#anyone else notice that the monkey tag also has it's left eye crossed out in place of silco's eye

[mollysunder]

Is Ekko Trying to Reaffirm His Identity as a Firelight?

I find it very interesting that Jinx's monkey tag was engraved into Ekko's loc. Obviously, it's a sign that the Ekko-Jinx team up is real! But the placement of Jinx's tag may hint at something else more concerning for next season.

The monkey tag is where Ekko's Firelight symbol should be. And when we zoom out we see Ekko reapplying his face paint of the Firelight hourglass onto his face while holding back angry tears in his eyes.

Bare with me! Where there should be a symbol of his community, instead is Jinx. The fact that Ekko has to angrily reapply his face paint likely means his face was recently bare or the hourglass wasn't well distinguished the most identifying marker on him would be something related to Jinx.

I think this could mean for a portion of the season (not sure how long) Ekko's alliance with Jinx might take precedence over his affiliation with the Firelights.

Bare with me! Next season will most certainly be chaotic as the hunt for Jinx starts and her notoriety rises in Zaun. In the confusion and tension we know Caitlyn could have her eyes on the Firelights as a resource that they she could utilize to find Jinx. What opinions can we expect from the Firelights?

Despite everything that's happened between Jinx and the Firelights (and yes, that includes the killings), would they actually cooperate with Piltover to have her captured? Would it end the occupation? Would it mean that Caitlyn and Ambessa would continuously use them as a resource to rat on other Zaunites? Do some of the Firelights even hate Jinx enough to betray their principles? Do some of them respect Jinx for firing on the council?

These are all questions that can easily devolve into a schism for the Firelights. Or maybe we skip all of that and Ambessa's forces raid the tree hideout and the Firelights are scattered across Zaun. Either way Ekko ends up separated and he and Jinx may be in need of allies just as much as she is. It was even hinted at in the art book cover.

At the bottom Jinx of the green art book meant to represent Jinx drawing from Ekko's perspective she wrote, "Lost the Firelights". That's not a phrase that should be significant to Jinx. Silco's dead. Shimmer production is being cracked down on. There's no reason for her to attack them anymore, and she never chased them in the first place, they came to Jinx and her traps. It's about Ekko!

Could the poster represent a moment where after teaming up with Jinx, Ekko must return to build his community that fractured under Piltover's occupation?

[thornedcrownsandhollowvirtu-blog]

Lirio

The first of my short stories. One that, unlike most of my attempts, actually succeeds at being short. I am posting it now, in part because I've been wanting to post it for some time but simply haven't cared enough to bother, and in part in recognition of Mental Health Awareness Month.

Please keep in mind that it is a story of a young girl's depression, and her struggle to live with it. The story is short, the ending is happy, and her struggles are presented from her close friend's observation of her behavior, but if you are very sensitive to stories regarding this topic, please heed with caution.

Also, please note that this story does not attempt to make light of depression, or present it as something easy to "fix." The point of this story is to communicate how depression may appear and affect those we least expect it to, especially close loved ones, and the importance of having a support network, and the security that comes with it.

Content warning for suicide attempt in the very beginning of the story. It is not explicitly detailed, but the action does occur.

All else aside, please enjoy.

Lirio

    The wind is brisk and biting, the sky grim, but Liliana walks on, accompanied by full-body shivers and misted breath, her only witness the scattered stars blinking out of sight in the timeless hours that straddle late night and early morning.

    Only once does she pause on her trek: the detour she takes in an impulsive bit of nostalgia. She hesitates before she boards the footbridge that overlooks still water — rather short, only fifteen steps across from end to end — but only for a moment, and, after the first step on the uneven surface, it becomes easier to wade her way to the center.

    The iron bar is much colder than her trembling hand, cold enough to seep into her skin, but her shivers still as she folds one arm over the other atop the rail, bends her neck over the edge, and bows her head. And yet — despite the breath she holds captive in her throat, despite the unrestrained hammering in her temples, despite the impending nettle behind her eyes — she cannot bring herself to shed a tear anymore than she could breathe underwater.

    She withdraws her head and remains still, stalk-straight for a full minute, five, ten. The only source of light in this sea of darkness, the blazing white glare of the streetlight behind her.

    When she glances over her shoulder, she catches the beckoning wink of a neon display nearly as tall as the towering building it supplements: her original destination. She turns away from the light.

    The glow of her phone pales in comparison; though tolerable, it is still unfavorable and bright. She squints but doesn't so much as think of dimming it down.

    Her pulse is racing by the time she holds the phone up to her ear; her breath catches at the inquisitive slur at the other end of the line.

    “... Hello...? Are you there...? Li—?”

    “I need you to...” she stops. “You should come to the bridge.”

    “... what? It's — almost three in the morning, why—?”

    A muffled beep. The connection is dissolved, and she is alone again.

    She leaves the phone trapped into a corner of cement at one end of the bridge just as it begins to buzz and tries to skitter away.

    The intensity of the streetlight's glare almost seems to have waned; its reach looks dwindled and centered entirely on her.

