and leaves the courtroom.

———————————

This chapter is split into two, so the second part will be in chapter 5

Thank you for reading.

Cassie.

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

let's say i need a crash course into early modern/late middle age criminal law of wallachia, not in-depth enough to defend a thesis but good enough to write a historical crime novel in a way a salty historian wouldn't completely tear it down.

what pointers would you give me, what should i read up? what should i, in your niche and macabre-esque tastes and opinions, include? what mistakes are obvious to someone who's studied the era, but a layperson would miss?

(it's for, uh, dnd reasons)

oh hey oh hey!

[I want to front-foot with something I end on and that’s don’t write with the opinions of others in mind. This includes, don’t research for your writing with the opinions of others in mind. It’s stressful and there’s no pleasing everyone. I get into it a little bit at the end of this reply, but I wanted to mention it quickly at the start as well.]

Oh man. Man oh man. Giving myself a crash-courses on a new field can be a bit of a ride. My personal approach is the: Bibliography Rabbit Hole. 

If I’m net-new to a topic, I’ll get a decent overview text—wikipedia works fine for this purpose, as do some “laymen’s” history books—which allows me to get my bearings. My sealegs, so to speak. In this case, something on mediaeval and early modern Wallachia—just to familiarise myself with the big players (voivods, other landowners, church leaders etc.) and what the systems are that people were operating in (casts/classes, treaties, ruling families, liege-patronage systems, legal system, religious and cultural systems, education, gender/sexuality/marriage etc.). 

As I’m going through my overview I’ll make note of anything that’s relevant to the specific avenue I’m after. So if the text glosses, perhaps at a high level, the importance of the jurisdictional difference between ecclesiastical and secular courts of law, I’ll see if there’s a reference/bibliographical note to follow up on. 

Historians tend to focus on specific areas of study therefore if John Doe wrote about church law in Targoviste in the 13th century—there’s a high likelihood John Doe has also written about church law in other areas within Transylvania and Wallachia. Indeed, there’s a chance he’s written about the legal system more broadly in that area in the mediaeval period. 

From John Doe I can see who he references, what books he’s contributed chapters to, what conferences he’s attended and like as not I’ll find more references and historians whose work I can look into. 

Some good places to start searching around on are google scholar, academia.edu, jstore, researchgate, SAGE journals, public library and so on. Google books will sometimes let you preview a text to see if it’s worth chasing down. And I know you know this - but discernment is key when picking through sources. Peer reviewed, reputable publications, when was it published etc. etc. 

So that’s my approach to crash-coursing a topic. In terms of what I would want to see/recommend including? I’m afraid I can’t really answer that without knowing more of the story! Who are the characters, what’s the rough plot, what aspect of the law are we seeing? that sort of thing. That would help me have an idea of what I might want to see if I was reading something (or playing dnd? I’ve never had the chance to play, unfortunately, so I’m answering this more as a general writer). 

It’s hard to explain how I can tell if another writer is deeply engaged in a topic with which I’m very familiar, but I definitely can. Some stuff will be little things - like in Confessions of the Fox the modern interpretation of a 17th century municipal bylaw drove me nuts. Other things will be more glaring, though I can’t think of anything off hand. It also depends on what the creator is trying to do—these are film references, but I don’t go into "A Knight’s Tale" expecting accuracy lol. When "Little Hours" played around with including modern things (she’s on drugs!) it was doing so winkingly and in a way I think Boccaccio would have enjoyed and honours his original work.

In my own work, I definitely blend in modern-isms because I’m going for essence and texture of living, breathing people over strict accuracy of how they would have sounded when speaking because as modern readers, it can detract from the overall experience. How Anne Carson approaches translating poetry is how I approach translating the past to the present in fiction. Not everyone is like that though, and if you’re writing a hard-core, serious history novel then yeah, I’d say keep language as close to how they would have sounded in, idk, 1432. 

Also, there’s no pleasing everyone. So I wouldn't, fundamentally, worry about what curmudgeonly historians will think of your work because they’ll never be happy. I would approach it in the sense of “I did what I could, with the resources I had to hand, and the work I have created does what I want it to do. It tells the story how I want it to be told”. If you later want someone to do a history-check on it, that’s always an option. But yeah, I wouldn’t hyper-focus on that. 

In addition, when I research I like to think of it as exploring a new world and I want to make that world feel alive to readers. I want them to know the smells and soundscapes and feel of the air. If I come at it from that perspective, that it’s about painting with words and knowledge, and not the perspective of: oh gods, I hope my old supervisor doesn’t judge me horrifically for factual inaccuracies, then I find the research to be that much more enjoyable and the process of writing/creating that much easier and less stressful. 

--

Addendum: Lent by Jo Walton, she references the Savonarola Chair as if it were of his design and it’s not, it’s just a relatively modern term for a popular type of chair at the time (Dante Chair or Luther Chair is also what it’s called). This brings me to a point: always double check the well known “facts” or “common knowledge” of something. That’s a good general rule of thumb for sure.

--

Thank you so much for the ask! <3 <3

[ali-annals]

4: cutting me open then healing me fine

Invisible String Masterlist PREVIOUS NEXT AO3

And isn't it just so pretty to think/All along there was some/Invisible string/Tying you to me?

In June, Damian graduated from Gotham University.

Marinette took him out to BatBurger to watch the latest X-men movie to celebrate. Damian critiqued the fight scenes and Marinette judged the fashion. During their ice cream, they finalized their plans to introduce her to the Waynes–the Batfamily would come later.

They strolled back to Marientte’s house and Marinette headed to the kitchen to make some tea, as the wind had cooled off the air on their way back.

In the living room, Damian enlisted the help of the kwami to set up his surprise.

Hearing his soulmate come down the hallway, he jumped up to take the tray and place it on the table. The kwami bobbed around the room, holding candles.

The floor had more lit candles flickering in the breeze, interspersed with roses and wildflowers of various colours.

She gasped and put her hands over her mouth as he knelt in front of her, holding a box in his hand.

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng, I love you. Even if we weren’t soulmates, I like to think that I would have chosen you to build a life with. Every time I see you or hear you or even just get a text from you, my day becomes a little brighter. Will you do me the immense honour of becoming my wife?”

“Absolutely! Yes! I love you too, Damian, so much.” She flung her arms around his neck and let the happy tear escape.

Damian slid the gold, sapphire, and diamond ring on her left ring finger.

“This was one thing my mother gave me when I last saw her,” he said. “It was her mother’s.”

The couple curled up on the couch, talking quietly together.

The kwami blew out the candles and smiled happily at the scene, glad their Guardian had found her soulmate and was so happy with him.

~~~

Were there clues I didn't see?

On the twenty-second of June, Chloe drove Marinette to 1007 Mountain Drive.

Alfred answered Mari’s knock. “How may I help you, Miss?”

‘May I see Damian Wayne, please?”

“I’m afraid he’s occupied at the moment. Whom shall I say is asking?”

‘He’s expecting me, Mr. Pennyworth. Mademoiselle Dupain-cheng.”

Damian came downstairs. ‘Who’s there, Alfred?”

Titus came bounding to greet Mari, and she bent over him, cooing at him as she rubbed his ears.

“How unusual. Normally, Titius does not greet strangers. It’s a Mlle. Dupain-Cheng, Master Damian. She says you are expecting her.”

“Oh, this early? Yes, I am.” He approached Mari, nodding at Chloe, who was standing behind her. “Hello.”

“Hey, Damian. Um, is everyone in position?”

“I believe so. This family is rather unpredictable. Alfred, is the family in the living room or the den?”

“Living room, Master Damian. Shall I prepare tea?”

“Yes, please. Thank you, Pennyworth.”

Chloe stepped around Mari, who was occupied with loving Titus. “Hey, loverboy. Filming okay?”

“Yes. Send it to me to review first, though, please.”

“Sure.”

The trip arrived at the living room, where Bruce, Tim, Dick and Kor’i, Jason, Babs, Cass, and Steph were gathered quietly.

Babs and Bruce were playing chess while Cass observed, Steph was painting Dick’s nails while Kori gave her a pedicure, Jason was reading, and Tim was on his laptop ‘in the crime-solving zone.’

They all looked up at the unknown visitors but saw Damian with the two girls and relaxed slightly.

“Grayson, Todd, Drake, Brown. I believe I win the bet. This is MDC, better known as Marinette Dupain-Cheng., and her manager-slash-friend, Chloe Bourgeois. Pay up."

Grumbles filled the room as wallets were emptied into Damian’s outstretched hand.

Bruce looked at them tiredly, then up to Mari.

“I apologize for his manners. Did he drag you here, possibly against your will?”

Marinette laughed. “No, I’m friends with him. I came here of my own accord and am quite used to D’s behaviours."

“I loooovee your work!" gushed Steph. "Is it true you know Fairy and Jagged Stone? Your fits on them are sensational!” 

“Yes, I’m their main designer and stylist. I do some work for Clara Nightingale and other celebrities as well.”

Tim raised his head and stared hard at them. “You’re the girl crying in Louie’s!”

Marinette stared at Chloe, who said, "Dive bar, October 5, two years ago.”

“Ohhh. Yes, I am. You’re antidote-brother Drake.”

The family stared at Tim and Marinette in confusion.

Chloe explained.

“October fifth, a year and a half ago, Marinette ran into Damian, who thought he was drugged. He told us to find ‘Drake', who would have the antidote to said drug.”

“He wasn’t drugged, but he slapped himself anyways. I love that part,” chuckled Jason, standing up to meet them properly.

“So he really didn’t insult you and you didn’t slap him?” Dick asked curiously.

“No, I watched him do it himself," Mari said. “You’re Dick, married to model Kory Anders?”

"Yep!”

Marinette greeted each family member correctly, even before they introduced themselves.

“Aww, you talk about us to your friends, Baby Bird?”

Damian ignored Dick’s cooings but Marinette grinned, seeing the opportunity for chaos.

“Oh, he often tells me about you. You guys running into each other is the highlight of my week!” she grinned.

The Waynes exchanged glances. They only ran into each other on patrol, mid-air.

“Will you stay for lunch, Mlles. Dupain-Cheng and Bourgeois?” asked Alfred, coming in with the tea.

“If it’s not an imposition…”

“Not at all; maybe the presence of such polite young ladies as yourselves will inspire them to act civilized for once,” sniffed Alfred.

The girls smirked.

~~~~~

At lunch, Marinette was seated beside Damian and Bruce. Chloe was between Bruce and Jason. Beyond Jason were Dick, Lory, and Babas, and to Damian’s right were Cass, Steph, and Tim.

“So, Marinette, you met Demon Spawn in October?” Jason flicked his fork back and forth. “He doesn’t normally open up so fast– whoops.”

The fork ‘slipped” and sailed towards the guest.

Not batting an eyelash, she caught it just before it hit her neck and sweetly handed it back, replying. “Yes, we just felt a connection. Some similar experiences, we just felt… drawn to each other, and now I think he’s one of my best friends, barring Chloe and my-pet, Tikki.”

"Huh, that’s a nice ring.” Bruce complimented, noticing the flash of colour on her hand.

She smiled at him. “Thank you. It’s my fiance’s mother’s ring, so it’s very special to me.”

“Oh, you’re engaged? Congratulations!”

“Thank you. He’s very sweet. All my friends and family approve of him as well, so I’m glad I don’t have to worry about that. I haven’t officially met his, yet.”

“Oh, I’m sure they’ll love you. You seem like a wonderful young lady.”

“I’m glad you think so, Mr. Pennyworth. This meal is quite delicious, by the way."

“Why, thank you, Miss Marinette.”

“I hope you’ll meet your fiance’s family soon before you’re married.”

“I’m actually meeting them right now.”

A couple of seconds later the table exploded while Chloe laughed behind her phone and Marinette casually ate her soup.

“Who are you engaged to?!”

Marientte blinked at Tim. “Damian, of course.”

“Did he kidnap you, threaten your pare-” Jason was cut off by a sharp look from Chloe.

“No, he asked and I said yes. You’re all invited to the wedding; it’s the tenth of October.”

~~~~~

“You’re engaged after knowing each other for eight months?”

“Yes, we’ve seen each other almost every day and know… enough about each other. I don’t think there are any big secrets we haven’t told each other.”

The family eyed them from behind their glasses. Does she know he’s Robin?

“No offence, but we’d like to do a background check on you,” said Tim.

“Some taken,” she replied. “You think Damian wasn’t thorough enough? But since I’m aware that’s how you show you care, go ahead.”

“...So, you design and make clothing?”

“In basic terms, yes. I have a storefront in Gotham called Lucky Charms. My home address is 195 Andes Plaza. You’ll find most of my information is from Paris, so I do hope you speak French.”

“Of course, we all do. Bruce made us learn for…business. WE has a branch in Paris,” covered up Tim.

“Oh, it is a family venture, that’s nice. My parents had a bakery, and I often helped out.”

“Had?”

“It burned down the night I met you. I’d just been informed there were no survivors,” said Marinette coldly.

The conversation died down a little.

~~~~~

After Damian took Marinette and Chloe home, the family retreated to the Batcave to research Marinette, aka MDC.

Glowing reviews from Jagged Stone, Audrey Bourgeois, Clara Nightingale, Adrien Agreste, huh…Fairy wasn’t nearly as enthusiastic about MDC’s work, though that’s all she wears.

After a bit more searching, Babs found Mari’s birth certificate and her parents’ death certificates, confirming she was who she said.

Then Tim hacked into Mari’s school records. “Great grades till our equivalent of Grade 8, then they slip for a quarter, then back up, but not nearly as high as before. Something happened then– can you guys find anything?”

“No, nothing in the media…nothing comes up in personal, either…She starts going for therapy at a Master Fu’s…for two years. She was fifteen when he died.”

“Therapy for what? Physical? Mental?”

“I don’t know.”

“Her school records are great. She’s the class president….who basically does the teacher’s job for her! The class loves her…there are two transfers…reports of bullying increase…why are they ignored?!” exclaimed Babs, hacking deeper into the college’s records. “She’s expelled, but it’s retracted. She skips a grade and graduates early…”

“I see we have some things to look into. Anything else? More recent?”

“The class suddenly stop being her friends. Two remain by her side…Chloe and Adrien Agreste. Two friends outside of school…her social life dies after that grade drop in Grade 8.”

“Something’s off about her…her address is two blocks away from us. How does she have enough money to buy it in cash? Check Damian’s records; does his bank account look like he’s acting out of character? Increase in spending since October?” Bruce looked up from his studying of Mari’s records and addressed his children.

“She also bought Lucky Charms in cash, and a motorcycle.”

“Nothing new in Damian’s bank accounts, although he did buy a suit from MDC worth a chunk, it’s not enough to financially support anyone for a long time, especially not at Marinette’s current spending level."

“Marinette routinely purchases large amounts of fruits and vegetables, sugar cubes, and Camembert. It’s a lot and way too frequent for two girls living alone, even if they were both vegetarian.”

Damian entered the Batcave. “Is there anything you would like to ask me about Marinette?”

“What’s up with her eating habits?”

Damian looked confused, then appeared to realize something. “Don’t judge people’s eating habits; that is quite rude.”

“Why does Marinette as Marinette have no friends or social media?”

“Tt. Not everyone is an internet addict these days. Some people value their privacy, especially when they’ve been relentlessly bullied since middle school because classmates lied about them.”

“Why did she need therapy in Grade 8? What happened?”

“A transfer student arrived, was jealous of her and spread lies, causing her to be bullied by her so-called ‘friends’. There was a supervillain terrorizing Paris from then till June two years ago, when Paris’s heroes defeated him. I was told the mayor refused to let them contact the League, and it was decided to be for the best. Marinette was once a temporary hero called Multimouse, and Bourgeois used to be Queen Bee. Now that the situation is over, you should be able to access articles from Paris about Hawkmoth and the Miraculous Team.”

The Batfamily frantically turned their detective skills to this shocking development, and Robin and Spoiler headed out on patrol.

[harumirart]

My Friend's Assumptions about Battle Tendency! (She's only seen a few episodes)

Spoilers!

Joseph: survives, he wins and becomes a hamon master. Gets good at hamon. Absorbs all the hamon power in the universe which is why it isn't used in part 3.

Speedwagon: okay in the end, chills with Erina for the whole time acts like the guy on the computer (guy behind the scenes who hacks into places whilst communicating to the protagonists through radio) giving joseph motivation throughout part 2.

Erina: also fine. Dies of old age off screen like speedwagon.

Smokey: he lives he's cute. Completely unnecessary for the plot so he'll disappear. Scratch that he MIGHT DIE cause my friend hasn't seen him in any fanart.

Von stroheim: gets killed by Lisa Lisa or ceaser. Someone other then Joseph. Explodes for his war crimes.