    Her hands grip onto the handrail, a necessary support to brace herself as she eases one foot, then the other, in between the balusters, just above the string.

    Her phone buzzes again.

    She casts herself over the edge.

.    .    .

    When they were six, Anastasio thought Liliana was more like a bird than any flower he'd ever seen: flowers just stood to the side and looked pretty, and, though pretty she may be…

    Liliana never stood still.

    She stayed in her seat when she had to, but otherwise she would flutter back and forth to all ends of the classroom, chirping away with the other kids until they managed to shake her off. Liliana always wore bold colors that would always catch everyone's attention before anything else. During recess, she would race from one end of the school yard to the other, running so fast she sometimes looked like she was flying. And, on windy days, she would climb up the big tree that sat furthest from the classrooms, find a comfortable perch on a sturdy branch, and sing until the bell caught her ear and left her to flutter down and race back to class.

    The only thing remotely flower-like about Liliana was the little ruffle finish on the hem of her dress when she spun and twirled and danced over the grass — the graceful spread of her skirt as it flared out and rose high enough to see the knee-length shorts she always wore underneath.

    One day, he looks up and sees her perched on top of the monkey bars, swinging her legs like she's walking on air and humming quietly. A short breeze catches her hair.

    “Why aren't you in the big tree?”

    Liliana blinks down at him, and points up to the cover over the playground. “'S too hot.” Then, cocking her head, she says, “you should come up here.”

    Anastasio stares; he’s always been bad with heights.

    “Come ooonnnnn,” she draws out with the beginning of a pout playing over her lips. Her hands are holding the railing to steady her, but the heavy way she leans over startles him. He stutters out a polite refusal and waits for her to lean back.

    She lets go, twists and—

    “Are you scared?” she asks, hands gripping her dress over her thighs to keep it from falling over her face as she hangs upside down, with only her legs anchor her.

    Anastasio moves his mouth, but all he lets out is a frightened croak.

    Liliana folds up and rights herself. “Come on, it's not so bad.”

    Anastasio eyes the structure with distrust, but even now he feels a curious gravitation pulling him toward her. Liliana waits.

    He almost regrets listening to her by the time he joins her, gripping onto the rail hard enough for his hands to ache, the unwelcome and daunting experience of having his legs and feet suspended in air leave him feeling green in the face. He almost regrets it — really, he thinks he should — but the excitement thrumming through him is almost enough to negate the fear.

    Anastasio and Liliana are virtually inseparable from then on.

.    .    .

    “What's your name?” Liliana asks two years later.

    Anastasio stares. “You don't know my name?”

    “Yes, Ana, I do.” She grins, but he refuses to take the bait, “I meant your last name.”

    “Rana.”

    Liliana squints at him. Then, after a long pause, “that would explain the croaking.”

    “I don’t croak,” he corrects her patiently.

    “You do, too. It suits you perfectly.”

    “We’re in the same class, and we have name tags. Why did you even ask?”

    Lili waves her hand. “Oh, like you know mine.”

    “Ortega. Which suits you well, considering how annoying you get.”

    Lili scowls, and crosses her arms.

    “I suppose I have to be the bigger person and end it here, then, Anastasia.”

    Anastasio puffs his cheeks. “That’s not my name! ”

.    .    .

    When they were ten, Liliana told him she was going to move. Her aunt was sick, Liliana said, and they were going to stay and help her until she got better.

    “Are you really going to come back?”

    “I think so...” Liliana sighs. “But it won't be for years.”

    Years... that sounded like forever.

    “Your aunt can’t come here?”

    “No. I already asked...”

    Liliana looks even more upset than he feels; Anastasio, at least, has other friends here, even if Liliana could never be replaced — Liliana won’t have anyone.

    Anastasio slides over a scrap of paper and watches her frown. “It’s my address,” he explains, “we can exchange letters until you come back.”

    Liliana beams.

.    .    .

    She sends him a letter. He replies. She replies, and then she sends out a second letter, a third, a fourth, and sometimes even a fifth before he can reply.

    Her handwriting is large, and, for a while, she attempted the wide and thick style a lot of girls in his class use, until she realized she really couldn’t pull it off. When she started reviewing cursive, she tried using it in her letters for practice, but it often took hours of incomprehensive staring to decipher the erratic squiggles and irregular loops. A lot of her letters break off from a few scant sentences with a drawing all done in crayon: usually an intentionally ugly frog in all sorts of unnatural colors, but occasionally forests or meadows or other animals would feature in.

He keeps them all.

When he gets bored, or lazy, or misses her so much his eyes sting and his chest aches, he picks every letter she ever sent him out of the box he keeps them in, and reads and rereads them until his eyes swim and he thinks he knows her handwriting better than she does.

His mom once asked if he wanted to tack up the pictures to his empty walls. For decoration.

He said no; Lili isn’t a decoration: Lili is a whole girl who lives too far for him to see, so he has to keep as much of her together as he can. His box holds a small part of her that can only contain her lively nature through her wild writing and enthusiastic drawings.