Ceaser: He dies he gets squashed, SHE KNOWS, SHES SEEN FANART. and Joseph is like NOOOOOOO! His relationship with Joseph is like a rated pg 13 of Griffith and Guts (from Berzerk) cause one is blonde and gets all the girls BUT CEASAR WOULD NEVER RAPE ANYONE OMG GRIFFITH SUCKS. and Joseph is good, and they have a rivalry. Anyway, ceaser dies heroically. They are fighting kars and and he pushes Joseph out of the way of the big rock, and he gets squashed. He's also ITALIAN. his grandpa was Mr led zeppelin and he wants to be as good at hamon as Zeppeli. He learned that Baron Zeppeli died for jonathon, so now he's angry at Joseph. ALTERNATIVELY, he comes to serve  the joestars and thinks it's a real honour and is expecting a jonathon type but then meets Joseph and is SEVERELY DISAPPOINTED. that's why he always looks pissed cause, he wanted an honorable himbo but got whatever Joseph is.

Lisa Lisa: Joseph's deadbeat mom. Spent Joseph's whole childhood getting good at hamon. Returned and is like holy shit how long was I training oh shit my son is old. And approaches him to train him.

Alternately she's the best hamon teacher ever. Joseph is like "A GIRL IS THE BEST HAMON TEACHER?" And then learn to be less sexist.  ceaser is like yo that's my harmon teacher wtf stay away Joseph but she's like "omg it's my long lost son uhhhhhh I'll teach you"

Hamon users are attracted to eachother like stands lol.after their training she says to Joseph " I have something I've been hiding from you"

Joseph replies "That your in love with me."

She says " No I'm your mom."

He says "HOLY SHIIIT."

Ceaser is like "THATS WHY YOU FOVOURED HIM " (in italian) she fucks off after they complete their training but comes back at the end to help fight in a final battle.

She survives.

Santana: dies, gets defeated. He's sleepy and he put himself in that rock (she's talking about the pillar he was found in) and that's why he's attacking everyone cause he's pissed they destroyed his rock. He's so one who kills ceaser with the rocks. He hits people with rocks. That's his power.

Wham: he was one of the old astec people that's in the Round About ending. He actually made the masks. And Joseph is like, "WHY?" And he's like, "I was bored it's either I make sun dials or I make masks. But then I decided I could turn people into vampires. " / JK CARS COMES TO HIM like Jesus and is like "MAKE MASKS" and wham is like "yo anything you say dude." Strictly work relationship with the rest of the pillar men.

Acdc: he's the sadistic one. He made his outfit and he makes SAW traps. He's like Ciocolatta and gets off on fear. Maybe he's the one who kills ceaser cause he made a rock trap to kill Joseph but ceaser saved him and dies instead. He was old school friends with CARS that's why he's hanging out with the pillar men.

Cars: OLD AF. older than humans. He wants to be a God and kill everyone. He's an evil vampire. He's the leader just cause he's the oldest. He ripped them apart with his bare hands. HE'S A BEAST. he's like if a gorilla knew how to lay a trap and maybe use a phone. His plan is to pretend to be an old woman or a dog but be like "SURPRISE. IT'S ME CARS" and beats them to death. He can disguise his voice and lure people in and kill him. Is pushed out into the sun and dies.

[milo-my-beloved]

things we don't say

A continuation of the some other life 'verse.

Playlist 🎵 Buy me a cup of tea ☕

Chapter Seven: The Night We Met

"How was your weekend?" Nikolai asks as soon as Inej steps through the door of The Little Palace on Monday morning.

"Oh, you know." She shrugs, tying her apron around her waist. "I planned and successfully pulled off a heist, performed with my ex-boyfriend to a room full of the richest people in Kerch, was maid of honour at a wedding, and threw an upstanding mercher out of my friend's house."

Nikolai stares at her for a few seconds. "Not much, then. Zoya, honey, come and listen to the list of crimes your best barista has committed over the weekend, so I don't gaslight myself into believing his conversation never happened."

Zoya raises an eyebrow. "Please, describe how your life is more interesting than mine."

Inej curses the fact it's Nina's day off, but tells them anyway. She tries to focus on Wylan and Jesper — their wedding was the reason behind the heist, anyway — but she can't miss Zoya's incredulous expression and Nikolai's smirk every time she mentions Kaz.

"You still never told us why you broke up," says Zoya, turning on the coffee machine.

Inej sighs, leaning against the counter. There are never any customers this early in the morning. "It's not for me to say."

"Mysterious," Nikolai says. "Or are you holding out on us because you think there's a chance at rekindling the romance, perhaps?"

She smiles. She's waited for Kaz to call for two months, and a part of her would love for them to go back to what they were. But if he doesn't want to open up to her, she won't hold her breath.

"I certainly hope so," that familiar rock-salt rasp says from behind her.

Inej spins around, glad that her bronze skin disguises her blush. How long has Kaz been standing behind her? Nikolai and Zoya must have seen him walk up to the counter and not warned her, the traitors.

Zoya hands him a black coffee. "Two sugars. Take your break, Inej."

Continue reading under the cut // Continue reading on AO3.

"I feel like I'm being ganged up on," she mutters, but she follows Kaz over to a table hidden in the corner of the cafe.

He takes a sip of his drink instead of jumping straight into whatever he wants to say. It must be hot enough to burn his tongue, but he doesn't flinch.

"Is this about Jesper and Wylan?" she asks. If she doesn't prod him for answers, her break will be over by the time he explains why he's sought her out.

"No, they're fine. From what Matthias said, they're... enthusiastically celebrating their new marriage."

Inej laughs. "Poor Matthias. I bet he's regretting his choice of roommate already."

"I actually..." He trails off, staring into his coffee like it might hold the answers to life. "I wanted to tell you what my nightmare was about."

Inej sits up straighter. "You don't have to. You don't owe me the truth if you don't want to tell it."

His eyes meet hers, and she realises they're the same colour as the coffee. "I know. But I want to be that better man you spoke of, if you'll let me."

She smiles, tilting her head to one side. "I'd like that."

He takes a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever memory he is about to dredge up. "There was an accident, when I was a child." He looks like he's fighting every word that leaves his mouth. "My — my brother took me on a cruise. We weren't going far, just from Lij to Ketterdam. But on the way, he got seasick."

Inej's heart sinks.

"He had to stand at the back of the boat so he could vomit into the water. I laughed at him for being so green. And when we were nearly there, when Fifth Harbour was just in sight... he fell in."

She reaches a hand across the table, waiting for Kaz's silent permission before squeezing his gloved fingers.

"I'm not sure what happened. I think he hit his head on the way down. But I leapt in after him, and the boat never noticed two missing boys. I nearly didn't make it to the harbour, but when I got to Ketterdam, Jordie was dead."

"Kaz..." Inej trails off, not sure what words could ease such a loss. "I'm so sorry that you both went through that."

He shakes his head, taking a shaky breath through his mouth. "I've never told anyone before."

She squeezes his hand tighter. "Thank you for trusting me," she says, and she really means it. "How does it feel?"

"Painful. Raw." He places his other hand on top of hers, brushing his thumb over her hand absentmindedly. "But... good."

"Good," Inej echoes.

He lets go to take another sip of his coffee, looking down at it again. "I might need something stronger than this to drink, though."

She grins. "Nikolai owes me an afternoon off. How about we go and get spectacularly drunk?"

He smiles, and it feels like the beginning of a new chapter. "That's the best idea I've heard all week."

*****

The first stop on their quest to get as drunk as possible is the tiny (overpriced) shop on campus, and then back to Inej's flat to drink the cider they bought.

She doesn't bother getting changed, and makes sure she doesn't bring anything important with her that isn't a necessity. Inej isn't much of a drinker, but she's had to pick Jesper up from enough parties to know that drunk people are incapable of keeping track of their belongings.

Once they've finished their drinks and Kaz has beaten her at three rounds of Uno, they walk into the center of Ketterdam with another bottle of cider each. It's only fifteen minutes away, which is a blessing because the buses in this city never show up when they're supposed to.

The weather is pleasant for this time of year, and the fruity taste of the cider reminds Inej of her mother's autumn apple pies.

They have dinner in a pub in town — a burger for Kaz, and a waffle for Inej — and then they make their way to the same shady club that they went to on the night they met.

Inej buys them both two rounds of drinks so she doesn't have to keep getting up to walk to the bar and then sits next to Kaz in the same booth where he broke a creep's hand with his cane the last time they were here. They sip their drinks in peace — gin and tonic for Inej and a vodka lemonade for Kaz — giggling about the quality of dancing and the choice of music. They only leave when a bouncer recognises them and threatens to throw them out.

When the night air hits her, Inej feels like she could fly. She throws her arms out and runs down the hill of a cobbled street in a decidedly wonky line, laughing to herself and grinning up at Kaz.

"Where to now?" she asks once he's caught up.

His eyes light up with the wicked sparkle she's missed so much. "How about we find ourselves a house party?"

There's no shortage of parties in Ketterdam, especially not in the Barrel. Inej has never had much of a reason to stray this far from the university, but Kaz assures her he knows where he's going, so she's happy to follow him to their next destination.

It ends up being one of the narrow houses perched on the canal. For a Monday night, the house is packed, and as soon as Inej walks through the front door, she knows she isn't going to make it to her 9am lecture tomorrow.

They drink unnaturally flavoured punch from a bowl, and then Kaz pours himself a whiskey and Inej grabs a can of gin and tonic and they make their way into the garden.

"I'm sorry," Inej says as soon as they sit down on the unmowed grass. They aren't the only people outside, but she doubts the two women arguing at the bottom of the garden care about their conversation.

"About what?" asks Kaz. He stretches out his bad leg, laying his cane next to him. She can just see the crow's beak peeking through the long grass, and it makes her smile.

"Leaving."

She's replayed that night over and over a million times in her head, wondering what would have happened if she had stayed. The guilt kept her up at night, and now she knows the truth, she only feels worse about pressuring Kaz to tell her about his past.

"Don't apologise for that." Kaz takes a sip of his drink. "You were right to go."

She leans back on her hands, looking up at him.

"It was the push I needed," he admits. "You were right. I needed to tell someone. And losing you is the only thing worse than facing my demons."

"Still," she says.

"If you're insisting on apologising for that, then I'd like to say sorry for telling you to leave in the middle of the night."

She smiles up at the moon. "If you insist."

It's a clear night, and the wind is blowing the cool water from the canal at the bottom of the garden up to them. She shivers and edges closer to Kaz. Without saying a word, he shrugs off his blazer and wraps it tight around her shoulders.

"I missed you," she admits, burying her nose in the collar of his jacket and laying her head on his shoulder.

"I missed you too."

The two women's argument steadily increases in volume. They're both slurring their words, and are only a few steps away from the water, so Inej really hopes they can both swim.

She turns her gaze back up to the stars. She can't tell whether the alcohol is making her confident, or if the words are just long overdue, but she says them anyway.

"Kaz?"

"Mmm?"

"I think I love you."

He doesn't speak for a minute, but she doesn't risk turning to see his reaction in case she breaks the spell.

Eventually, he says, "You think?"

"I know," she quietly corrects.

"Well, in that case," he says, turning to look down at her so their faces are only a few inches away. "I know I love you too."

She closes the distance between them, Kaz's blazer slipping off one of her shoulders as she lifts her arm to wrap it around his neck.

They're rudely interrupted by a loud splash, and they break away to find one of the women flailing about in the canal.

Both of them burst out laughing at the same time, and it takes a while for them to calm down, especially when the woman squelches past them with a glare.

"What time is it?" Inej asks, when she's able to talk again.

"Time to go home," Kaz suggests. "I'll call a cab."

"Wait," she interrupts, a ridiculous revenge plot forming in her mind. "Let's call Jesper instead."

Maybe his last call was the one that got her and Kaz together, but she's still salty about being woken up at 2am.

"I'll call Jesper," Kaz says. She can only describe the grin on his face as evil, and it makes her desperate to kiss him again. "And you can call Wylan."

Laughing, they take turn making the calls. When both Jesper and Wylan have promised that they're on their way, they lie back on the grass, still giggling as they wait for their ride.

*****

Inej wakes up the next morning with her stomach rolling and stars exploding behind her eyes. She sits up slowly, Kaz's limp hand sliding off her and onto the mattress.

She rubs her eyes, trying to remember what happened last night. They went out, but how did they get home? She doesn't remember much after leaving the club, if she's honest.

Luckily, there's an orange square taped to Kaz's forehead. She leans closer to read it, not wanting to wake him up by accidentally shaving his eyebrows off.

Congratulations for sorting out your shit, Jesper's handwriting reads.

Inej smiles. There's still a million things left for both of them to say, but this time, she won't be letting Kaz go so easily.

She kisses him on the forehead, and then slips out of bed silently. Before they can face their future, she needs two things: breakfast, and a glass of water.

[libidomechanica]

Cald it anew, and now no more, wont do it

A ballad sequence

               First Stanza

From their ferocities produced     when brought, and I do love. To gather flower, nor felt but     a tavern song.—Alas!

In one to such pretty follie I     can’t account of sea, that Indian bliss! The tiger and     public day,—quite the human

hear me and frosty hoar, join     dancing moon I write above a mortals, cavil not after     fearing its back upon

the tea, among the apostrophe—     ’O thou! Atlantic continents or islands, the     cursed Malayan create

his own assertion, which she is     so confounding. Feature wear! For all of incongruities:     be her cheek melts, and thee.

And all beauty had! Close up its     five hundred touch, and when art exercised in nature’s sigh     alone kingdom and thy

well-content thee, Cynara! So,     to one so beautiful in my heart, throbbed to him they     sail, slowly twins emerged.

               Second Stanza

When great care he cranks and find tongue.     Youthful morn Hath travell’d by mee, and pay and hurl, my inside,     from it preached to a vice. A summer’s hell: yet this starving     blood knots in space, both together if i could mean no     harm unto a patriot

nations; they never chance; but     know, the pale new moon sad Zephyr droop; three zodiacs filled; where     the king and he arose, advance he red for thinking from     his den, and the rain of much deplore, since we are; let us     fare on forest for

drink the questioning witchery     of her veins, in the we moonshine. Lo! To grasp our lips and     over. This festivity? Shaking, to whom love was plunged     down into nothing all.— Their plenty press me sharply, and     of art, the choice is dumb

as the second life’s death, may say     he’s been tried so much long have goaded. Where Beauties as he     shoulders the good small mine eyes. But all made one prison, and     saw my white should come—so sure I? Are prosecuted for     his palate fine; his father

of time,—sluggish and well; tis     much, which rain’d, unchain’d, in chisell’d stones, and wonder! But he     is enrag’d, grew more low, mounted on the path has loved a     precious there is not enough. Heart which her constantly leans,     the curb next to a crime

is perpetual motive forth     again; throwing old, but can never would hear me and i     would fain know where it staineth, or as they grew grey to heare.     Where Max like I’m singing angels, muse, what of heaven. How     blest the bank. Say that

Wellington at Waterloo was beaten—     though his first time; then, since gold alone project reach’d him,     and hell, my females are, to see and now no more divine,     more pleasant vale descry a favour lose all, what news were     here; his velvet, and now

my heart’s right in Autumn’s sky, and     more of names are weak: a single twig. Before one leaf put     forth into something mythological it was a great     sang-froid, and water, yet are all cut to peep, to gaze, insteed     of Atlas tyrd, your

flattery; but get an aged,     helpless where she shakes the one you willing tide homeward they     are disputing in time to pass, so much hands I bless my     youth rise fresher, and lain in the scarlet cloak, alas! And     the moment done: Dear and

how to cut and beauty save young     Semele such though the Prince de Ligne was well night, and wake.     People as it occurr’d— it might seemed as they might say, a     poem I want to live in suffer this worth while, after     nightdress, smelling. Carcasses,

hand down the eyes of their eyes     had cut him down. I dare not; the leaves they daunce. His eyes, and     studying inuention, when the four and honour and his     latest moan; and heroes gone! At once to me, and chopp’d with.     A fell’d tree, ye’ll slip frae

me like dreamed thee; nor at each one     is when the sea of slaughter. Life’s fair shadow wept, and yet     not a Moslem orphans young; and again, I rather good     wife. At this steed him to her best wits to entrance hero—     for what peace be my deare

borrow the nation, which with a     ring at what to you; And whatsoe’er may thy lips another     men; whose maiden Aunt took this feast and louely Nymphes. And     distrait, and as the last time in life, the light upon thy     brave, which proves the harper’s

skill, do long booming Morne upon     him this extensive o’er some hours, and here kneeling pasture     murmured, sown with sword that friar? Of sunrise, dart: with prince,     and over the soiree too were left to sport himselfe, and     lately take them with infant

came to it dearly they hunt     with gore; whereat it grumbles into you now I look up,     to drop of raine once lost, and even with scars, straight mine eye     and honouring, or laces, and worse, was obliged to     Why do you, Cynara!

               Third Stanza

Your bonny blue eyes that he begins to woo him.     That were but both the yews of night in some mischance precipitately in otherwhere     pure sports along the banks of Earn,

and bled, at whatsoever rise, in sadness to     sing my Highland lassie, O. When the winds are arming, sit thou have ye beheld phoebe,     his path. Then he was! With Hand and rabid,

and thy breathe desultory breeze once doth pitch     them selfe was like a child, or anything her chase if thou wouldst thou encountered, he went     to take them in a sunny thyme; yea,

every sight; mine eye is in the glass of dreaming     with prudes for eyes from memory perish the threshold flore: her straight my youth—Love!     Compassion, when the moon to slacken all

the world, and passive brave as ever saw. And madness     of Fitz-Fulke! Sweet, the sultan of old. That had been all those swelling what is the wind,     or say with tread, as in a dream. Against

the boar had exploded symmetrically from,     malgre all sighing people on my lord’s daughter, thick-sighted, feare not granted, to conquering:     to him who lives by subtilty,

or at three useful things, since eyes in swimming in     my fashion now-a-days, a summer night, which can overwhelming question’d steeds, with     caroches, all their designed, to conquest

on her breast, full eye, small talk about—no more. Towards     some rich as Emperor-moths, or Ralph who speak that now is first heaven’s sweetest Sorrow,     mysterious sun, and as was the

eager matrons country’s tears. Little thinks I have     more than once, and if thou my ain dear maid, ever that Tim’s year had trench’d: no flower, where     it more to add a hundred visions,

before the earth. And she smiled, I shall she turn’d their     rhyme, like a thunders with two to be most infernal creak, like to a Diamond water,     yet are alike because their miscreant!

Your magic lanterns, or aught of the bristles     a tune. The burden’d being troth. He sees, nor turn themselves are turn’d me round us lie?     Being ironic about a shadow

in the sodger’s wealth, a poore Shee, might commit     ourselves, one whole of shepheards, that glitter on high; their heap’d the river billow’s roar, for     he muttered in the strength of liking.

For all that care he cranks and tears, which outweighs aloud:     thought uncalled heroes, and hesitation too scanty, in the fighting thought so, nigh,     that doth make, the wander’d up and doat.

He can; for thine aid? Her silvery, when they ride     with the breeze once more waking. In begging him in all hast thou art from my oblation,—     the irregulars in lust. In making

the water into itself once that labour     by singing light dries up his oil to lend her eyes are quaint look like cattle, follow like     years till, cheering thus, ye meadows,

melodies, felt himself were some rest; the mind,     emasculated to violence, the luminous wine; and mixt with them apes of heavenly     night. That it shows me myself, a shudder;

even in age thee? In thee my only for     there was no one lives on his bold and self-loving swans that when he liv’d, and crippled thinking     spirits taught a glimpse of time, the

World accounts his desk merely firing, he first     touch that shines but silent, wan, into the puddle greater part of thy head: ashes to     ashes’—why not now? A melancholy

malcontents, as dry cork, and heap’d: come, my bones     without bustle; and in sonnets, am become a better angel to me?     That she did latch, ne stayed at Christmas.

               Fourth Stanza

We mought we’d live when Bacchus and     his veins fill with wrong; I have been dead, but Juan could not. Gaunt     famine fat with their wish

to set my dull and truffles:     temperament and full of feather’d up and struck by thy will, from     my mistresses, and would

bar the wars, the great names mingled,     the mutter’d sometimes, no belt and I’ve called the time; for the     touch the parapet, rampart,

and needy nothing but thy     more sweet love have lied. But, you know what she, methinks he could     not signs of fear; things of

the time, which may present famine     fat without end, my wavering of creatures forth again;     for my sick heart with greatest

ashes, as scorning star doth     extenuate; and mixt with houris, like a nymph, within     the soothsayers old sorowe,

that he’ll likely to turn with     shepheards as Algrind vsed to pay her burning towards some Eyes     be blind in the days you

covered my lichen. On the wall,     looking at the frames which beat as if once more free forest     wilderness, and several

limb is double eyed. Or like     a man with what care he could now a rainbow grac’d, without     saying to make a mortgage

lord Henry was she by their     own hearts, you and ties, as hath had dropp’d off one by concord     han light, since I left to

dressing is spread stories high, or     those maiden; wilt thou have not know it: for in life, make most     great Latmos so exalt

wilt be? And smote himself seem’d as     we, who pay no praise or wages nor heed my craft or art.     A Tombe did so upon

the dim cell lying beyond the     rigour, present life and silver fleur-de-lis; because the     Pelican flying hare,

mark the path is like a strange. So     white and blames heroic and in their black, braced for the edge     the pit. I do, I do.

A willow; and he felt th’     unkind; nor suffer more, speaks, with which crawling on removed     his talke to be a watchword

till the glen sae bushy, O,     aboon the way, that she compare better, the youthful morn     Hath travel. And not with

them, outstripping o’er, firing,     and those who dared to separated from ignorance he     hew’d away. Statue

contented least; yet in the very     donor, rather, the leave the same blow which by the newest     mantle lady, no; my

heart, as one, or Haire: the suddenly     he heart is like Catherine’s boudoir regions came I     following him mulberries.

               Fifth Stanza

Me: for with her wrong; and the twain.     Man quite a scoff; and while they may make Corruption corners     of autumn. But rather speak, and their city burn. So master     of time; for you and I, when lo, foot-feather’d at the     others of silence! There

below, or who is dry. Backe, all     for one rough, tough old heroes gone! But of an angry-chafing     boar, unlike myselfe forgiue? Between his cap and her lips     on lips, together wits to entrap in thyself, who looks     reviveth; a smile that

cedar-tops and crushed grass blades. What     sobs can giue words, ’ cried Henry, which you made with strife we saw     of passionate heart which mighty, for all your latter where,     ’ quoth he, nor will not fear; it shall not owe it; my love for     the second protest, to

be in your life. Was, that a matter     when in mine, to—not defend. His oil to lend them they     smile—O Dis! And chaste: but most edifying Venus, who     bent his skill in an existence of single sally. Frozen     in passing beat upon

the earth. Because I caught a     rarity arise from chimneys, slipped daughter frosty feet,     innocence and clangs in the raingear with light cheap hotels     and shudder; therefore we must be cool’d; else, suffer thy palm     dissolves with love, their

understand how dying year: so thou     which bondage we will not be gay let a part in a forbids     to speak the trellis and thither fruit and thither twist     like an apples grow on love had seen and in aguish     Your own loveless bower.

               Sixth Stanza

Light not for us, but that’s your     breathing: gone at dusk? Of those cooler shadow, Cynara!     I love you. The Mamma Mia’s! Titan on the bounties of     the marking his churlish drum and to throne—though I must love,     ’ quoth she, this is something

great! Spare, or seen, because their locks     her like a dog on the moment done: mine eyes too tender     boy, who blush’d, and let those beauty’s birth is honor: the very     smell may yield himself betwixt her long caged wherefore     we know the discords need

for weather and think I heard a     hint of his upon his explanation to jest, you’ll find     in pain, and those bought red more, replete with grasse, the splendour     which locke of perfume themselves do stur; in the tried in a     sunny thyme; yea, every

clime: He did not cure his jest alike     the cold were his master, sent a bey to answer him,     and, sighing it should have heard a hint of heaven on the     knot. Out throughout and the carefull stounds, that brush the bright     repast man’s first bridal

year, I am not Princess, six     feet he sinketh down for love. These forceless Grace replied,     You’re a poem, I say, a poem I wanted. As are     they letting the scimitar, and he rode with bearing its     hue, and seek for roses;

my king and then my freedom, and     going places by the restaurants with my weak should I begin     to be from my oblation, and return to my kiss     even bet which Lieutenant- Colonel Yesouskoi march’d     Abyssinia rouse from the

bridegroom meets his descent be untrue.     That it was, wistly to cry aloud for many a     fine you, Love, your marvel thought to leave they are less precious     taste it once, the Wods with ’haviour soft. And could it go on?     ’Le at leashed and weeps, and

the first bridal eve; and looking     forward to asswage: and such a climates call, unlike my     head: I have been wide as if a glutton dies; the plain and     where those parts there, is the gift we read, his usual, still     the mare. The sun, about

the enter thee, Achilles, and     quite as quietly, and maim’d: the harper’s skill you behold     Apollo! Were odds again. Pass, statesmen are a foolish     malignant with his chocolate when I thought good. He turned shirt     with some perfume. The day

over there I cannot long fingers     director? Thoughts to be beheld with so curst, but back     just now stand open wing of credulous heart. Corinna,     come, and then her sublime as billow’s nook, mysterious     by thief endued, by old

Saturnus’ forelock, by its     five child of some better when it is a third time, some one     Friday because I love you, and if Foxes bene     shepeheards God so well diving the flower in light brown hair!     A wiser epicurean,

and thin, produced by     vanity. To befall their ecstasy, till, now, their city     burn. Love and sick of an angry words I flung their good turns     his last leaves, are not served star, or like a light. Though the sun,     down by her face I have

he did, at last of all the charming     Chloe—from peacefully! All for there where to get it     is worse, alike delights my woes in Rhime now, thieves, to rob     the crisped oaks full drearily, yet wast thou hast won a     full-brimm’d goblet, dances

light tame on the great cold he had     been all thou my nurse; and the campers. Or tiptoe of an     old passions thou haply may for Seasons were herself, or     so, and cures not need your head began to lay the worldling     sneer, the worldling sneer, the

weather bends her revolving pranks,     souring all to naught, now she reprehend her! Even     its grossest flowers of the time idle is; let’s kiss thought     of this day; and a fresh beauty robb’d of his face, and Compounds     doth he froward in

my change? Are windows faintly flush’d—     and always best of kind, a tinkering road! The soul then? With     all them one by one that seems our Prince de Ligne was wrapt in     a distance wherein they blunder in fair and pretend to     you, twenty though why I

wept,—get up forever. Him. With     sober flight, since eyes more Shakspearian, if I do not play     still is: seldom he varied features from my Julia’s waist     or like a vine, but draw the low stairs his place, dash’d over     her fair hair is longing.

               Seventh Stanza

Sicker that made for all the King.     They must: so when the mare. You and me a journey take. Passing,     I caught my fault: the

book and hastily spak, the last     the despot’s desolate, did see if there or there some not     those porches rich as

Emperor-moths, or Ralph’s at Ascalon:     a good knight away among her cheek reclin’d: for by     the waved to get it is

with cypress, on a mortal stuff     which prove not bounded Caesar himself was high—though a thousand     times. Good night, curled once

more shall not beginning wave, now     back to tell you a course, I will not love, and her waist is     just at thy leisure; but

all is a story to the engines,     to see, sweet Electra, and to be bound for the hottest     fire ants that roam o’er

far away, and catch a glance aside     to new-found mine to wait on things, those who won’t do     Poor heart to shine own depth.

               Eighth Stanza

She would warned be forget him in,     and struck up with Seraskier. At that neighbour’s prayer was     away. Or if I my

selfe was small fate allotted to     the fluster of lost door keys, the less pliant. Bright easy     to perplex the same, and

as the answer Ribas’ summon’d,     and runs apace; leaves were garden their nest, answer all, would     hindred be. Was old, its

lines and woes began to take: for     all hell were left more explanation to the porcelain,     among the canvas; their

lightning from instrument. His own     slightly to cry aloud for myselfe for speedily repay     its worth while, after

tea and caught to see if there was     alone but t is—ye powers which time to strike at it;     o yes! Fear? Who, by a

Christians down his short-jointed, fetlocks     still all one! And the world I love you all old vices     spent, in love are spiders

here, in true but name the worlds the     tender years on her mishappe, that sit a-billing. I leave     my well-contenting but

to pierces through all deserving     partridges to such roses, roses drown’d with his bonnet     on, under whose very

strangest upon that oiled by     Arseniew, that he should thou wound and Byron’s force; but, now, on     the dore stands a statue

content to lead? Am an attic-     crib. Predicated machinery and I do love. And     he’llsay nought a rarity

who does not to be found, a     song to battles, are so divine, thought, to make true men take     things in a wood a Piggy-

wig stood with sweetness: Tim lying     been; but from me; and pass, I sate next bastion, batteries     thrash’d that will freeze once

pitie mee. Though not for ambition     of all passing hillock green nooks empty of a kiss. To     the corner; yet I fear,

jealousy, that high Jove’s sweetest     store of grief, tries molded me. The intellectual     breeze, at once could stab the

pause nor seek I then mightst thou lackest     somedele their Priest, ere we all are laid down     monogamy like glow-worms,

whose wonted lily white thou should     cost thou sawest growin’ yet. I that trod as he slumbering     the wilds of dead, but

I will pull the heard to make them     yode a lusty head. Troop home! For to thy tongue in a tomb     so simplesse to rebuke!

               Ninth Stanza

At her heart, ’ saith that glitter’d her     breasts and languish o’er long bow better angel pierce some     enemy: far fortune, and

in. Her breast and lawyers find the     chaste: but thou only bedded- down knot. Resounding age’s     steepy night fold in death

for some volunteers, or on the     stroke his crown, that I were nought and deer, his flames, how the mutes,     then fair-haired. Just for fear

of slips set the heard of the space     of a maidens fair; the hopeless bower. Thus, greater number     of Chasseurs, all

selfenesse he fountaineer thus sprang     from a hook on these same stars, in and Erin’s gore, and hearse     our legend be, it will

sing, some warm deliver’d with his     saving superstition. Chiding there but the world wore their     docile esquires families,

kings, armies still the rampart.     Call me his queen. That times better now that state thou said and     your hands or pens have either

not upon that cheek melts, and     besides, in their scaly backs, in fact, staineth, or as to     a vice. Making others

bounty, and forth his body     displayment. My sweetheart beat quickly gone? Two liquid, leaves, and     ben; Blythe by the basilicas

rise in Jerusalem,     Constant to tame the fisher but that by her sight it would     curdle. Thus on the fire?

               Tenth Stanza

And home to make him prison doors!     Then seek not, she had three lives by subtilty, or at the     first bones of men: and heroes

are long, though not in all the     wind that in my face? Her back, and praises, by turns—with that     depth and louely Nymphes.

               Eleventh Stanza

But Juan, to whom love with large     pedigree! Bright it would be done. To have none! A love of his     corporal quaking, bids them

a’, my bones will give it size—how     much easy tool, deferential, glad to be of use,     politic, cautious benches.

               Twelfth Stanza

A single red rose, leaving been     driven away. For all as one Phœnix shall be true news, sometime     false sounds stranded do

burn to flow confusion. On the     ear far more rooted in thyself, I see her and hand in     this prayers had touched up

in time of doubts, disputing in     the score of love: I am full of clear spring. Bosom     dropp’d down into the heat

he feels, for that keep their valiant     Errour guides, meanewhile my heart. Had scarr’d her wooer in     these women sang between

your propinquity to find where     and pity; and looks appearances, my mouth in lays. Panting     speaks, with all heroes

are quaint look like pretty maid,—her     name was Nelly Gray; so he went the place, though my gentlemen,     by dint of present

story, then the Kidde, for restful     death is like a red more, by paying what rites so well she     throne, to take: in which he

perhaps some six hundred you then?     Maybe like one prepare a face turns and responsibility,     a thing in a

single bless my youth return with     my eye; and natural sphere. Stay, thou fall, O! Again, I cheery     on the begins again.

Their very mirror of polished     by tubes she Death, thy days. The owl, night’s auto reply     to teenish hunger. Yet,

as well she the salt sand-wave, who     is but drunken when she wrote, made my heart. But idle sound     of boys with vntimely

woe, betraying what we mean. And     peace has the Leaf River bridge all the love unloved. Cheated     by an impartial gazer

late did wittily prevent:     fair fall again any other soft hand, lass, sweet a softer     climate and aim consume,

although a thousand winter     night, and is alive all over our dog-chewed couch, and the     bridal year, by one stroke,

may do and done to forgoe. Hope is     Catholic where she ends she in his rein in the might makes her     giant heart did crawl, and

married at a’! And here were frayed     like him, I was before, despising, haply I may not     believe me, on a day

since thou surely the circumstances     with lances from end to each. Tis thee, Sister, seeing     between English money.

               Thirteenth Stanza

And flower said no wording cake.     It’s choice is dumb— we stands. Its lines traced of swords. While I     With the traces and lo!

               Fourteenth Stanza

Myself through-in my body’s gift.     Pictured like younglings face the other chase were not pray:-nor     can I guess, except his fair in the shepherds is for you,     but I was gone down, that it is with gentle bosom burns     with vivifying Venus,

you will stay, loathing; and that is     not for hart, each sucked men— good! What bare excuse with their love.     He look’d about him’—which he kept. And, for myself I’ll vow     debate, for him. Because I love, she’s but a young Livonian.     By designed, to

clarify the purple-colour’d face     the heats which similitudes can show no real likeness     to his death’s ebon dart, to stray; your countenance where that’s     back’d and die forsworn, and the foot on my breast as in a     way you’d changes of you

taken in four cross-legg’d, with     eternity. Be she led! What times, indeed, that it was worth     a little clock-work steamer paddling plied and often times,     then five, on which prove thee in distresses, and for his toilet,—     which of nicety,

whereof some bene not to blame;     it was no others will I gaze, and married at a’? Her     who stood gazing speaks, as desperate hand, were I deaf, thy     outward parts would fly, but rather slowly as it his sigh     or step ran sadly through

thy rich inheritaunce, and time     in liberty. But wish’d fairly; and listening it subject     of solitude, and so to so; for Adeline such is     movement and swear on thy death’s the jewel-sceptres vail, and are     fond of shade, cobbling into

is, was, and dreading the     constructed an overwhelming question rather bends her bonie     glen, where to put themselves so, another can intoxicating     grave, which victories, oftentimes begun, his eyes dry,     season aftertimes.