He notices, often, that she talks of her school, her classes, her family, and even the scenery of where she lives now, but she never mentions anyone new, no “I met this kid so-and-so” or “My new friend so-and-so”. As the months drag on, she writes more and more about how much she misses home. Anastasio wonders how lonely she is. He tries to prod her into talking about new friends she should have made, but all he gets are recounts of conversations and interactions that are only notable for filling in the lines to appease him.

Were she not Liliana, he would have thought her shy; but she is Liliana, and Liliana is not shy.

He wonders if something is wrong.

.    .    .

    They exchange phone numbers via letters at thirteen, just before his upcoming birthday; his parents had even presented his phone to him a week early, six months after Liliana received hers.

    He thinks he’ll miss their written correspondence, even if it’s less convenient than phone calls and text messages, but he still has the box with all her letters tucked under his bed. Looking back, he’s relieved their penmanship had improved to something legible by the time Liliana moved; had she gone two years earlier, he doesn’t think they’d be able to understand each other's writing at all.

    Several months in, though, he began to notice a pattern with Lili. The novelty of instant communication had them plastered to their phones, though the dependence gradually waned. But there would be times when Liliana would text him compulsively for days on end, and others when she didn’t reply for weeks. And questions like “Is something wrong?” only made her more prone to stonewalling than prompts like “Hey. It’s been five weeks.”

    He was never quite sure what these episodes meant, and the only conclusion he had was that she may be hanging out more with the friends she made a year into her move, but he was relieved to notice them decreasing over time.

He was even more relieved when she woke him up in the middle of an unassuming night with a call from her another three years later.

    “I'm coming home,” she told him before he could say anything, and he didn’t hear the catch in her voice.

.    .    .

    “You look... different.”

    Liliana gives him a tired smile and sits down next to him.

    It looks fake.

    “How long have you been back?”

    “Two days.”

    Anastasio pauses, waiting to see if she'll elaborate. She doesn't.

    “Unpacking?”

    “Mhm.”

    “How was the trip?”

    “Long.”

    “Your aunt?”

    Another tired smile. “Good.”

    “How was it there?”

A stony pause.  “Let’s just say I’m glad to be home.”

Well, if that wasn’t ominous. Still, more pressing, at least for the moment…

    “You look really tired.” He blurts, but she does, she looks about ready to nod off: dark circles under her eyes, lids drooping, unfocused gaze. “I think you should go home and get some sleep.”

    Liliana starts and turns to him with a frown, and looks much more awake now.

    “Do you... not want me here?”

    “I do, Lili, but you look ready to pass out. You should go home; we can hang out some other time.”

    Liliana scowls, but when she pulls out her compact and looks in it, she cringes.

    “You may have a point,” she admits, pulls herself up with the help of the bridge's railing. “So I'll... see you later?”

    “We have two weeks until the school year starts; I promise you’ll be trying to get rid of me by the end of the first.”

    That seems to be enough assurance to make her relax, but with every step she takes farther away from him she seems to shrink into herself.

    Anastasio frowns.

.    .    .

“She’ll be just another minute,” Mrs. Ortega smiles as she descends the stairs.

“No problem,” Anastasio smiles back.

“Have a seat, hijo,” Mr. Ortega prompts, with a pat at the couch cushion beside him.

“Oh, no, if it’s just another minute-”

“Have a seat!” Mrs. Ortega calls on her way to the kitchen, without turning around.

Opposition worn down, Anastasio relents; he sits down beside Mr. Ortega, and smiles when Mrs. Ortega returns from the kitchen with a basket in one hand, and two chilled water bottles in the other.

“So this is her surprise,” Anastasio muses.

“So it is,” Mrs. Ortega grins, “and she even bothered to make most of it, too. You kids going anywhere special?”

“Just the park, I think. Maybe the little bridge on the way.”

“Hmm, just don’t bore her, eh, hijo?” Mr. Ortega winks. “Though I don’t think we have to worry about that with you.”

“Um?”

Mrs. Ortega rolls her eyes. “He’s joking, mijo.”

“Teasing,” Mr. Ortega corrects. “Just make sure she has some fun, is all I’m saying. That she smiles, laughs a little.”

Anastasio blinks.

“She always looks a little better, when she goes to meet up with you, or right after she comes home from spending time with you,” Mr. Ortega explains.

“Oh.” Anastasio blinks, again. Frowns. “She… always looks a little tired.”

Mrs. Ortega hums. “She does. I let her stay up a bit sometimes, to finish school work if she can’t get it done earlier. She gets a little listless in the afternoon sometimes, has some trouble concentrating, so…”

Anastasio’s frown deepens. “The advanced classes she’s taking, then… maybe she should…”

“I suggested that, too,” Mr. Ortega assures, “but she insists she can keep up with the workload. She’s been getting angry when we bring it up.”

“You’re in a lot of those classes, too, aren’t you mijo?” Mrs. Ortega whispers. “Do you mind… at least making sure she’s not falling behind?”

“Yeah…” Anastasio blinks. “I didn’t know she might be— yeah, of course.”

Mrs. Ortega sighs; Mr. Ortega pats his back. “Thank you, hijo.”

“I’m ready,” Liliana calls from the top of her stairs just before she descends, a step at a time and blinking more than usual. There are rings under her eyes today, too.

“Perfect,” Anastasio smiles as he stands. He pretends he doesn’t notice the looks Liliana’s parents give him. “Let’s go.”

.    .    .

Liliana looks lost.

 “Do you like this bridge?” she asks him. He shrugs.lskdf

“It has a nice view,” he admits, “and people don't really come here.”

Liliana nods. And stares up at the sky.

    .    .    .

    This time, when Liliana’s ringtone screams in his ear and wakes him up, he immediately feels something is wrong. Even the chirp emitting from his phone sounds wrong: hollow, like Liliana’s smiles.

    Perhaps he’s overthinking it.

    “... Hello…? Are you there…? Li—?”

    She cuts him off. “I need you to…” a long pause, then, “You should come to the bridge.”

    “... what?” It’s —” he checks the red glare from his bedside clock, “almost 3 in the morning, why—?”

    A muffled beep. The connection is dissolved, and he is alone again.

    Even as he slams on the redial button, he’s throwing the first clothes he picks up from the floor, and he runs out the door so fast he swears he’s flying.

.    .    .

    He finds her curled up and shivering against the banister, but only when he throws himself on his knees next to her does he notice how her hair clings to her face and neck, how her clothes mold to her form; the moisture on her skin.

    “You’re wet,” he says, struck dumb. “Why are you—”

    “I jumped in.” She chatters through her teeth. He almost asks, in where, but when Liliana drops her gaze and turns it to the water that sits under the bridge, his stomach sinks.

    “I was going to go to that one hotel, the really tall one,” she nods her head back, where the neon signs winks at her. “I was going to jump off the roof.”

    Anastasio stares. He thought she was tired, but had chalked it up to being overworked or insomnia — her parents had seemed to think so as well… But, the idea that she was going to...

    “I’m so tired,” she whispers. He removes his jacket and offers it to her; she wraps it over her shoulders.

    “Tell me.” Lili turns her eyes to him. “About being tired. Why you get tired. Why you wanted to... jump.” Lili’s eyes blink; a tear rolls out. “Talk to me.”

    Lili slumps. And then she talks and talks and cries, and talks some more.

    And afterward, she thanks him with a broken smile that looks almost real.

.    .    .

    Anastasio’s not sure if Liliana ever told her parents about her wanting to jump, but he does know she’s getting counseling twice a week, because she talks about it when they go out after every session. Her voice gets a little stronger, and she’s been making an effort to not shrink into herself when she makes eye contact. She looks a little more rested every week, and less tired when they go on walks.

    Liliana is nowhere near as energetic as she used to be, but she looks more lively every day, and that is enough.

    On his way to meet her, he comes across the flower shop he always passes by, and stops.

.    .    .

    “I thought you were going to be waiting outside the building again?”

    “I was, but, this place really does have a nice view.” Liliana answers, head turned up to the sun; she’s still sporting the giddy glow she gets after counseling. She turns and leans against the railing to face him, and frowns. “What’s that?”

    “They’re flowers, obviously.” He snarks, anxiety rolling into embarrassment, but when she gives him an unimpressed glare, he offers the bouquet to her; she holds it carefully, like she’s afraid of dropping and ruining it at the same time.

    Liliana stares at the flowers like she has no idea what they are; it’s likely, considering she’s never showed an interest in them even as a child. She probably only sees the loose petals with unintelligible patterns of white with red ticks, yellow splotches and pink blushes, by star-shaped flowers with white frames around magenta stains. She wouldn’t understand or appreciate the Peruvians or Stargazers, but that’s fine: because for her, the outward, visible gestures hold more meaning than the covert, underlying symbolism behind the message. And still, in this crowd of Peruvians and Stargazers she would probably never care to understand  — still, in the very center, almost hidden, a single water lily floats.

    “And this one?” she demands. Anastasio smiles.

    “Lirio de agua,” he answers while he tucks it behind her ear. Lili looks up at him, and stares.

    “When frogs sit on the lily pads, they keep all the flies and bugs away from the flower, so it won’t get ruined. So…”

    Anastasio trails off with a faint croak and swallows heavily.

    “If you let me, I’ll help you, through your problems, your depression, anything, everything. I’ll — help you keep away everything you don’t want, and I’ll help you keep away anything that you tell me will tear you down. I won’t let anyone deracinate you. I’ll be there for you. With you. If you let me.”

    For a long moment, Lili stares, and doesn’t blink.

    And then, she smiles.

[loo-cuz]

Jimin finds scared bunny hybrid jungkook on the streets and takes him home? And kookie needs cuddles? You don't have to if you don't want to of course...

Jimin finds scared bunny hybrid jungkook on the streets and takes him home? And kookie needs cuddles?

-

Jimin didn’t exactly find him more than he found him. The hybrid.