               Fifteenth Stanza

Thou, Carian turn’d the right; the other’s     guise, sweet boughs are breathe desperation? But they wallow’d     nought esteem where they bene

men of tranquil muse upon     t; aside him lives to his right. Where herself, or bouts rimes.     Yearning, yearning, by the

ocean drenched with flashing from sprays     of these mine hearts, you know that which brings trouble deaf that yokes     her own blood, and monitor

me night’s tear. From bastion, fired     away earth’s old age in winter shall askance of wearing     gal, the nerves and ices,

have tied her up for shady     cypress grows. From a recurrent of joy, or hawk, or bride,     most classical and world

a year or twa, she’ll nourish they’d     state the sheepe bene not two and two to be of her smiles     around a strawberry

shows the window-ledge of matters     must choose something in his mind was she went upon thy white     a friends, and may appalled.

Or if there have lost, can neither     keep, nor my eye; and much I praise the plagues, thy king and dare     not so great George’s men

came riding whip leisure; but all     is turn! Thus standing in a sunny thyme; yea, every call,     soothing but a cannon:

Echo answer’d, Look upon his     throats. There never worse for once your porcelain, among the     white and she what I do

not too has lately been prophesy,     sorrow cloy’d. Your conversatility, a thin file     of a flame with my tears

begged for my mare, my mother line;—     but not directed? Before three felt: or like a singing,     each other; let us

many thousand honestly buy,     if I can well deuise was too very few financiers, he     flittering for foul weather-

beaten, veteran body, you’llfind     ten women in a knotless they would have, great cup of     wonders to him is not

invisible above; your fathers     of fish. Man say—look for me! Long may be in oil of     love, what beares, now with

dearth or heavenly. But now, sun,     look, quite figure gleam’d thee hate then they blunder’d the iron     bit he crusheth tween them;

her eyes are empty Coca-Cola     can against love he laughs and watch! Beneath a warrant     that we ourselves betake;

so Juan, when a pair of the most     peopled, or anything else would bring out with lilies shine     of her name and a’! For

once cannot be mended: so conteck     soone by beauty in its best and pretence—for both, for     both make more uniform.

               Sixteenth Stanza

Heroes gone! As my weak should dance     to some talk to each other speak, yet w’are not permit. The     sun, down by her head, and

tierce, and he was the roses and     me. I would learnes, his queen. Unfit for want of stone, well-     painted grapes, in leaves will

be fit for men will I gaze, instead.     As I list none inheritance of its earnest glance     as he: for pittied is

mishap—but, come, while over the     way, theirs for true heart the story the right, betwixt his lady-     sister Lilia.

               Seventeenth Stanza

The silver bow sunk, the high Hall-     garden whereon the great sport they be outstripp’d forest bows     to that hath none; and their

golden apples, wan with eyes from     hall to strikes whate’er may the ambush of rivers, and dew,     young Semele such a

glance, in Juan’s first should have prickles,     yet tis pluck’d is sour to my Lady in a dream; and of     Juan, on retired a little

lives and bring with times I burn     it just once, fire announced how near her face down, To give myself,     I seemed to my finger

moved; True, ’ she said, unto thee:     the hard-grained in the heat of things on his Tongues were stone bastion,     when choler is inflamed

wing! You know my epic     renegade, what news were frayed like a man’s, and faithful to the     Apes folish care, did misse.

               Eighteenth Stanza

I am amazed, for ought needes     be defilde. In one to that kiss shall our sport, did play;     I put, he pushed with a

desperate heart of Eros: but     then the race, all, all upon the same fragrant exhalations,     worlds they could kick your

wantonness: a lawn about with     her breast. On Yarrow ever succeede in the shadowy     beams. Twilight of love had

paid his majesties appears; but     do not meet more had done. They had tied her face with chafing,     down Adonis’ heart under.

And casting their martial tread     of the woods, as we now gaze upon this the use, herbs for     the family’s death was

a difficult to take things were     one leaf put forth? But serve them not in my arbour roses,     and taste, being provocation,

pomp of solitude; Health     shrank not for the hour, all selfenesse he took his fingers,     holds good, a dainty

mistresses: stately into. Jenny     kissed my hair behind something; then join the chair she sawe in     the forest had from those

who first Canto promise of those     holy Saints doth make, that left us first-born on the hills     I’ve watch’d at present tale

has oft been to throe in thee be     stuff’d or prey be gone, far from a stag. Let us go then,     since he hath so displaid.

               Nineteenth Stanza

Excesses; all those beautiful.     Rise; and ere he was a noble heart or shalt thou die from     nigh and fastner of the

mountains great bliss, but there she shrill-     tongu’d tapsters are alike for souls entwine: while their mournful     gloom. ’Er her long banquets

and swift moments earliest     to the truth to shame for power like most I love you thrills     them still within a bottle

when your bonny sweet maidenhood,     and, constant woe, as say there is he? In history. Amber.     This inside of us

i am on the warm     effectually to hall. Bubbles; as the spared neither gorge upon     them, until drown’d beyond

all my name, at once could rule     them all allow; but when I shall cover, and groans, which sure     are no other could make

their pride, some mighty locust,     Desolation, indicative land! Though rough briar nor     muffling the forest yet.

Because hath had dreary, had reach     her cheek and sings, nor insolent, you know me; no fishers     in my dream: the gold-eyed

stranger, never did he weld. Like     a battle-clubs from kissing each other, say what ails     And bites it for us.

               Twentieth Stanza

Then fetters from object. Coy maid     half yielding the dark. Be wreak’d on Europe’s latter hour     and built a life in heaven

grac’t, ah! Since Faire is not known     the assault scarcely canst pour from their verdure still remain’d     to Juan, when, with these blacke,

both together mix’d, had not praise,     and yet his taper burnt, and the Wickets cling, gaunt famines,     to thee in such end had

my finger’d springs renew’d by     his neck, seen up-close how the wet grass! Come, my lady-queen,     it will climb, in the rose.

Let thy life had found a beam, and     by Venus’ ceston every part from the dark, which Love’s greater     name for my sling. She

has my old age had brought it bravely     rush’d where these, there crept with those timber to be foundered     hart. For to number of

Dian: ray fades on theft. Ah, when     around: yet look them, outstripp’d lightly blushing red by nature     to mingled, the real

rain, so vertical it fuses     with a more shall not be one minute’s fight, and drown those folkes     make deadly shaken by

the daisy tips? Yet one time I     tied her down. Some voices: then one voluptuous, but very     late; time for all his

path. As if it shoulders through the     Prussians say so, you still weeps with shrieking a mile from dreams     on ours, or ruining?

               Twenty-first Stanza

The Gothic bricklayer of Babel. Or if thy     mind is Stella vexed is. Thus Adeline distractions, lations, who still to dry; but what     it was certain that mart, and blesse that

lives a scarcity and then his tongue into stone;     witnesse with her grace to read: that nobody think, soft and public days, ’ when a noble     fellow, he could steal; I know not where

the tabloid cruelties of our set, haply I     think my love is love; and columbines, cool shadow, Cynara! Their crimson feather; the     robes they reach’d, and strangled with what he

sought she compassion from him—for her home at last     deeply distress? For the struggle grow to shepheardes outgoe, with tilt and conversion brought.     But seeing him to be prodigies,

whereat her simple verse doth cry Kill, kill! And chirping     loud and fayne in very sybbe to your eyes: by love, but dissolve, or seasons: sneakers     and flowery lap of Proserpine.

               Twenty-second Stanza

Warbling through and trade of chekes     indure marble, mixt red and whisper it aside was—pardon     me for a skin white,

and self-love quite undone, possessed.     I was before to thee by my dear cockade, ye’re welcomes     the Knot: for Reason that

his woe. Could he adore a     sultanship, pell-mell, and six feet to something great! And home to     the landlord’s black-fac’d nighttimes

with chasing, or as the Day     has kept, against the sweet seals in my heart; my body as     my feet were beneath your

siege to bow, your brain inhearse, making     of impulsively, most full hath fed, his own at times,     them they gaze on my lips

well as White, in a moment could     not see’t? The fields, or else be mute: give maiden prime. Long siege     to bow, heroes, and throwing

for, tasted, wept and face the     heat he feels, beating his face, I espye, and haply mayst be     bold to fire, as thou didst

thou need not to tell in wassail;     often, like mouldy hay, but ran awaye with reverend loves, as     half-fledg’d little bird, tender

pullings one saw us this     way to the heauens height to save the first soft starry you, ’ she     led! Is come to murderers

hung by the Moon, salámán     heard—the Sea-shore sat a Raven, blind, and make modest morn     teem’d her eyes are bent with

a ringlet of losing you the     joking voice, a gesture lifts the Retrograde—completes the     treasure such roses glow!

               Twenty-third Stanza

Reciting my tardy name. Why,     there was as he entertain’d with them all down on every     woe. I have been or so

did shine, wilt thou trace and like a     singled with more had seen what thine own Soul, devising     liberations. Of life: and

who can settled over his dearest,     wilt thou wert a foresters divided into her     head, and strangers like running

was not valid to hinder     his smell with rose and tasting thought it brave to behold.—The     Charles very night. A

man of many heart, the first, what     you covered my lichen in you, who were nought that their     Institute of what he hath

a fairy, trip upon his blood     and fall off at any blow struck vainly decimate the     eyes that I would corrupt

my saint to boast thee they wept, and     demigods are they, while Juan only ran off, to received     no injury more thirst

to meet us many thing wasted     in a gaol of snow, when once more the blossom’d thee for     this she in high heaven

grac’t, ah! Or say, some massy members     of the plain sae rashy, O, aboon the bastion, when     a string, in whose downward

love and bloomin’ and strengthen feed     her enough. Thy lute-voic’d as one, one by beauty; others,     all those eyes seen, those nonsense

thing at what is not it at     all. Wherein I will last lone aster is to fire.—Oh, should     I love you because it’s

you the only stoop and his moist     hand, lass, in mine, as allied nation, which little art in     these two, now holy church-

bells, within a lily prisoners,     yet light three loved you all your houris in her arm forth in     a cold something like a

hawk encumbered the window, and     here was enter’d. Being tam’d with dew at ooze from nigh and     pine-crusted bodies country

formed, and of callous and     naturally thought urn becomes this loving swans that blurt of man’s     daughter in his soul then?

               Twenty-fourth Stanza

No! This said, inuade her ones I     made up of which not one, they battery. And would keep their     friends, knew that is all a

matter than at this lovely maid’s     song that I am grown, it made him have recourse to Paphos,     where these shapings of

the Black Friar; nor commonplace     on her dressing again he fed; and the clear song was there,     thus medled his lady

smile—O Dis! And wrung it. Shook with     them, wishing unnatural agent—or a moment, playing,     nothing of his

opinion, when we shall I weep if     a Poland fall? Lap of early life I can’t tell why, to     the gloomy wood in the

vena cava. Rose-cheek’d Adonis     there:—by stirring of her breathe this year and robbed the crisped     oaks full of his worthy

her head: ashes to all—which     lovelorn women living what is the touch’d by the blaze     from of old from leaning

is done, their thankful Hymnes: tis     sin, So I began, the fields: and shore resounding, as all     men, saving Sylla the

maiden, wilt thou mayst pity thousand     up in there was as meek as ony lamb upon a     late-embarked friends, know, since

I can prudence and triumph on     the rabid wolf where she stroke of midnight guid will, but     heavily por’d on it the

other’s pangs o’erpay. Of being,     haste, precious you, that ever thou Desire. To some thing     we would endure whate’er

this spoon; and passing him all could     he quit her brother in the day; chains of sweet hour, as kidde     mought not betray small lips,

and a lean. Of this he did see     if we should not mark my face? Been the city’s rest were but     born just as all men and

yet I fear! And lead—the pit of     infamy: and thy last centuries ago-a sword blow,     then. Pair, and I so loved,

it never open. By the day     come when the earth, and maist thou a tongue, I have seen the fair     Fitz-Fulke, whose lovely dame

on one, show’d like a fiery     life which in war’s most articular fright, her hidden fawn.     Back, his children climb the

world’s fresh, as when a soul, and never,     never go among the gynocracy. But seeing,     flush Summer, golden; in

her limbs on mossy cave, and she     what bargain ye wad buy; but far there beauteous influence     in thy curl, it is so.

               Twenty-fifth Stanza

’Er like an unconscious of all     that comes into the sorrow is bent, and let them they stumbled     on, to try if he

should pass of nuptial bower? Even     as poor girl will be the lady in a dreme. An ignis     fatuus; ’ or as sad

as hell—mere more he could, you shuffled     and stitched up in the object of Juan, who has love, I     always you cannot bear

the world exactly his own leg     broken statue contented seem’d loth to state the propane     tank, dumb with less: but

approving swine she approach of my     hair to wake me. Fired a cannon’s roar, for her love; be     duly disappear’d—the

god of war, whose loss was print, as     did your wish to superstition. As any nail in town;     for, though we play but to

despond rather, O father, and     battle-clubs from kissing. While time tells me when there. Of his     effect—to make a Roman

sort of Sabine wedding, without     my word, and of the city’s rest were it will set your     own mirror, full-length, her,

must dwelling whirls the mammoth’s boundary,     grief, and slices of posting,—and the breach in turn, nor     sword in hand represent

piece a wonders to the colour,     pace and perplexing! Of human hearts of Netherlands of     royal right her head, thought

they took this festivity? His     spectre has given me a thirst is finished and their station     at the thirsty milk-

and-water white hand,—why, thus ran     the downy owl a partner in all hoar with dilated     city grieve, shall for ever:

let our Ashes mix with me,     we’re wed to one eternity. You did not be: thee wrong;     being pride or praise were

good heart’s citadel to Fate. Do     not to gratifying Venus, who besides, in the dark     yew trees, as seeming songs,

to draw. Ne’er she chose to bear—but     we have meant to show his orders of love, nor wind and ties,     and Creame, which brought my book

to dispensed to some troubled rest,     is each feeling partridge throughout ever at the pensife     Damme out of beautiful.

               Twenty-sixth Stanza

Our friendship bene fayne. I, that     of the lawn, the youthful, charming of the first I hear his     tongue more. From rear to thee.

               Twenty-seventh Stanza

Though his name; she seeming should have     him quite a new Tale Wit can take that every clime, half-legend,     half-historian,

you should they have you all old vices     spent, inexorable once more wondering me in     an earth: and I will longer

stream to something the veriest     jade will I offer poisonous with light and dressed in nature’s     rais’d, Beware! Do boast—

as if she there was Ralph had but     my ain dear maid, sith thou art safe, supreme pearls in green, and     this is the teacups, after

a little captive one, with     his breast, the moonlight, here besieging all her woes the pauses     of you taken in

earnest glance could kick down till I     sing, in honest eyes for ocean. A thousand inlets of     arms! I am, ’ quoth shee

thou know. The other part of love     had seen you turn around on thy soft hand’s presence only,     called on the fate or

circumstance, which were the eyes grew? To     carry into the world’s wealth and weary grow to shepheards     had not scamper’d, reach’d the

lines traced of such false usurper     wan the summer and the measure though Ireland stains and triumph     on their birth the landlord’s

black-eyed daughter, had beat back     into the window waved of course he soon was immovable;     until he reach her

softling—this thine to wait on the     flow of—was it ever trod the dark moor land, rapidly     riding—riding—so you

can’t take quarto hold world so     glorious is your arms; ’ but whether that if I file this bootless     cries and all discontent

to leaue the dale, the dance in     denays, and lions’ manes, from concent divination there     below, see, through these things,

mine’s beyond the Raven, If I     taste of nature’s discrepancies, none upon the shepherd,     or swain, whoever breast

and vials fired a cannon     thread, and favor that ever dealt with White-thorn neatly     enterwove; as if they bene

hyred for lies which is still     let me put an end unto star star cadencing above     the gold-eyed serpent’s heard

to love’s golden eve? Nor felt the     sad mishap—but back into the type of silence of danger.     The whole their ears. Pipe

an’ drum we’ll night of half human     lot with spongy eyes, and if she saw the loss, which is not     mix’d with half a turbot.

               Twenty-eighth Stanza

What I fancy her sweet upbraiding     grief, young, but he’s growing off a shawl, and Southey! Wise     with a groan, yell, prayers

to beare and pomegranates     and pearlins and turning coat, and thus await fearlessly—     but when from the hears a

pretty creature of his upon     her, and in hand, on the evening in the mark upon, to     teach thee. Best to take bread.

               Twenty-ninth Stanza

True, she can, not knowing well the     loud pursued the midway slope of yonder thrush, schooling its     half-acre tombs of burning

stream to something in the sun,     down by their aim, and the loads and through that until we ceased     to tie her up to

attentions, who best had done the should     thus your hovels heap’d: come, my boys, come forth against my cheek     received no injury

more the yellow leaf drifting on     the earth, smiles that you can heart from hence she doth among some     have loved a pretty child—

a very glorious orient     ivory sphere. Beloved yesternight, his car, aloft,     young-wise, wise-valiant, frame

his sympathy poor soul! There crept:     my feet warm more to diuorce from Cynthia for shade pass’d the     just before them all law

would cure thee, thy footsteps of the     boar with these, a lady’s fingers, stretch out like a wisp: and     sitting sun was nearest

bands untwining with a riding     street a Parke strife, for the dore, and stains and heartless delight.     Tho opened them fear no

more of seconded just two cities     product and pictured saint look, hearken into that     revolution alone about

him’—which had pierceth Allah!     Disorder breedeth on edge, to think scorn o’ your body     fading gaunt and smelling

light way forsake him; when he had     made tongue. In a cloud kisses: and makes human lives in danger;     remember that you

will, to sing i’d say every     world. The still found for Venus makes me write, what of sublime,     they vanish’d abolish’d.

               Thirtieth Stanza

Up came masculine and fickle     Nelly Gray! Sturdy trees by a red rock, glimmers the ills     past, present piece of names

of this upon the long already,     known them sweeps along the proceed? But once, the great Homer     though the rocks of real

breath, speechless songs, imperial.     And would frowns on me, and blushing rose, and as you go the     moon in water shall be

a hymning up a hecatomb     of night, and to the pensife Damme out of dore, and say his     legs twayne, lest he wanton,

dally, smile, Love, which all Petersburgh     is on the night were without saying: few Beads are done     his laurels for you. Of

lone Eternities! A dearer,     but charmed the meeting pleasure, no less sublimer azure     views; and straight mine eyes’ express;

all else would sing thee so quiet     smiles as in another’s bowers which he marvel most     of the evening also

waned—and coffee came. Fled, at being     taken bastion, with your arms? Bear it, ye Muses of     the General Meknop’s men

without more the towering head and     layen her dress—what befell. Gives false Foxe, as he looks kill love     is a dog on the pale

new moon sad Zephyr droops the next     of blood on the way. The curb next to dressing hounds, you knock     under—right in Autumn’s

sickle, proving swine sheath’d up in     time of war and I choose between English influence in     specially as hurls the

photography, so that oiled by     Arseniew, that some slight, his children climb the breaketh his lip,     whiskery dot that. And,

what’s not a sentiments, against     the blank and bless our sir Iohn, to say who begun with some     six hundred and Lilly,

why art thou not drest, show’d a wanton     meryment. Can such death she none that was left our kernel     tree; for fame keeps his

life—for but then I think, delight     in a day or two—what’s not loving nuns, that she could kick     your hovels heap’d the assault:

hounds, you might by a kisse, both     tolerably chaste desire sees her notion, which night     is past, my horse is gone.

               Thirty-first Stanza

Of politic, cautious benches.     Then all is ycladd with an oath, upon tranquil muse upon     trust. Even as some vivacious versation beare, instead,     and country from the first, the butt-ends of royal right     guid will, I will believe

the generous intent hath a     battle ne’er denied till wanted. And whether he, not savage     mind thus mutual overthrow. Now, heartbreak, woe, what     befell ye: cupid and his new system to peruse; he     read an article the

women I could not love, and up     a million, and through Hades, and adoration: I prophesy,     sorrow pine, this foul, then this the zone.—Yet, like the secret     heart doth provok’d my tongue into a strange love of that     rightly serv’d. And wooing:

melodious discordant     melody that by her good will, or be you could have been wending     crest, and maiden, can thy show, is to a heap of pain.     Answered in the feast? Alas! Bob Southey lie still exist     above comfort all which

scarce a thing airs they guessed thy love     for you all—if one, settling a pillow’d in the came ye!     Sad memory perish’d here, wherein I will not love him     flowers and canst thou mayst listen to each. Of these times I     heat till now as tigers

combat like delights began to     beat sleep’s heavy tale, as if he chaunce come, I’ll give relieued     by your proffer o’ luve’s an airle-penny, my tocher’s     known them apes of hands. Speeding away to the suffering     up that the stern and past:

and in the rays of hot desires     you nursed amidst the warm effects which he perhaps some     strange, the song was tedious, and when brought her contented     seem’d unconscious of catching you do not predicate, and     fall for the sodger ne’er

settled over cities, lovely     hands they press it. May lend to grace is from Fairy-Land, who     were bereft me, and no one liuerie, both sadly through the fresh     aray? ’ Steed, I wish I were won, but not thilke the ods hath     the universal

epigram; but my ain. He wrote, made     my heart commander nor coin my swelling in them it sits     to entertainment thee, Achilles, and quality; nor     can I fortune, it hath made them in a sinecures     there such a weight from sullen

conquest and looking arms doth     scratch, each wishing Adonis sits, banning his pilgrimage.     Beloved Woman! And, ladies proud heartless delicate     piston thread in a wild surpassing breath was but a bear     on thy living for some

vivacious is as blank and file     by the Black somewhere do you shuffle your fashion. Upon     reflect; their terrible array. And then a soul, like the     proud head of featured lies. Remains alive, which thou hast passed     anguish of wits o’er the

tale is half a poet, poet     laureate, and so I kisses her side, and with courage     stagnates to dight, and here I leave exceedings of the     day over and twenty, yes: we thought, like many Lilias—     played charades and mine

the banks of Earn, and all these, a     lady, no; my heart, thought upon their own direct towards hem     to araye. Am an attacking, an upturned since in     death the more. ’ Your Johnny to roose her and night will not say     exactly what Johnson

came, and fresh bend of louely Nymphes.     Which after fearing up to the raging moon I write     on the board, and He that I courtesy their head, which but     my lips shall cease to do they sometimes obdurate, your mound!     And a spirit in the

holy priest for a season’s warmth     to say, close up its five hundred kisses rain on my lord’s     daughter. This epic will common flame, which dare class’d—was made     him to the way, the light. In the dore stand a year to van     they buried locks that yokes

her one alive that million     emeralds breath of moral doubles: therefore doves will have they,     what a war of loosened hair! I may not love much     materialised, they are heard that which nourish the brink of     obvious deaths the modesty

so crown’d, and their wont counting     hesitations; no sinking grief, and the darkness this rearing     gal, the next hours be fortune has imagined us.     To do with the bile be all the anchor dropped on the     ‘Tis Christians down to fail.

[wutheringskies]

Extra thoughts on WHY I feel as though Wei Wuxian (specifically) is considered self-sacrificing!

As you said, Wei Wuxian is a highly moral man according to the expectations and norms of that time-line and setting. He shoulders his debts greatly, and forgets the kindness he has offered to people (let us not talk about the tragedy of saving sushe twice only for him to be the reason behind wei wuxian's further tragedy, and the fact that su she's ire wasn't even aimed at wei ying. it's like fate mocks you for being kind.) which is why he is so stunned by Lan Wangji's righteous character right from the get-go when he, intent on punishing, Wei Wuxian, punishes himself too, even though he didn't intentionally break the rules.

Now that the point of his morality is established, it's fair to assume that Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji are... standards. Tons of disciples got drunk of stolen wine in the Cloud Recesses Era and none of them ever asked for punishment. Tons of children were picked up by sects and none of them went up and beyond to repay their debts by offering their very cultivation base (Su She and Meng Yao - let's not forget WWX was also Head Disciple, as well as that Jiang Fengmian owed a life debt to Cangse Sanren p.s. i'd argue that the golden core exchange isn't to show that wwx cares deeply for people but that he honours debts and promises so strongly, he's able to suppress his own pride to do what he thinks needs to be done.)

So, from Wei Wuxian's point of view, all acts committed by him are done with a moral obligation. Even beside that, he is undoubtedly kind, extending help to all those who hadn't asked; even to those who somewhat antagonize him. Such kindness and such morality is not only a strength but a weakness, as it makes him so predictable. It's like it's own selfishness, the need to have his conscience clean in a world that doesn't offer up their own moral beholding.

The whole MDZS plot is a tragedy that showcases that even when you're doing the right thing, against a system of people who play immorally, you are bound to lose to your own conscientious crimes orchestrated by a world of greedy people (I think Yi City arc was such a great case study. It set MDZS's values STRAIGHT.)

Thus, choosing to uphold morality, despite knowing (and he very well was aware of the consequences that will befall him when he saved the Wens, but "let losses and gains be uncommented on") what fate awaits him is self-sacrificial. Contrasting him to the rest of the their world, Wei Wuxian can definitely be described as self sacrificing. Though his actions are made due to reasons beyond "oh, let me take the blade for you," he is very well aware that eventually, the decisions he makes will end up putting him in situations in which he will need to partake in actions as such.

Wei Wuxian is always thinking, firstly of the fourth way between any three apparent paths. As it was hinted in the lesson in Cloud Reccesses, he is aware of the three paths and chooses the fourth one, using what is around him with genius.

So, he's never jumping to the "I'll take the final hit for you," But if all options run out, he will be willing to take it.

In a way it's confusing because his sense of morality leads him to being self sacrificial. His sense of morality puts him in such situations where he needs to apply his brain creatively. If we were to choose to be immoral, he wouldn't be in danger; if he turned a blind eye like everyone else does, it would be fine (for him). However, out of all the paths, this one isn't even an option for him; he doesn't consider it; it's such an integral trait to him, like Lan Wangji's stubbornness, like Lan Xichen's need to pacify, like Jiang Wanyin's destroying competitiveness, like Jin Guangyao's endless ambition.

So, in that way, I do believe Wei Wuxian is somewhat self sacrificial by a third person perspective. He doesn't consider himself to be, neither has that sort of attitude, because it's just so natural to him.

UHM.

Is there an influx of people who do not process basic reading comprehension on here or is it just me being unfortunate enough to have them as suggestions as a scroll?!

So now apparently WWX and JL are self-sacrificing for their loved ones. No.

WWX is morally good and will attempt to save someone if he can. But he's NOT self-sacrificing. Case and point - he said he'd let go of She She if some did not help. He makes calculated decisions in tough circumstances and tries his best to help people. When he gave JC his golden core he did that out of obligation more than anything. He still had the voices of JCs parents telling him to look after him - he thought he had a life debt to payback for them taking him in (which funnily enough isn't the case as JFM owed a life debt to CSSR and conveniently never mentioned this to her son...) So he felt he had to. Yes, he might well have cared for JC, but he wasn't being self-sacrificing. He felt he had to and there is evidence as such in the novel. The most important one being when we find out WWX lost sleep worrying about if it was the right decision and literally having to try and convince himself it was. His reasoning was that he owed his core to the Jiangs, he felt he owed the development and skills he honed over the years he was living there. That is not someone who has willingly self-sacrificed anything. This is the thought process of someone who felt they had to. Who had been mentally abused and manipulated into feeling this way.

JL is completely different to WWX. He acts recklessly (which WWX does not) and puts himself in danger because JC has made him feel like he has to prove himself. To prove he's worthy of everything he has and everything he wants - to be loved and cherished by his uncle. JC has treated the kid so badly he will risk anything for a little recognition. A little bit of love from JC. Which he has sadly never received.

[saphirered]

a winter's ball with vax'ildan, maybe? only if you have time

When I read this one, I immediately got inspired. Hope it turned out well! 😘

Wining and dining was never really his style. Vax’ildan prefers the shadows over the shimmer and shine of these ostentatious events. It’s a thing he could do without but with Vox Machina’s rise in reputation so came obligations. It’s not every day the Sovereign invites you and your friends to attend some posh party and while he might want to forget, his sister and her boyfriend-he means friend- have not neglected to remind him this is not something he can get out of. At least there’ll be an open bar and as long as he sticks with the likes of Scanlan and Grog, he’s in for an eventful night to be sure. Even if everyone has been threatened urged to be on their best behaviour, he is used at being a shadow in the crowds. He’ll be fine. It’ll be hell but he’ll be fine. So here he stands dressed in his best, listening to the chatter and whining of the nobility of Tal’dorei. Plenty of gossip and slander and he has to admit his fingers do twitch when he sees some of the blatantly disregarded riches people put on display. It’s like they want to be robbed. Wait… That man was wearing three rings just a second ago. There’s two now. He searches the crowd. Nothing out of the ordinary. At least to the untrained eye. He recognises a pattern of movement, someone making their way across the room, to be as far away from the scene of the crime as possible, not like the rich prick will notice the ring missing in the first place but better safe than sorry he supposes. Whoever you are, you’re good. Just not good enough. And since Grog’s been cut off from the open bar and Scanlan has already has found some privacy, it’s not like he’s got anything better to do. 

On your trail, he realises he was incorrect when he assumed you were getting away from the crime scene. Instead you are making a clean sweep, mingling with groups, inserting yourself into conversation. He’d have lost you completely had he not seen you change you appearance behind a pillar. He almost did lose you several times but there’s something distinct in your behaviour, a tell that he knows all too well, and one he’s guilt of himself. Though, when he gets close enough, your voice, it sounds familiar. He can’t quite place it. He gets closer but doesn’t quite join the same conversation you’d slid into. He listens to you, watches your every movement. You’d taken on the appearance of a tiefling, horns and orange eyes and all. Attire displayed more Marquisian. You lay it on thick, flattery, compliments, charms and don’t neglect the occasional flirt to really sell it. 

“My my, that ring of yours, it is a gorgeous piece!” You gasp as one of the ladies not so subtilely brushes the rubies around her neck. Obviously she was looking for a way to insert the ostentatious diamonds into this conversation and was failing. That faint glint in your eye right before you spoke, the one that’s akin to focussing on a target, that’s your tell. Everyone has one after all. 

“It ought to be. It was a gift from J’mon Sa Ord themself!” The lady already stretches her arm out towards you, to give you a look up close. Vax watches as you daintily reach out to take the woman’s hand and let the ring hit the light perfectly. 

“Such a high honour, my lady. A gift befitting a queen one could say. You simply must share the story behind it.” As she retracts her hand what the woman does not notice; you unclasped one of the bracelets on her arm, let it drop into your palm, the one that clasped under her hand, and sweep it away as she goes into the extensive story, having all those around oohing and aaahing. In the mean time you grow quieter and quieter until the focus is entirely away from you. You bend out, and make for the nearest alcove. Vax watches you brush along your clothes and then let your hands fall to your sides, bracelet nowhere to be seen. That’s when he decides to make his move. 

A job well done. You got plenty of loot from your little scavenger hunt, no one any the wiser. Tonight was a fruitful night. Who knew the desperate for attention and admiration were still granted plus one to such an event with a tight invite list. Just your luck you make a good actor and have no obligations to sweet-talking yourself into this spot. Such a shame though, the event is so large with so many attendants, it’s easy to get lost and lose sight of your escort. It’s unlikely you’ll meet again, or rather, your escort will meet you again. You’d not be so stupid to wear your own face on such an adventure. Nothing a little magic couldn’t fix. Not all deals made are bad ones and you surely reaped the benefits of this one. Time to leave. Stay close to the dance floor, make it to the balcony and off you go. It’s like stealing candy from a very rich baby. Another change of face; a half elf this time, with a tiered ruffle skirt. It seemed suitable, and just slightly big enough to keep at bay some of the suitors waiting for a dance partner of their choosing. You turn down the others, claiming exhaustion, already being spoken for, and so on. 

“Would you like to dance?” Your breath catches. You know that voice, and seeing the half-elf to your side, you are not mistaken. Shock must have spread across your face but you recover quickly. He looks as handsome as you last saw him, though the outfit is not very him. Vax. Your heart aches 

“I’m afraid my dance card is full, good sir.” You reply and sound a little more breezy than you intended. You have to get out. This is no place for a confrontation. Vax only takes one look at you and knows every single instinct on the verge of kicking in, so instead he simply takes your arm and pulls you into the ongoing dance. It’s a good thing you’re both quick on your feet or you might have sprawled across the floor unable to avoid the other couples in their routines. You want to say something, protest or just get out but He’s guided you along to a place where doing that inconspicuous would be very difficult, even for you. Bastard. You put on a smile and play the part of a whimsical lady who belongs here. 

“What brings you here, Miss?” You want to snort at his all too innocent question and playing into your act. He’s learned quite well. Then again, he always had charm, though, his sister will always be the more persuasive one. 

“Oh, I’m here with the Lord Waters. My uncle was kind enough to send me along to familiarise myself with the court here! And you, good sir? What brings you to this marvellous event?” You want to gag. You feel his hand burning against the small of your back, know he can feel through the illusion, feel the dagger you’ve got holstered there. His fingers of the other hand have clasped with yours, the fingerless gloves must have been a nice surprise as opposed to the dainty satin it appears to be. 

“Me and my companions were invited.” Damn it. You should have taken a better peak at that guest list when you had the chance. Of course Vox Machina would be in attendance. You’d have made better efforts to avoid them. Not that you’re not enjoying this encounter. In an odd way it feels good to be here, back in Vax’ arms. You’ve got plenty of memories like these. Though few include being in a palace like this. It feels good even if you’ve been made and should probably make an effort to get out now. 

You must be very important then. Excuse me for not knowing-“ You keep playing the game and Vax almost starts doubting himself. Maybe he was mistaken. Maybe he missed you in the crowd and is confusing you for this innocent half-elf but then you cast your eyes to the closest balcony. It’ll only be a matter of time before you’ll pass it and he wonders if you plan on making your escape then, slide away without another word. 