It wasn’t exactly a cold day, it was just grey but what were they expecting of London anyway?Jimin was ready to go to work, all clad in a suit with his files to work. He was not as much of an assistant as he was working with the scientists himself. They led him do smaller experiments and handle the files for a little bit of extra money and he was very grateful for that because well he needed every bit off extra money he could get because the government didn’t support their studies. They were late in the 90s when people found out how to create a hybrid, a cross between the human species and animals. At first they did it with a monkey, the guy coming out of it was as intelligent as everyone else but the features -such as the ears and nose of a monkey- made him an outcast. People treated hybrids wrong since than and it didn’t change twenty years later.

Therefore Jimin and the scientists were working to find out a way to make out rape, assault and abuse on hybrids, evennon-verbal hybrids. They researched a lot and they had already found one way or another but it always was painful for the hybrid to go under those ministrations, so they worked on further against the will of the people who thought that hybrids were just abominations who deserved the exact treatment that they were getting.

So on this early morning to work, when Jimin was trying to not let the files fall that he just collected he ran into a boy, a little bit smaller than himself, knocking him down in the process. It was a bunny hybrid Jimin noticed when he took in the ears and the way that the boy flinched when he fell onto his butt, probably the spot where his tail stuck to him. “Excuse me, Sir,” he said. Jimin was expecting just that, every hybrid needed to treat ‘normal’ people with respect because else, well there were no safety rules or any rights for hybrids as it is. They needed to be careful in any way.“But can’t you watch your step?”He looked up at that in shock. “What?”“I said what I said,” the boy snickered before he scrambled up, grabbed the cap he had been wearing before to hide his ears before grabbing onto the news papers that he had been carrying. Oh, Jimin thought. He’s the news letters guy, the one that walks by my house every time.

Jimin was on his way to apologize when suddenly a woman came by and swatted the boy upside the head with a thick purse. “Watch your steps yourself, you filthy creature of hell! You’re not even human, how dare you insult one of the human kind?”

The hybrid was about to speak up, looked like he wanted to talk back again, when the woman suddenly pulled her phone out.

“I think I’ll just need to contact your superior. The tag on your ear mentioned the realism company, am I mistaken?”

Jimin could see the flash off hate making it’s way over the guys face before another emotion stuck to his features. Fear. It cling to him like dust, visible in the way he didn’t get up from the floor, chose to bow instead in utter submission. Jimin found it disgusting how the people around them applauded when he laid his head on the ground, his hands clasped in each other but never came an apology out of his mouth.

“It’s fine, Miss. Really, it was my fault, I got it from here,” Jimin smiles kindly, got up and assured her that everything was fine until she was finally moving away.“Are you okay?”Jimin reaches to touch the hybrids shoulder but he flinched away got to his feet and looked like he was about to run off when Jimin grabbed his hand.“Don’t go back there,” he said. “I saw you flinching, I know what they’re doing to you. Please, don’t.”The other closed his eyes and took a deep breath, before he snatched his hand back, pressing his wrist to his chest as if it has been burned.“And what do you think am I supposed to do?” he spoke blinking up at the grey sky.“You heard her yourself, I’m a creature out of hell, not even a human being, where am I supposed to go? It’s not like anyone will take me in.”

“I would.”He mustered him sideways, his eyes filled with the suspicion of the streets, the suspicion that he probably has been carrying with him since childhood. A stress that Jimin couldn’t even imagine if he tried.“Yeah, to do what? You may look kind on the outside but what’s underneath? Another rapist? An abuser? Maybe someone whose gonna hold me, the abomination, in a cage to let me starve to death?”

And Jimin hated the accuracy of his words, hated how they applied to so many people who walked past them. All those people who would be kind to Jimin but would rather have the stranger die than take him home because he had bunny ears.

“I’m not. I’m actually an assistant and- well kind of part of the scientists who are searching for ways to find out who was raped and abused and other similar stuff.”He halted for a second looking at the other guy who had a look on his face that gave away that he simply didn’t want to believe him.

“You can follow me to work if you want to. And if you… well if you like it you can come home with me. You can’t have your own room because I only have one bedroom but you can sleep on the couch, maybe I could arrange a door for the living room that you can lock in the night; I don’t know man.”

The hybrid didn’t even look at him before he abandoned the news paper into the next trash can. Than he turned and jerked his head forward as if to tell Jimin to move.

-

Jungkook did learn that the guy worked with the scientists that he claimed to work with but that didn’t make him want to come inside. He was still scared of being caged or similar so he waited outside until late in the evening when the kind looking stranger walked out again looking a little bit stressed out.

“I’m sorry for leaving you on your own for this long. You could’ve come inside but- yeah no I get it,” Jimin stuttered.“All good. Where’s ya home?”The hybrid was moving his head every now and than seemingly scenting the air while Jimin led him home. Maybe it’s a way of remembering where they came from, maybe he just wanted to track something else or maybe it just smelled like carrots, Jimin should stop focusing on the small details, really.

When Jungkook say his first foot through the door Jimin saw the stress that was lingering upon him, the tension running through him like little electric waves, creating their own tense atmosphere in the process.“Are you alright?”“Just- just let me take it in, okay?”And Jimin stood back while the hybrid took his first few steps inside, scented the air - Jimin still didn’t know what he was searching for - before walking further in and finally falling onto the couch, the tension flowing out of him as he sunk further into the soft cushions.