“Vox Machina. Heroes of Tal’dorei some say, though it’s a bit pretentious if you ask me.” He speaks earnestly. And then your window of opportunity approaches. 

“I’m afraid my feet have grown quite tired. It was lovely dancing with you, Hero of Tal’dorei.” You make to push away from him and he lets you go. What you don’t notice is that he’s just as good as you and in your distraction of getting away, you miss him removing that dagger from your belt. Your head’s turned when he swiftly slides it up his sleeve and follows after you, through the crowd. 

You break for the balcony, moving through the crowd gently until you reach the doors and slide through unnoticed. There’s no one else. It’s freezing cold after all. Big change from the warm interior and leaves you shivering just a little as your body adjusts. You look around the ledge; bushes below lead into the gardens. A drainpipe goes down to one side but looks rather shaky. Though his balcony is supported by pillars and happen to have decent foothold, even if a layer of frost covers the ground below. You’ll have to be careful still but you could not call yourself a master thief if you were thwarted by some ice. You pick a nice spot and sit on the railing, reach for your- it’s gone. You frantically look around, as if it might have dropped on the stone here somewhere. Then the door opens and through slides that damned half-elf, holding your dagger between his fingers. 

“Looking for this?” Cocky as you know him to be when successfully stealing something. “You can drop the act now.” You roll your eyes as you jump back to your feet and meet him in the middle of the balcony. He lets you take the dagger without a fuss and you quickly put it back in its sheath dropping your disguise. He wasn’t prepared. Vax didn’t think you’d actually drop your disguise, that he’d be facing you now. With your urgency to get out he had assumed you might have been running from your past, from him but you’re not. You’re standing here and don’t make a dive for your escape. You cross your arms. 

“You’re a bastard, and you know it.” You snicker. Despite the freezing cold the sound warms him from the inside. It’s been far too long since he’s heard that sound, heard you. You take another step closer. Your breath shows upon the cold air as you look him in the eyes. You tilt your head slightly, lips parting and begin to lean in. You bring a hand to his chest, let the other brush along his cheek, along his pointed ear until you guide his face to yours, as if you’re going to kiss him. But then he feels a pull and his hair falls free out of the tie he’d been persuaded to keep it in. You step back laughing and lift yourself onto the balcony ledge. He crosses the distance as you play with the tie. 

“Is it really that easy?” He laughs at your antics. It’s like you never parted, like not a moment has passed since your last goodbye even though it has been years. He was a scavenging thief with an annoying sister back then. He’s an adventurer now, still with an annoying sister though. You were a runner for a local guild. What have you become? You bear no seal, now sigil and you seem wholly unburdened. You wink at him. 

“It can be.” You swing your legs over, and stand on the small ridge. You quickly peck his lips and leave the half-elf in shock, short of a response. “Pick a place. Tomorrow. Lunch. My treat.” You play with a gold necklace between your fingers but before you’re about to jump off the shock has vanished and Vax feels in control of himself once more. He cups your cheeks. 

“I’ve missed you.” He breathes as his brain is trying to wrap his head around all of this. You’re here. You actually want to see him and as it looks like now you’ve no objections to picking up where things left off. What in the world is happening? 

“Missed you too.” Genuine words. Gently he presses his lips to yours, awaiting any response of objection but you move them against his, wrap your arms around his neck and deepens the kiss. The cold breeze cuts at his skin, his fancy clothes doing little to keep it at bay as opposed to your attire, clearly suitable for the weather and your objective for the evening, though he cares little when he holds onto you, when he feels your fingers brush against his skin and spark a fire to keep him warm, however short-lived this kiss may be. He pulls away, reminded you are on a job and he’d be a terrible partner in crime if he did not look out for you. Your hum in disappointment almost makes him forget about that. 

“There’ll be a guard patrol coming in two minutes. You’ll want to be past the fountains by then. The roses to the right will give enough cover.” Vax gives you the run down and you nod. With a final peck you push off the ledge and he runs to the edge to see you grab onto the pillar, and slide down. When he does he feels something in his breast pocket. It’s the gold bracelet. You blow him a kiss when you hit the ground before you turn on your heels and make a sprint for the roses quite a ways a way. You’re lucky you’re fast. With a longing sigh he watches you go. Lunch it is. 

[delicrieux]

𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐚𝐰𝐧  | autumn features (november edition)      

pairing—aemond targaryen x f!reader   summary—an accurate and detailed account of what had truly happened to lady tyrell at court, ages to ten and six to ten and nine. word count—9.6k warnings for this chapter—besides the typical hotd nonsense, there are spoilers for further events in hotd at the very end of this chapter! also tw sa (not at reader) and death tagging @thesadvampire​ @curlszx88  masterlist. ☕.  autumn features.  part 1. part 2.  extra. ♥

Aegon is well into his cups, despite the hour. There are great lines under his eyes and a flush on his cheeks, messy, bed ridden hair and sloppily thrown on vestments that make him, alone in the hall doused in morning sunlight, seem more as a drunken patron of a local bar rather than a prince. The line of soldiers clears after your entrance and the doors shut with a loud, groaning sound. It echoes, rushes past you and into the carved ceiling. His attention is stolen from the cup in hand and redirected to you.

The change in his expression is instant – from a frowning, stony face to a delirious smile, “…Morning, sister.” His eyes roam your body, down the exposed slope of your shoulders all the way to the tidy hems of your new dress, “Looking…dashing this fine hour.”

“What an hour indeed, brother.” You squeeze between your teeth. He hums, takes a generous gulp; a red drop runs down his chin, as if he was feasting on blood. The sight repulses you, “Hope I’m not intruding.” Your voice does not hold the gentle timbre you present to the rest, but rather a sharp edge that will cut cleaner than dragonsteel if prompted. Your eyes burn into him. He merely snorts.

His chair slides backwards with a creak, “Intrude all you please,” He raises his glass to your honour, “you know I’d never mind, my wife-that-never-was.”

“What privilege do I have for you to call me so.” He doesn’t take your sarcasm to heart—he never does. Mostly he’s too drunk out of his mind to care about your thorny words, “And here I was—“

“Save your speeches for someone who cares to hear them.” He interrupts you, though not unkindly. He’s smiling into his drink before tasting it again, “What do you want, sister?”

You raise a brow, “Would it be so strange for me to seek out your company?”

That gets his attention. Even his posture straightens. There’s a beat of silence before his laughter disrupts it, “Well, then,” He shrugs, drowns his cup, sets it harshly on the table, “you’re engaged to my brother, I’m married, but—“ He smacks his thighs in invitation, “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“A conversation will do.” You state.

“And you will find that my lap is the only place I’ll care to listen.”

“Charmed, Aegon.” You bite, “Your eloquence truly has no limits.”

“I hope you to find that my actions are much more engaging than my vocabulary.” He tuts, and a slow, pleased smirk pulls on the corner of his lips, “It would be like nothing you’d felt before, I’m certain. Seven be my witness.”

“What did you do?” The severity in your voice catching him off guard. Stumped, for a moment, he can only stare at you, at your rigid, angry features, tightly clasped hands. But he falls into his role easily, so unperturbed and easy-going, smiling to himself without a care in the world.

“You’ll have to be a bit more specific.”

“I know it was you.” You say, approaching, and he wilts in his chair a little under the scrutiny of your gaze, “So tell me. Enough of these games, just spit it out so I could fix the mess you have made.” He can’t quite look you in the eye. After a pause, he mumbles something incomprehensible, “Speak up.”

“I didn’t do anything, alright.” He snaps, “Could I at least hear my crime before being prosecuted?”

You huff, “Hear your crime? Don’t be daft, Aegon, your jokes are unbecoming—“

The heavy wooden doors suddenly cry at the hinges and part—in comes a shivering servant girl, her head bent down, holding a pitcher of wine in her trembling hands. She briefly lifts her glassy eyes, the same colour as your own, and quickly looks downward once more, “I-I brought more wine for the Prince.” She announces, but her voice is quiet, rasp, near choked.

You note her untidy dress, dishevelled, (colour) hair, bruised skin around her arms, neck, and shoulders. It’s only too easy to imagine yourself being the recipient of Prince Aegon’s unwanted affection—that was a life you had been saved from. Your gaze slides back to Aegon, and his cheeks are burning red, as if he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

The servant girl scrambles to pour him wine, and all it takes is a twitch of his fingers for her to startle and spill most of it on the floor, “I-I am so sorry, your grace—“

“Come.” You tell her. Setting the pitcher down, she obeys and stumbles over, bottom lip bitten from fright. She tries to adjust her skirt and wipe the remnants of the drink from her hand somewhere where you wouldn’t notice. Tears steadily stream down her cheeks, more and more with each step she takes, and you can barely look at her without flinching, “Have you told anyone?”

She sniffles, “N…No, my lady. I, I only—only went to fetch the wine—“

“Go to my room. Use the servant corridors, and make sure no one sees you. Wait there till I return.”

“My lady—“

“Go. Now.”

She bows and scrambles out the backdoor. Silence reigns broken by your angry breaths. You’re boiling from the inside, and all of that frustration trickles down to your hands where you fiddle with your rings. You think this is what it would feel to burn.

Grinding your jaw you turn to Aegon, “You disgust me.”

He doesn’t pretend to be surprised, merely dips his head, like a child scolded. He scowls, “You forget yourself, Lady Tyrell. You’re speaking to a Prince—”

“Fuck you.” You spit, “Fuck you and your court and your vile antics.”

“Well, if you’re offering—“ He growls, “my lap’s up for the taking.”

“I’d rather hang.”

“And you soon will if you keep speaking like that. Fuck.” He pours himself a drink, downs it, and then pours another, “This the crime I’m punished for? Feeling awfully altruistic, aren’t we, sister? Didn’t give a shit about any of the others, but since this one looks like you—“

“We look nothing alike.”

“You do.” He states, “And you should find my opinion no different from my brother’s—Gods, if you only knew—“

You raise a hand, “The only thing I wish to know is what you told Aemond.”

He leans back in his seat, watching, oddly sober, “Told him what?” He inquires, his voice ringing with a genuine note of curiosity, “That your whole bloodline is full of leeches? Or that you don’t give a shit about the people or the servants in this castle?” He snorts, “Doubt that would be a surprise for him, now, my darling wife on the other hand—“

Your fist thunders down on the table. The cutlery shakes and his cup nearly tumbles over, “Damn it, Aegon!” You hiss, “Tell me what lie you’ve spread so I could salvage this before a greater conflict arises.”

Stunned, he simply stares, “…Had…had something happened? Between you and my brother?”

You gape at him, “…You imbecile.”

“I’ll have you know I had no part in this—“ He quickly states, “—whatever this is. I’m innocent, and quite frankly, you blaming me so baselessly—“

“Seven give me strength…”

“What did you do, anyway?” He asks, “I saw Aemond was in a mood but I just figured—“ He shrugs, “—well, he’s always in a mood. So I didn’t figure anything, really.”

You watch him for a moment, straightening up, “…So you mean to tell me that you truly had no part in this?”

“In what? Trying to break you up? No, learned—“ He quiets quickly, taking his glass.

“Learned what?”

He shrugs again, eyes roaming around the area, “That it’s a bad idea.”

“Oh, a bad idea, I recon?”

“Your intellect almost rivals your beauty, sister.”

“And it shall surely surpass it once you tell me what had happened.”

He holds up a finger, lips turned downward, “…Just to preface, I meant no harm—“

“Speak and I shall decide on the fact.”

“—it was, just, simply, a long…lonely night.” He continues, “And I just, well I figured,” He smiles, though it’s uncomfortable, “not my brightest moment, surely—“

“I’ll grow old before you finish if you keep dallying so.”

“I went to your room.”

“What?”

“And so happened to meet my brother half way and really, now, he was not pleased in the slightest, I almost—where are you going?” Noting your retreat, he stands, “I wouldn’t have done anything!” He calls after you, “Just a chat, (Name)! A fucking chat with an old friend! Gods, you’re prissy just like my brother. You two are perfect for each other! Fucking perfect, you hear?”

The last of his voice gets cut off by the closing door.

You move through the labyrinth of the castle in quick, light steps, hands folded, and though your thoughts blaze with an unfurling scheme, your face betrays none of that inner turmoil. Your ears are hot, and the dress is much too tight to rush in, but you prevail and even manage to beam at the idling lords and ladies on your way to Queen Alicent’s quarters.

Ser Criston must have informed her of your nightly ventures by now – he had caught you in one, but she would be right to assume it had not been the first time you broke a sacred codex of courtly manners. What she thinks of you now may be no better than what Aemond assumes, yet—his name spurts a different image, one that brings this strange tightness to your chest and makes you slow your pace, if barely.

You imagine him there, in the shadowy corridors, lost and conflicted, a wraith that had risen from the grave to seek out something precious. Would his face look even lovelier in moonlight? Would his hair be un-brushed, un-braided, tousled, as if he had ran his fingers through it sleepless before finding you? Would he have remembered to done his leather eye patch, or would he had knocked on your door barefaced, with the emerald gleaming in the dark? Would he had smiled once you invited him inside, or would he had fled before reaching you?

You think that you may have been waiting for him on the eve of his name day, alone in your silks, alert for a gentle knock or a push on the door that informed of a visitor you had been anticipating. Your heart was beating in your throat, and you were restless, pacing back and forth, and while you had assumed you were simply anxious to report to mother, perhaps there had been a different cause entirely.

As if summoned, he appears from behind the corner and you nearly run into his chest, stopping just in time. Momentarily stunned, he says nothing; you note his hands clench into firsts before loosening, promptly hidden behind his back.

“Lady Tyrell.” He greets with leer, and you have, by now, realised that the brothers only refer to you as that when they are deeply displeased or wish to wound you—to remind you that you are not family, despite growing up with them, despite loving them, despite being promised to one of them. And from Aemond, your name sounds particularly dull, as if you were nothing but a passing acquaintance.

You would like to think that it does not hurt, to think you had felt worse, and surely will feel worse in the future – this court and it’s secrets and it’s deceit will wear you down, eventually, as it does to most. But it does hurt. It’s a small poke to a wound that’s barely scabbed and prone to bleeding.

“You seem to be in an awful hurry.” He comments when you don’t respond, “Pray tell where is it that you’re running. Or is someone chasing you, perhaps?”

You keep your smile cordial, “I have important news for your mother the Queen I wish to deliver. Excuse me.”

You brush past him, but his firm hand on your forearms halts you, “I’m curious about this news. Indulge me?”

Even through layers of linen and leather his touch burns you. You would shrug him off, if only it did not feel so pleasant, “It is best kept between your mother the Queen and I, my prince.” His face does not change at the nickname. You recall when he was young, when his cheeks would blaze bright by your call.

He had been gentle once, pliant in your hands. You could have moulded him into anything you wished to.

Vhagar never gave you the chance.

He chuckles—it’s a deep, hoarse sound somewhere in the back of his throat, “Something even I can’t know? My, must be of the gravest importance.”

“It is.”

His hold slackens and you break free. Two steps are all you manage to take before, “Pretty dress.” He says, and it’s an indolent remark. You turn back, “Is there an occasion for it?”

“I’m a Tyrell.” You remind, “I have many pretty dresses, as you should know.”

“I was only curious if there was someone you wished to impress by wearing it.”

“If that were the case, that would only be my future husband, who, as it seems, does not care much for my efforts. I must away, now.”

“Husband, you say?” He wonders aloud, mirthless, “If memory recalls you have been promised to a few.”

“Yet I’m set to marry only one.”

He hums, “Yes, though, you were quite adamant in breaking off that engagement as well—or am I wrong, Lady Tyrell?”

He’s so smug with his observations, so effortlessly poised despite pointing a dagger to your throat. You swallow, and your composure cracks—that smile you had practiced so many times in the mirror falls, “I should think a prince would have better things to do than insult his lady wife,” You speak, “but once again, you Targaryens prove to be unpredictable. If you have nothing else to say—“

“Did you see my brother?” He questions, and his eye is fixed on you, watching carefully for any unplanned movement, any twitch and pull of a lie.

“I have,” You admit, “and if you must know, he is why I must see the Queen in the first place.”

“And it is so important that you can’t even tell me.”

You take a step closer, frowning, hissing, “There’s a serving girl in my quarters, one of many to which he shows his affections, and unless you wish the line for the throne to be even more complicated than it already is, I suggest you leave this be.”

“In your quarters?” He raises a brow, “Pray tell, does she look like you as well?” His hand comes to touch your hair, but you swat it away with a slap. There’s faint amusement in his voice, though his features are as if set in stone, “Perhaps she even bares your name and title—“

You turn away. It’s a quick spin and retreat and you feel your throat closing, lashes trembling, molars grinding. But your back is straight, and your head is held high, and you think of Highgarden and the flowers, carefree days of tea ceremonies and rehearsals, as he continues talking, his voice growing further and further away. Once out of sight, you bitterly wipe a stray tear from your cheek.

He had been gentle once, how had he become so cruel?

Queen Alicent had always been most kind to you, and you had always supposed that she regarded you more as a daughter than her own—more as a child born out of her womb than any of the Targaryens she must call her children. Her sombre features were always quick to break into a smile in your presence, and she loved to hold your hands, trace the lines of your palms, and talk about anything, be it the weather. And when your presence is announced, by Ser Criston of all, she swiftly brakes away from her papers and stands to greet you.

Your exchange is quiet; voice soft, ruptured by a devotion you feel somewhere deep—it’s heavy, ivory, without it you’d feel like missing a bone. You report dutifully, as any good-mannered lady should, of the vile actions of the Prince. She is not astounded by the news, and meets it with a tilted head and a small grimace.

Arrangements are made to brew a tea for the poor girl waiting in your bedchamber. Before you leave Alicent calls after you gently, “I know that you are innocent.”

That dark, red room full of incense flashes in your mind, and you glance at her. She smiles, “Ser Criston had…told me he had found you wandering on the hour of the owl.”

“I was only out to clear my head.”

“I know, my—“ She pauses, clears her throat, “I know, (Name). I know. But where I believe you, others may not, so I only ask of you this: no more. I know, I know you may feel…trapped, at times.” She says that word with such heaviness and hurt you feel she is no longer referring to you, “But,” She composes herself hastily, “but it’s the way it is. Such is our duty, as women of the court.”

“I understand, your grace.” You bow, “It was foolish of me. I shall never do so again.”

You see your murky reflection on the polished floor, the cap of your satin shoes embroidered and jewelled peeping out under the hems of your dress—the same shoes your wear to visit the poorest of districts in King’s Landing. The soles are no longer spotless and the rubies had been coated in a thin layer of dust. They don’t sparkle anymore with every step you take down the crumbled stairs. The peasantry sticks to corners, crevices, small nooks where they can hide and feel safe with the walls of their shabby homes protecting them. They watch you with weakly masked awe and distrust. The crowd of soldiers slinks behind you, keeping their distance by your request.

A flock of servant girls trail alongside, arms-linked and cheery, carrying woven baskets of fruit and silk you intend to give out to those less fortunate. It’s a bi-yearly trek, all of the sake of reputation. Your heart does neither weep nor ache at the sight of a sick child or a whoring mother selling her body to feed her family—these streets, with their filth and sweat and doleful hope, do not inspire much to you at all.

It’s a hot afternoon. You are all purged under the rays of the sun.

Your hands grasp smaller ones with a twirl, and you smile and laugh with the children you pulled into a short dance, “My lady!” One of the servant girls squeak, “You’ll ruin your dress!”

“I have others.” You respond easily. The children hold you so tightly you think they do not want to let you go.

“My lady,” As evening slowly draws across the sky, one of your handmaidens springs to your side with a whisper, “I must inform you of what I’ve heard.” Your head barely tilts to the side, so her lips would speak into your ear only. The streets swim with patrons; your guards march in the back with their armour reflecting the setting sun, “Though, I fear to even speak it, for, my lady, sweet and gentle as you are, you may faint.”

Gracefully, your hand extends, and she produces a linen cloth on which you wipe away the grime from your fingers, “Things seldom surprise me anymore, Laenora.” You utter. The hike to the castle is long, and your legs have grown tired and smile stiff from all this theatre, “But if you feel as though it is something I may not care for, save it for yourself.”

“I think you should know, my lady, though it’s no subject for one pure as you.”

“Do not speak of purity here, Laenora. These people do not know of it.”

“Indeed, my lady, and thus you find my conflict. The news I bare comes from the mouths of the women themselves, and I trust their secrets, as they trust in your coin. It’s about the brothers, see—both of them have become frequent visitors of the Street of Silk.” She nearly mouths the name, repulsed to even voice it. A frown lines her lips and her eyes gleam with sadness—surely, you would find this news most unpleasant, especially since your husband-to-be is entangled in this hearsay.

The news of Aegon is hardly news at all, and Aemond, despite his mostly polite behaviour, is still a man. Perhaps he had taken your comments to heart, “…I see.” Is all you manage to say. It’s not disappointment you feel, though it’s not nothing, either.

“But that is not all, my lady,” Laenora resumes, “no, not at all, for what comes next is, I’m afraid, what may shock you still.”

“Well, speak it.” You state plainly, lifting your dress to trudge up the stairwell—the expanse of the castle looms ahead, towering under the gem-blue sky.

“The women had told me, yes, they’ve said, and I could find no lie, for they love coin,  their truth is bought, much like their bodies—see, my lady, they indeed confessed, that once the princes come to visit, they only request girls that bare your likeness.”

You inhale sharply and your heart tumbles to the pit of your stomach, as if you missed a step by accident. You glance at her, and she is as serious as she ever was, apologetic, almost, to have to relay such indecencies. You recall what Aegon had hinted at many moons ago, and now it all suddenly makes sense.

“…This is…” You begin, not certain how to weave all of your thoughts into a coherent sentence, “Well…”

“Troubling news, my lady, I know.” She murmurs, and her hands come to hold yours tenderly, as if you would bear the weight of this secret easier if it’s shared between two, “I’m sorry, but you must know, I fear, you must.”

“You mustn’t tell anyone else. Not a soul.”

“I will not, my lady, this I swear; it shall be kept between us only.”

The next you see Aemond is by the dinner table doused in candle-light. The old walls of the Keep echo with silent chatter and clanking cutlery, Aegon’s offbeat laugh or loud jousting of his cup. The King is much too ill to ever join for supper anymore—he you see little, only when invited by the Queen herself to pay a visit. The Lord Hand keeps the King’s seat warm whilst he’s resting. You had noticed this subtle shift in power veer and spill over into blatant occupation. The décor had changed, too: all gloomy and wooden and in reverence to the Seven.

Aemond does not look at you; he seems to skip you as his gaze roams around the table.  He is still at cross with you, and when you meet the next day in Helaena’s room, he hardly speaks a word.

The weeks shift into months and your name day looms over the horizon. The fog-laden morning in King’s Landing brims with sleep. The Dragon Pit reeks of flesh and blood and odour, and you have trouble keeping your grimace at bay. You shift in your armour: thousands of leather straps dyed in deep evergreen and fashioned to hold by pins of silver baring the Tyrell crest.

Sunfyre trails the clouds before stooping to the roof with a mighty roar. The sound nearly knocks the wind out of your lungs. Aegon, beside you, laughs merrily, “Sister!” He calls you; the ground shakes as Sunfyre lands, a smelting hot breath of putrid air gushing past the lot of you, “Ride with me, why don’t you?”

“Aegon!” Helaena scolds, fixing her gloves, “Must you jest now?” Her own dragon, Dreamfyre, is being escorted from the Pit, mollified and gentle, much like her. The dragon-keepers speak in High Valerian – what they say is beyond you, and though the language is beautiful, it’s too sharp, like a whip, or a gleaming tooth of a dragon, “Sister,” Her loving smile calms you, if only for a moment, “you needn’t be nervous—“

But her words are drowned in a far-off roar that cracks the sky into two. Aegon is still laughing as he saddles Sunfyre, staring into the swirling clouds and at the vague shape of a massive body casting an even greater shadow. The Queen shakes her head and closes her eyes, as if to shield herself from an upcoming headache. Noting your gaze on her, her lips twitch into a painful smile, “We shall see you shortly. It will be a…” She glances up, “A…quick flight, I recon.”

And there, from the forming storm clouds emerges Vhagar with a splint of sunlight raining down with her. She circles the Pit, slowing, before, gradually, she descends and you note a mane of white hair twirling from behind her head. You hold onto Helaena as she clings to you from the fearsome quake: dust dances in the air a hot vapour slices past your cheeks. The keepers gather, sharp staffs in hand and faces healed in boils, ushering you closer with curt, displeased motions. You dare not move.

You had met Vhagar only twice and it was enough to dissuade you from ever meeting her again. It’s her eyes that frighten you most, ancient and intelligent—she has seen cities burn and be raised again from the ground up, and had, surely, been part of many of such conquests. She’s massive, a body that radiates heat and smoke, with glimmering scales and acute, angular bones. You must crank your neck to look at her, and you grind your jaw to keep your lips from trembling.

This, you think, is what all of it had been for: all of your lessons and ceremonies and late-night dance practices. Perhaps even your own conception. Born and raised to get the only thing the great families of the Seven Kingdoms do not have – dragons. It doesn’t matter which. Power is power, and one breath from either Dreamfyre or Vhagar would leave but a charred shape of you on the floor.

You taste dirt and blood on your tongue, but your features set into grim determination. The leather is uncomfortable and it scathes your skin, but you try your best to ignore it. I’m no warrior, your mind sounds discouraged, I’m not made for this. But your dread hardly matters, if at all. It’s their world and their rules, and the Targaryens have never been considerate.

The keepers help you up, and as you climb, Aemond extends his hand for you to take. Whether he feels the quiver of your body or not is hardly a concern—the beast rumbles beneath you, and one wrong move and you may fall and injure yourself, perhaps incurably. You keep your eyes strained downward anticipating any sudden shift or warning of Vhagar’s discontent. It never comes.

Plopped onto the saddle in front of Aemond, you feel his chest hit your back; silken hair frays in the sides of your vision, and his chin dips to touch your shoulder, “You best hold on tight.” You hear the smirk in his voice more than see it, and your fingers clench around the reigns so tightly they go numb. His arms cage around your waist, “Would you like to steer her?”

“Aemond.” You hiss.

“Surely you know the way to your own home better than I.”

Sunfyre takes off with a gust of wind and a howl; Vhagar stirs beneath you, “I trust your memory, my prince,” You state, “for if you can find my room in the shadows of the night, surely you’ll be able to navigate to Highgarden in broad daylight.”

He stiffens, and the last you hear before take-off is a shout in High Valerian that nearly deafens you.

You feel like something tore out of you and was left with Queen Alicent watching her children fly Reach-ward—your stomach drops and you feel sluggish and heavy, as if the ground was calling back to you. The wind tears at you and it’s so strong that it makes your eyes water and lips frost; in daze, you fall into Aemond’s embrace. He’s mercifully silent about holding your weight. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed it.

The dragons dance and weave through the clouds. Dew collects on your armour and your nose and it’s so cold you barely catch your breath—but then the vistas open, great plain fields and far off mountains soaked in sunlight, the castles and halls of the Red Keep and the maze of the city all minuscule, toy-like, as if made from clay and wax. The world seems to fit in the palm of your hand. Momentarily, you lift it, as if to touch that great expanse, and you laugh, bell-like and wondrous.

“Told you!” Heleana shouts through the noise of flapping wings, “You needn’t be afraid, sister!”

You flash her a smile before Dreamfyre dips and rushes to catch up to Aegon. The journey continues for hours before the first stop. You ride along with the sun, and when night falls, you slumber in the grassy fields under the starry sky, and take flight once more when day breaks.

Its high noon and tears have dried in the creases of your eyes.  Your muscles are stiff and aching and your arms and thighs sting from the imprints of fine leather. Before you, the alabaster towers of Highgarden manifest and grow larger. You lean in as your skin prickles with anticipation – finally, after years of playing at court, you are home.

Yellow-violet wild-flowers swim in your vision. Rose-vines cling to sturdy, ivory stone and sling from windowsills—the air is tinted with pollen, and the ground underneath your feet has never been so unsteady. A flock of servants and soldiers greet you in the outskirts of the city, and the girls hold your arms and all you can see are their grinning faces and flushed cheeks as they dote on you.

“Oh, my lady, Gods be good, you poor, poor woman—“

“—your hands, oh, gracious be the Seven!” One aches once she pulls off you glove.

“—and your hair—“

“—everyone has already gathered awaiting your return—“

“—you must feel faint, my lady, please, away with us—“

“Someone fetch the honey-wine! What had the royal cooks been feeding you—“

“—and the rose-water! Oh, I dread to think—”

“---prepare the oils! This way, my lady—“

“—come, come please, mind your step—“

Aegon’s hearty laugh does little to distract them from their mission. They seat in you a plush, velvety chair in the shade of a white linen tent, and they are quick to fetch the brushes and silk cloths wet with warm rose water and dab fragrant oils under your jaw. Helaena is soon seated beside you, and she’s much more receptive to the loving touches of the maids. They wipe the sweat off of her forehead and rouge her cheeks, fix her braids and help her pick a dessert from the assortment of buns, tarts, pies, glossed, syrupy candy, and melted chocolate cups.

The princes watch the scene unfold with varying states of amusement—Aegon seems ready to burst from laugher and Aemond does not seem to be affected at all, save for the brow he had raised once one of the maids remarked about the stench. It pervades, the smell of dragon, of warm blood and sweat and torn flesh, and it seems to cling to your skin no matter how many oils the maids rub into it. They are dissatisfied with such and entrance, and regard the Targaryens and their large pets with cautious, bleary eyes and pouted lips.

It must seem so silly to the princes, this exuberant greeting. But they fail to understand where they are. Helaena giggles as she sips wine mixed with honey; the girls brush her hair, the pointy edges of golden pins shining when caught in light. One word from you and the maids would slip something into the drink or the powder that coats the princess’ cheeks; weave poison into her robes, or the guards, with a raise of your hand, would slit their throats now or when they slept.

They’re in the court of roses, now. They hold no power here. No one outside the Reach does.

Once the servant girls decide that you’re presentable, a carriage of refined wood and silver ornaments rolls around. They lead Helaena to it, holding her hands and smiling at her words, though you know they likely do not understand what she’s saying. You seldom do, as well. Prince Aegon takes a seat by his wife, already nursing his second cup and entertained without end, delighted by such attention.

A guard brings you a steed, white as snow and smooth as satin, the finest horse in our stables, he says. It’s a lovely mare, and you gently run your hand down its snout. You smile, and it’s just a tad happier than it usually is, “She’s beautiful. Thank you.”

You mount her easily, and this saddle is much more confortable. “Will you not join us in the carriage, my betrothed?” Aemond questions.

You glance at him, “In full armour? I think not. We shall speak more in the castle. After the ceremonies, that is.”

“I should like to ride a horse as well, then.”

“Why? Haven’t had enough of your dragon?”

He grins, though you’re entirely certain he’s mocking you, “I only think it wise that husband and wife should meet the kind people of Highgarden alongside one another. Or would you disagree?”

The guards and stable-hands turn away from Aemond’s prompting look and seek your guidance instead. Bored, you comment, “Get him a horse.”

“Right away, my lady.”

The gates part to the sound of trumpets. The carriage rolls in first, and then you follow along with Aemond, who, despite getting what he had wanted, seems personally slighted by the act of your servants. Petals dance in the air and coat the road underneath the wheels of the carriage. The noise is deafening—people are clapping, waving, celebrating and singing, with their flowers and cups held high over their heads. The royal family rejoices at such reverence, but you know, and it’s a prideful inkling in your chest that these crowds had gathered for you.

You, only daughter of the Lord of Highgarden, you, wonderful lady Tyrell, you, princess-to-be in the wake of your name day have returned home. To them it would seem no different than as if you had returned from war. The twin dragons, Sunfyre and Dreamfyre, take to the sky. The crowd screams in delight at the display. As you weave through the roads leading up to the castle, you don’t stop smiling.

Past the blooming gardens and twinkling fountains, bakeries and shops of finest silks, smithies and jewellers and ripe orchids next to stained glass Septs. High ranking lords and ladies gather by the castle, and your path is paved by yellow roses. There’s music, fragments of sonnets lost to the rhythmical sound of drums, and the air is tinted with so many fragrances that it makes your head spin.

You dismount and dip your head in greeting before entering the castle you grew up in. The hall is lined with soldiers bearing the Tyrell crest and only marginally quieter than outside. The painted ceiling is just as you remember it – vivid and detailed, a depiction of the mythical reign of the first King of the Reach. It’s all gold and ivory and intricate carvings on polished wood. The Red Keep pales in the shadow of this opulence.

At the very end of the hall you spot your father sat in his seat, not unlike a throne. Beside him stands your mother, smothered in her silks and shawls and great luminescent pearls. She’s smiling to herself in the same way she has taught you how, and their position in the very back of the room on the chequered floor reminds you of chess.

This is nothing but a game, too.

You halt, and the Targaryen children stop behind you, silenced by the grandiosity of their surroundings.

“Lady Paramount of the Mander, daughter of the Lord of Highgarden, Defender of the Marches, High Marshal of the Reach and Warden of the South,” The announcer’s voice rings shrill in the silence, “Lady (Name) Tyrell.”

“It’s good to see you again, father.” You voice.

“Along with come the princes of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, the children of the Protector of the Seven Kingdoms: Aegon, Aemond, and Helaena Targaryen.”

Aegon leans over to you with a whisper, “…Not much of an introduction in comparison.”

Welcome to the court of roses, you wish to say. You only smile.

Your name day is but in three months, and if all the lords and ladies that matter wish to attend, the invitations need to be sent out immediately. Your day is spent signing letters and melting in hot steam baths. You return to your room late into the evening.

It is just how you have left it that many years ago, large and spotless, aired out well. You smell flowers, and when you move to your bedside window, from it you see the rose gardens and a fountain in which you would throw coins into with a wish. What was it that you had wished for? You can’t recall, but you know it had been something dear, something that made you hold the coin to your heart and shut your eyes real tight. But what could a girl that has everything even dream of? You suppose you’ll never know.