“Can I come in?”He looked up, tilted his head a little and laughed. His laugh was different from the snicker Jimin heard before it was a little high pitched and noisy but still so, so endearing.“It’s your home, so I guess so.”

“Dude what’s your name?”“Dude?”“I just didn’t know how to address you,” Jimin answered. He twisted his fingers in shame before taking in the figure beside him.“Ah, right. Jungkook.” Jimin nodded. Easy name, not for English people maybe, but Jimin was Korean and so was Jungkook’s name.

“How come you have a Korean name?”“The yk bred that I come from was started in Korea so they wanna keep that mark on us with the names,” he answered easily. It almost sounded like he trained the answer over and over again to make it sound more casual.

“So your parents have Korean names too?”

Jungkook flinched at that question and although it was the slightest flinch Jimin still caught it. He looked around another time, sniffed the air again before replying.“My parents are Korean and so are their names.”

“You don’t know them, do you?”

Silence. Than he laughed a laugh full of hatred.“If I knew them? Yes, I did. I love with them in a five meter cage, well lived. I just left them, I guess.”He shrugged but Jimin saw that that fact feared him apart. Why did he do it then? Why did he come with Jimin if it hurt him so bad?Jungkook seemed to catch onto that but he didn’t answer just shrugged again and buried himself further into the couch. He was almost lying now, his back laying on the seating area, his head leaned against the back of the couch while his long legs were stretched out infront of him.

“I’m sorry,” Jimin said.And without thinking about all the things that he knew about Jungkook he moved to hug him.It didn’t work out. Obviously, it didn’t.

Once he crossed the border to his personal space Jungkook flinched, was up in a second and then across the room. His ears were pressed flat on top of his head, he’d probably bare if his fangs if he would have them but as a bunny he was a bred that couldn’t fight, so his natural instinct was to flee any confrontation.

“I knew it,” he hissed. His feet were rammed against the floor, his hands touching it maybe a meter forward. The whole position reminded Jimin of the Olympic Games where they let the people run to win a medal, what was it called again? He couldn’t remember. “You were only acting kind. How could you? And you also work with those scientists fucking-“He cut himself off when Jimin raised his hands in surrender.“I wasn’t going to do anything, really.”Jungkook scoffed.“You wanted to grab me. Don’t lie, I had a ton of people takin advantage of me, I know how it looks.”

They both were silent for a second, Jimin realizing that Jungkook didn’t know hugs. Or maybe he did, maybe he knew them from his parents but he certainly has never been met with stranger kindness.His parents probably trained “stranger danger” into his head and Jimin couldn’t blame them. Everyone was an potential abuser from their point of view.

“I was going to hug you.”As easy as that he stood up. He grabbed a scarf that was lying around and held it out.“Look you can bind my hands together and hug me if you don’t trust me enough. You don’t need to hug me at all, I’m a stranger I get it. I just felt super sorry and wanted to give you some comfort.”“A hug?”Jimin could hear the questioning mark at the end of the sentence, the light difference of pitch in Jungkook’s voice as he eyed him up and down.

“Yeah.”He didn’t move in, but he didn’t move farther away from him either and Jimin counted that as win. “Look as I said, no need for hugs, let’s just settle down. Just watch the fire, okay?”Jungkook hesitated but then he nodded. Jimin settles down quickly. One couldn’t see Jungkook move at all though. It took two minutes for him to even come up and out of his defensive position and another five to just slowly creep closer until he was able to squish himself onto the far end of the couch where Jimin could not touch him if he tried.

But after a while he moved closer. “I like hugs,” he mumbled.“They’re comforting for me.”He breathed in before lifting Jimin’s arm up and wrapping it around his waist.��But not from people I don’t trust. I’m a bunny after all, we’re basically scared half of the time. We only flip over people if we trust them and stuff like that.”Jimin hummed deep in his chest. His breath hitches when Jungkook leaned against him as to feel the vibration of the hum.

“So the rule is if I wanna get out of your hold you have to let me go immediately or I’m going to fight as much as my bred can fight. Okay?”He nodded.“Okay.”With that he let his head rest on Jimin’s chest, his arms around the waist of the latter.

They listened to the fire and at some point Jungkook fell asleep. So Jimin moved to get to his bed when Jungkook suddenly startled.“What are you doing?” he mumbled his voice lazed with sleep.“I want to go to sleep.”“Hmn.”Jungkook yawned.“Let me come with you?”

That was unexpected actually made Jimin freeze on the spot.“My bed is small though-““We can cuddle as long as you let me go when I say so.”“Yeah… we can, could.”

He lifted Jungkook in his arms because the older didn’t seem like he wanted to move soon.“Wanna be the little spoon,” Jungkook mumbled when Jimin settle into the bed next to him but didn’t move to sleep.“Ok, ok.”Jimin chuckled as he settled Jungkook between his arms. “Good night, Jungkook.”“Good night. Jimin.”