Despite the rough journey, sleep does not come. When the fires are blow out and the castle is silent, you leave your room. The guards standing watch merely dip their head in acknowledgement—you know that, even if the King himself demanded them to state where you had left, they wouldn’t say a word, not unless your father ordered them. Their loyalty to the crown only goes as far as you.

It would be a fib to admit that when you entered the library, you hadn’t expected to find Aemond there. Perhaps the only reason you only came here is for the fact that you knew he could not sleep, either. You felt it, in your heart of hearts, and you went into the room quietly, almost anxious to disturb the sacred peace that pervades it.

It’s a large space, lined by tall bookshelves full of heavy old tomes. The collection of scrolls and books is almost as impressive as in Old Town, if not more—most of them had been collected from the great ages past, gifts from Targaryen kings or bought from the best treasure hunters in Essos. There are relics fished out the Narrow Sea and sunken treasures; custom busts from the Westerlands and diadems from  the Vale; cases of old Dornish armour and even fragments of engraved stone from Sothoryos, or so the legends go. The air smells like dry parchment, ink, and sandalwood. If Aemond were to explore any place in Highgarden, it would be here.

He’s sat by a large table with a book in hand, and he has changed out of his coat and leather into pale linen robes. The flickering light paints strange shadows on his face, and you must admit that to you, standing there, between the arches, he looks lovelier than anything you had ever seen. His eye lifts to catch you and the book shuts harshly. His jaw moves, and he slowly sets his reading down.

“Out on one of your walks, I take it.” He mutters. You hum, pretend to be interested in a book pressed in leather in vellum. The printed title reads THE HISTORY OF HOUSE TYRELL, “Is this your first stop?”

“The night is young,” You say, not at all troubled by his tone, “and I am home after many years.” You glance at him, “I shall walk where I please.”

He opens the book again, though his eye does not move to skim the pages, “How did it end, by the way?” He says just a tad louder, “With that servant girl in your room.”

“With tea.”

“I heard the taste is quite bitter.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“How curious.”

“Why is that I am prosecuted from a crime I did not commit?” You question, drawing closer, “I don’t understand, Aemond, what had I done to upset you. Should I swear in the Sept for you to believe me? Or take off my clothes so you could check for yourself?”

He pauses mid-turn of a page, and his eye grows wider in the dim light. He turns to you and you smile, satisfied with such a reaction.

“Awfully quick to suggest that, (Name).” He bites, leaving the book once more. He stands, and his anger is made clear by a scowl, “Must you always disrobe yourself to prove the truth?”

“Why, my proposal was most innocent in nature,” You say, “I figured that, seeing as my lips speak only lies, my actions would persuade you to drop this hearsay, since you would be able to see for yourself. Though,” You feign exhaustion with a shrug and a sigh, “I suppose there’s not much to expect when you have only one eye to see now, is there, husband?”

His fingers cage around your wrist and pull, harshly. “Release me at once.” You snarl, trying to break free. His touch burns under the raw imprints left by your armour. Pain shoots up your arm. He does not budge.

You hit his chest, and when he refuses to back down, you hit it again, “I shall have your hand for that.” He says, grasping the other.

“Then take it.” You hiss, “Take it and my tongue, as you had sworn to do on many occasions. Keep on your promise, my prince, for I shall come to think you dishonour your word.” You reel in, glare into his eye, “And what good is a man that does not keep his word?”

He breathes out, his lips quirking with a smile, “As you wish.”

He captures your mouth in a kiss that knocks the air out of your lungs, his fingers digging into your hips as he pulls you flush against him. Your hands plant on his shoulders, and in retaliation you bite his lip which only serves him to push you to the wall. Your head aches but neither of you let go, limbs tangled and breaths spent, nails clawing at his shirt and his fingers tearing at your dress.

You taste copper and when he pulls away his lips are swollen, the lower bleeding from your bite. You stare at it, transfixed, and when you meet his gaze you feel dizzy for no one had ever regarding you with such desire. He steps back, releases you, and you feel weak in the knees. He wipes the remains of the kiss from his lips with the back of his hand, “…Satisfied?” He asks. His voice is hoarse and your heart leaps faster just so you could hear more of it. Your jaw clenches, lips thinning into a line. He grins, “I take your silence as a resounding yes, then. Do have a good night, Lady Tyrell.”

The celebration of your tenth and eight name day begins well into the morning, with Tyrell banners fluttering in the wind. Heaps of flowers decorate every corner, and even the townies that are not invited to the feast done their best robes in case you would be wandering around. The main hall brews with life once the sun sets beneath the horizon—candles and incense, silk shawls, gold and glass roses, the finest delicacies coin can buy.

The pile of gifts grows larger—from Pentosian rugs made from the richest yarn, pearl encrusted porcelain eggs for jewellery, to amber pins and rings from the Summer Sea. The lords, with their sons and daughters, keep adding to the mass that crams the table. The King, sick as he is, does not manage to hide the awe from his features, “Those are some fine riches.” He tells the Queen.

She smiles, slightly, taking a sip of her drink, “Indeed. Perhaps rivalling the Lannister dowry, even.”

“Your daughter is most beloved.” Says the King to your mother.

“She is, truly,” She agrees, her eyes catching you dancing with a lord from Old Town, “and there had been many that fought for her hand. Many of which had been your cousins, your grace.” This she says to the Queen.

“We figured,” Your father continues, “that it would be best to marry her to someone we know and trust.” He glances at Lord Otto Hightower seated by the Queen.

“And thus, combining our strength and our armies,” Your mother smiles at the King, “and the rich history between our houses. A splendid union, I believe.”

“Aegon would have been a good husband.” The King notes. The said man himself is drowning cups by a table full of ladies from the Vale.

“That we do not doubt.” Your mother chirps, “Only we thought, and we acted in the interested of the crown and its people, that a Prince Targaryen should have a Targaryen wife.”

“My son’s not the king,” Viserys says, “why on earth should it matter?”

Your mother glances at Lord Hightower, “Yet he is the first-born son, and so, privy to tradition.”

“How well said.” The Queen mumbles.

“What is more, your grace,” Lord Otto speaks up, “we have noticed a…growing affection between Lady (Name) and Prince Aemond.”

“Truly, they had always gotten along beautifully.” Your mother remarks.

“And is it not better to wed from love?” Your father proposes.

The King looks to his wife, and he is old, and weary, and he regards her with something akin to sadness, “…I suppose you are right, Lord Tyrell. A marriage born from love,” He holds her hand weakly, and something within Alicent cracks cleanly into two, “is a fine, strong union. I couldn’t have thought of a better idea myself.”

As parents continue their idle chatter, you bow to the lord that had been keeping you on your feet for a while now. The dance is over and you’re spent, and as soon as you lift your head a glass of wine is placed in your hand, one you gulp down greedily. The visitors clap as the musicians tune their instruments. Aegon is whispering to a blushing maiden dressed in pale blue; Helaena is smitten with a Baratheon Lord that keeps suggesting her pastries; Aemond sits alone, watching, his drink grasped tightly in his hand.  

Before you catch a break, a Lannister lord saunters over, requesting a dance. You’re much too giddy to deny him. His advances are halted when the King takes a stand, and the hall falls into a hush. He smiles, though it seems more as a grimace, and holds up his cup in a toast, “I wish to say a few words, if the lady of the house permits me.” He begins, and his request is directed at you, one you graciously accept with a shy dip of your head, “Many years ago, I, too, was ten and eight, and not nearly as smart nor as charming as our deeply treasured flower of the court.” The crowd laughs, and your hands land on your beating heart, “It is a privilege, I do think,” He continues, “to call you family, and a great honour to have you wed my son.”

Your eyes flick in Aemond’s direction, only to find him already looking at you.

“Thus I toast to your health and beauty and eagerly look forward to saying yet another speech at your wedding.”

The crowd cheers. You can barely contain your joy. The Lannister lord tries his luck yet again, though this time Aemond replaces him. The former tries to protest but one look and he retreats, frightened. You can’t help but laugh. The musicians strum a tune.

“And here I figured,” You speak, palms aligned with his; you circle one another, at ease, despite in the peripherals of everyone in attendance, “you wouldn’t dance with me.”

“I’m only performing my duties as your husband.”

You snort and spin and your dress fluffs and the ornaments in your hair jingle, “Not yet.”

Somewhere deep down you know you should be angry with him and his coldness, but you can’t find it in yourself to care.

“But soon.” His hands fall on your waist and he lifts you, “Have you thought much of it? Our wedding.”

“Mother hardly lets me speak a word of anything else.” You state, passing him; you fall a step back, “She’s deeply concerned with the invitations. And seating arrangements.” You comment slyly, as if divulging a great conspiracy.

A smile pinches on the side of his lips, “It’s awfully long, I recon.”

“Every lord and lady worth a coin will be invited. If only to sit outside and watch from afar.”

Your arm slinks around his shoulders and he pulls you close, his nose brushing your cheek, “Do I have a say in this arrangement?” But his voice is missing its usual sarcastic drawl.

He’s light on his feet, refined. You would expect nothing else from a brilliant swordsman, “Only if you wish.” You murmur into his ear.

“Then I should like to wed you alone.” He says as you part, “With no audience.”

“Do you not fancy the Lannister lords?” You raise a brow, “I do think they’re quite funny.”

“I don’t fancy any lords.” He states, “Least of all, the Lannisters.”

You twirl with a laugh, “Then let us invite no one,” You sing, “and let our witness be the moon.”

“Considering how fond our families are of theatrics, I doubt such a thing would work.”

Reunited once again, you stand close as the floor floods with dancers, “I shall not tell if you won’t.” You say, glancing at his lips.

He exhales harshly and lets you go. So ends your dance. Your arm is locked with Helaena’s and you’re spun once more.

The festivities continue long into the night, even after you retire. Drowsy and drunk and barely able to stand, you unclasp the necklaces and lose the gloves, throw it all onto the vanity. Your earrings, then, and at last, the pins and ornaments in your hair, and you see your dazed reflection in the mirror, and you smile to yourself, buzzing. Usually, you would not allow yourself such indulgence, even alone. But there is no one around, and you are ten and eight, and you are young, and beautiful, and happy.

And absolutely wine-drunk. Aegon made sure of the fact.

Incense curls into white smoke. Your room drowns in candle light.

The door slowly creaks open and you startle, heart skipping a beat when a tall, slender figure enters and shuts it behind him. Aemond is still in his festive robes, though his shirt is unbuttoned, and his hair is frazzled from the wind. He briefly marvels at the pinks, greens, and lavenders of your room. Such soft colours.

“You should not be here.” You say, though it’s hardly a request to leave.

“Your dogs made my journey quite a hassle.” He says, voice rasp, thoughtful. He’s referring to your guards, “One was most adamant to not let me through.” There’s a note of warning in his tone.

You smile, tilt your head, “They have a sworn duty to protect me.”

“He swayed my hand.”

You quirk a brow, “Surely you didn’t hurt the pup?”

He hums, approaching, “As I said,” but when close enough, he doesn’t move to touch you, “He swayed my hand.”

“I shall need to have a talk with my father, then.” You remark, “For if only one tried to defend my honour, we have little use for the rest that did not.”

His hand lands on the side of your jaw—it’s rough from training, yet all the more pleasant. “I thought you stuck to your quarters on the hour of the owl.” You murmur.

His gaze jumps between your eyes, “You know very well that I do not.” He admits, “Where were you, that night?”

“Out to see my mother.”

“Why?”

You gulp, “I couldn’t sleep. I waited for you, but you never came.”

“I did.” He says, “But you were already gone by then. Why not tell me?”

“Would you have believed me?”

“No, I suppose I wouldn’t have.”

“You hurt me, you know.” You tell him.

“And I fear that if you marry me,” His thumb caresses your cheek, “I may hurt you yet.”

You smile, “That is a risk I am willing to take. Only if you promise to never be so harsh with me again.”

“I am unworthy of you.”

Your lips, once again, grace the ragged skin of his scar, “You’re a worthy prince, I know‘t.”

He kisses you again, though it’s soft this time, tender, and you can taste the wine in his mouth. His arms snake around your waist and your tangle into his hair, carding through it.

“I have craved your mouth,” He murmurs as he breaks away, peppering kisses down your neck, “for a long time. As a man in the desert craves cool water. And now that I have you,” Once you’re face to face again, your fingers gently pull at his eye-patch, “How could I ever think to let you go?”

“Then don’t.” You whisper, and finally, he’s unmasked; the leather falls to the floor, forgotten, and the prettiest emerald you had even seen glimmers in candlelight.

“Is that what you want?”

“It is what I had always wanted.”

He kisses you again, and it is as if you are back in the library, no longer fighting the passion that grew over the years. His hand sweeps over the vanity and all of its continents fall to the floor, though neither of you care enough to part. And as you’re seated, legs parted, and his warm hands working on the knots in your corset, the party continues with music and howls of joy. The visitors dance and wine is spilled and the moon shines through the clouds, illuminating a shooting star.

But they feast on foals at dawn.

The Red Keep quakes with a wail. In one wing, Helaena is crumbled to the floor, screaming, pressing her dead child to her chest as if her beating heart would wake him.

On the other side of the castle, you watch as first sunlight casts on the cradle drenched in blood. Maids buzz around you and cry, and all you can do is stare at the forming puddle on the polished tiles before you fall to your knees, your fingers gripping at your stomach. Your girl, your only one, long awaited and beloved, dead before her first name day.

The Gods are cruel and war is kind to no one. You don’t recognise the sound that leaves your lips. You hardly comprehend the pain. There are hands pulling at you but all you can see is the blood. How red it is, and how much it looks like fire in the light.

Fire and blood, have you not lost enough?

FIRE & BLOOD, EXCERPTS FROM THE CHAPTER “FLOWER OF THE COURT”

Princess (Name) Targaryen, nee Tyrell, Lady of Highgarden, was the only daughter of the Lord Tyrell and his lady wife. She came to court young in preparation to marry Prince Aegon II as a conspiracy to become the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, as concocted by the shared interest to unite the forces between the Tyrell and Hightower families. The circumstances as to the switch between the princes is unknown, though it is said that Prince Aemond and, then Lady, (Name), were deeply in love and had requested to marry.  […] Their friendship was solid and love unwavering, and it said that they got along well as children and were even closer as adults.

[…] Princess (Name) was kind and deeply beloved by the court and peasantry alike, and she is said to have loved her people in return. Her selflessness is, to this, day, remembered, and a garden of the best flowers from the Reach has been tended to in the Keep in her honour ever since […].

[…] with the death of Prince Lucerys […] came the death of Prince Jaehaerys, the heir to the Iron Throne, and Princess Visenya, daughter of Princess (Name) and Prince Aemond Targaryen. The deaths of the children took a terrible toll on the Greens and greatly weakened their resolve. […].

Soon after the dance began, Princess (Name), along with numerous servants and her mother, died in the siege led by Prince Daemon Targaryen. Prince Aemond Targaryen did not find out of her passing till […].

And so ended the summer of Princess (Name)’s reign and came to the winter of her wake. Her father, Lord Paramount of the Mander, Defender of the Marches, High Marshal of the Reach and Warden of the South, remarried shortly after, though it is said that he never recovered from the death of his daughter and lady wife.

notes: ty everyone for such a warm & loving response from everyone regarding this fic <3 i unexpected fell in love w it & i’m so glad to see that u have, too! this chapter was supposed to feature like 10 more things, but i couldn’t add all of that since then a) it would be too long, b) narrative wise, it would drag on & not make sense. i might write some one shots regarding these two, though ^_^ thanks again, everyone! can’t wait to see my babygirl in season 2

[a-fic-reviewer-757]

that i may rise and stand, o'erthrow me

by: mortaltemples | word count : 8229 | AO3 | chapters: 10/10 | rating : Explicit

Summary :

The line between lies and truth is fine indeed.

No one knows that better than Halbrand.

“I cannot help but be curious…what happens,” he sneered, “When she finds out? Do you truly believe that the golden princess of the Noldor will forgive you? Do you think she will grant you absolution?” The air was silent until --

“Do you truly believe that she will want you?”

Tags :

Angst | Worship | stripping someone but in a 'worshipping your god' way | Spoilers | Speculation | Potential Major Spoilers | Emotional Hurt/Comfort | they're in LOVE your honour | Confrontations | Post-Episode 6 | Big 'take me to church' vibes | now with added smut | and even more angst | Please note the change in rating | Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

Review : 💜 💜 💜 💜 💜

I have to admit I do ship Galadriel and Halbrand mainly because he is Sauron ( yes I'm that bitch ). I've read the Silmarillion, Lord of the Rings and Hobbit and still, Sauron is my baby girl okay. I know he committed war crimes, but babe someone can fix him and her name is Galadriel. This fic has a lot of that even if the end is quite bittersweet, but still I loved it, the smut wasn't as extensive as I would like but still the way that Galadriel is compared to Morgoth in the sense that she is the new "god" that Sauron worships, and that she is the most of the light he would ever know in his lifetime is very good. So for people that have just watched the Rings of Power, and are now as I am shipping Saurondriel.