[omgnsfwisnsfw-blog]

NSFW #2.3: Watch The Throne

The setting was nondescript. It could have been a room or soundstage anyplace, mostly dark save some strategic lighting and a director-style chair occupied by a lovely, chipper young blonde woman wearing a dress tastefully straddling the line between professional and provocative, a microphone clipped to the collar. “Greetings, Valor Pro Faithful, Emily Burlingame here. Rite of Kings is just around the corner. We’ve already heard from the Apex Champion but well, I wanted to speak directly to a tag team that also doesn’t seem to lack in confidence.” The camera pulled back, revealing Emily’s interviewees. To her left was Bishop Church, clad in a pearl-grey suit with a darker shirt unbuttoned at the collar. At her right was Mike McGuire, their outfit mirroring their partner’s- a charcoal grey affair with a white shirt, similarly undone- with the exception of a well-loved New York Mets cap that rested atop their short, fiery hair. “Joining me right now are Mike McGuire and Bishop Church, better known as NSFW,” Emily looked to John to kick things off. He just stared right back so she repeated herself, “...better known as NSFW.” Precious seconds passed by as Emily watched John fidget with his watch. “That’s us. And might I say, we’re awful happy to be here. Starting to think we oughta’ve done a formal-like interview sooner.” The redhead gave Emily a saucy sort of grin. “I’m sure I can speak for many that you two are a welcome addition to the Chimera Tag Team Division,” but with pleasantries exchanged, the interviewer retrieved an index card from her right side, “Mike. Bishop. You two busted on the scene with an impressive victory over Brenna Gordon and Berlin Anderson. That secured NSFW a Chimera championship bout against the current holders Rekota--” “--which ain’t gonna be a walk in the park. We’ve seen--” “But,” Emily interjected, “before we talk about that, I’d be remiss if I didn’t bring something up. We know you two don’t mince words. You said as much,” and she turned to Mike, “you also walked back what transpired in that match. It went beyond calling out each other’s methods. So what happened?” “Actually, if it’s all the same to you, m’dear, can we stick to the subject at hand? Big title match. Lookin’ to become the third Chimera Tag Champs in our second outing in this company. That’s not a small fuckin’ deal.” But Emily persisted, “You’re right, that’d be a pretty quick turnaround. But I think this is fair game. Moments after Brenna and Berlin uploaded their latest piece denouncing you two as hypocrites, Mike, you alluded that Brenna knew nothing. Then NSFW went dark. Uncharacteristically, you two show up after Blitz had already begun. And then left minutes after your match concluded.” Emily turned her attention to John, though. “That seems odd, don’t you think?” John shrugged in response. Mike sighed, adjusting their Mets cap in a manner that could easily be construed as annoyed. “Miss Burlingame, you’re really goddamn cute but you keep getting distracted by the shiny object. C’mon. Lot to unpack here. We’ll be glad to answer your questions but can we stay on topic?” Emily smiled wryly at Mike’s compliment but she barreled through, “Mike. Bishop. Are you two together?” “Yes,” John finally piped in, “we’re a team.” And the blonde shook her head and she repeated herself emphatically stating each word, “No, are you two together?” The air was terribly tense. One of Mike’s hands had curled into a noticeable fist, their jaw ticing slightly. Their eyes flicked over to their partner. Back to the journalist. Then they closed, the Bronx brawler breathing in and letting out an exhale. The sharpness of their words had probably been dulled by the cooldown breath they’d taken, but it still lingered in the undertone. “What do you think?” “I think Brenna Gordon struck a nerve. She called out your hypocrisy for denigrating what they are. And despite this,” she pointed back and forth at the current seating situation, “You walked on the stage before you thought anyone was here, holding hands.” “It was cold.” Emily stifled a chuckle at John’s retort, “There is literally no air conditioning in here.” “My partner’s actually right. It was cold of Gordon to run her yap about something she don’t know shit about. It was cold to stir up all kinds of crap that we got to deal with now, including questions like this. You ain’t the first Clark Kent who thinks they have some scoop and just bulldog the fuck onto it. No offense, I know journalistic persistence is a thing and I’d like to think you don’t mean no harm by it, but it’s got jack-all to do with anything.” “And no offense, Mike, it has everything to do with everything. What are you going to say about Cross and Dakota? Run them down for being what they are? Say what you want about them but they aren’t pretending to be something they aren’t. So, Mike, John, that’s not going to cut it.” “And here I thought we were gonna be friends. Jesus Fuck, this is Ace Heart all over again.” The hard tone crept back into Mike’s voice, dark green eyes narrowing. “But like I mentioned before, my first impressions ain’t been that spot on lately. Do me a favor, sweetcheeks. Don’t ever put fuckin’ words in our mouths again. If you would’ve asked us about Cross and Dakota first off, you’d know that what you just said is as full of shit as they are.” “Emily. My name’s Emily.” John cut in before anything else could be said about that, “Emily. It’s a matter of perception.” “What does that even mean?” “Let’s look back at the preview for our last match, shall we? Brenna Gordon is introduced as Berlin’s fuckin’ mistress. Cross and Dakota? The’re the Power Couple. And you could’ve asked us anything about our Chimera Tag Team Championship match, anything at all. Shit, we encouraged you to. But what do you go for instead? ‘Are you two together?’ What I would like to know is when the fuck any of this became relevant. When who anyone may or may not be fucking became the hot topic and not, y’know. Wrestling. The word on the goddamn marquee.” “Our intention wasn’t to denigrate anyone in the manner you’re speaking of. Brenna Gordon said what she said based on perception. But she also said it without any fear of the repercussions. That’s what happens when you choose to live in a seemingly different plane of existence. But in due time, Berlin Anderson and her will have to step back into the real world and square up,” he moved on, “Dakota Jennings. Cross Reboca. They speak for themselves. It’d be lazy for us to wade into that trap. Miss Jennings had fought against that perception for so long before she just gave in.” “A little research shows us what she did to her last partner. I’d feel bad for it if said partner and us didn’t have a history and we didn’t know she probably had it coming, but I digress. No more Ms. Nice Girl.” Emily didn’t take the bait, “You two try this often. Going for the divide and conquer tactics so to speak. Why is that?” “Church? Remind me that we oughta handle our own interviews from now on so we can channel out at least one line of crap.” Mike snorted. One could almost imagine a plume of smoke curling, dragonlike, from their nostrils. Both hands were tightened into fists by now, and trembling slightly. John turned it back towards the question. “Suitable tactic. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t. And clearly it didn’t against those two. And yet,” John paused to signify their status, “here we are. Whether we are confident or arrogant, we got here by playing the game. And that means exploiting the weaknesses of our opponents. So Emily Burlingame, you’re probably right. We aren’t going to drive a wedge between Rekota. But through their actions and words they have made it clear, they are not worthy to represent this division.” “And before you make any cute comments, let me clarify,” Mike cracked their knuckles and placed their hands on their knees, leaning forward, “Anyone who either has a decent memory or access to YouTube knows where Cross Recoba’s head’s really at. He has a blonde-haired barefoot monkey named Cosmo Cooper on his back. He’s made no fuckin’ bones about the fact his sights are set on the Apex Championship and is practically obsessed with the idea of becoming the first Valor Grand Slam Champion. To be honest? I don’t think he really gives a crap how long he holds the Chimeras. All he needed to do was win them once to be one belt away from his precious Grand Slam. They never seemed to be his ultimate goal at all, and that should be fucking insulting. Not just to us, but every tag team busting ass to win them. But that’s alright. He ain’t never had a successful title defense yet, and we’re not about to let him start now.” “And Dakota Jennings, meanwhile, I wonder what is going through her mind. Losing the Chimera Tag Team Championships is one thing but …” John trailed off and Emily attempted to bring him back into the fold, “But, what?” “Unlike the modest Berlin Anderson, I’d never take pleasure in the fact but Miss Jennings knows very well that she is one defeat away from being a former employee of Valor Pro.” “Hey now, that’s exactly right.” Mike’s grin turned downright sharkish, “Now, most people would think that’d have us at a stark disadvantage. Dakota’s already shown herself to be violent and vicious as hell- that’s how she got herself into this little predicament. Her desperation’s only gonna make her moreso- her desperate to keep her job, and shit, Cross desperate to help her keep it. The thing about desperation is this- it makes you fuckin’ sloppy. People may turn up the voltage when under the gun but it rarely does crap for accuracy.” John nodded in affirmation, “But we’re patient. So color us surprised when we had the opportunity to jump right in. Maybe it's that whole perception thing again. We’ve heard a lot of this living and breathing as champion as of late. Here. Elsewhere. Out of our own mouths. I believe that to a degree. I know, Emily, that if Rite of Kings isn’t our night that we’ll be back the next. And this should send palpitations to your heart, but even in defeat, we have each other’s backs. But, Miss Jennings? There is no tomorrow. I mean, I suppose, Cross Reboca would be fine either way. Lofty aspirations and all.” “Okay, okay,” Emily set the notecard aside finally, format being out the window and all, “What makes NSFW worthy of being Chimera Tag Team Champions?” “You’d know that by now if you weren’t single-mindedly asking us about what ain’t your or anyone’s business,” Mike scoffed, “We’ve said it before and we’ll keep saying it as long as people keep asking. We ARE Tag Team Wrestling. The embodiment of what it is on its very best days runs through us. We ain’t looking beyond that gorgeous pair of belts. We’re looking straight at them. They ain’t a stepping stone, they are to be stepped to. What all too many outfits treat as an afterthought, we treat with the respect it deserves.” John slid off the chair abruptly, “Perception is that this division is secondary to the melodrama of two usurpers. That changes the same night that Rekota ends.” Mike stood up as well, “The name of the show’s fuckin’ apt. The kings have arrived and the crowns are there for the taking. Stop watching TMZ for five seconds… and watch the throne.” Almost simultaneously, NSFW unclipped their mics, dropped them, and left a slightly stammering Emily behind them without another word.