#begging you to watch the concept trailer under the cut

[lesbiansloveseokjin]

day 48/639 of yoongi's military service

this selca was posted on 130912, namjoon's 19th birthday, with the caption:

Rapmon-ah I love you

(trans cr: Iraide @ bts-trans)

Hello it's SUGA Today's BTS first MCountdown broadcast!! Give lots of anticipation:)

(trans cr: Denise @ bts-trans)

performances from that day (concept trailer and N.O):

[wolviecore]

Oh wow oh wow- so like. A time skip AU. But established Jugpea. @viknikisbae came up with the brilliant concept of ' what if Jug left Riverdale, yes, but he still came back every now and again? Maybe once a year? And him and SP have this tentative, fragile thing between them called 'hard-core pining idiots loving one another so much but they don't say anything and pretend everything is okay. Until it isn't.'

So yeah. Jug can't take the thought of them only being friends with benefits and nothing else,- even if he doesn't deserve someone like Sweet Pea. Someone too right and too good to deal with his broken self.

Jug knows Sweet Pea pretends to be okay with it; pretends he prefers hours over years, kisses under twilight instead of daylight, hushed 'I love yous ' when he thinks Jug is sleeping to saying it with his chest. Jug loves him right back, desperately, achingly, back.

He wants this world, who treated him poorly and unjustly, to KNOW it wasn't pwerful enough to take that away.

Sweet Pea loves strongly, loves deeply, loves in ways not every man could. In ways Jughead doesn't deserve,  but maybe someone better will.

So he calls the arrangement off, and leaves Riverdale for good.

He breaks Sweet Pea's heart gently.

Jug comes to town, and Sweet Pea waits by THEIR booth, as usual; he already ordered for Jug. He's been in this seat so many times before it feels more like home than his actual house.

He watches bluesky bleed orange, then midnight black, and counts the stars one by one until he realizes Jughead won't come. So he goes home- and Jug is leaning against his trailer. Dwelling on nothing in particular, fiddling with his fingers.

Concern blossoms like a thorned flower, squeezing at Sweet Pea's chest when he tries to look Jug in the eye and finds the sea green eyes he loves to admire terribly dull, even in the dark. Sweet Pea steps forward, crackling leaves trailing at his boots.

The nature echoes , because neither of them say a word. That's the problem,  wasn't it? Both of them speak, but they never talk.

" I forgot to give these back," Jug whispers, carefully calm,  words chillingly rehearsed, as if he practiced them in a mirror until he got the tone just right.

They betray no emotion other than nonchalance. A mellow death, if Sweet Pea ever heard one. "Here; They're yours. I don't want them anymore."

Like hell. Like fucking hell. " You were late at Pops today; Sunset looked nice," Sweet Pea shoves past him, feet stomping , heart racing and bleeding and cracking all the way. 

His joints tremble with aching anger, panic. He's losing him. He's losing his baby and it will stick this time. "Anyway, wanna come in?"

Jug doesn't follow right away, but Sweet Pea swears he heard some harbored breathing, forced intake of breaths, a few mumbled curses salted with sorrow.

Sweet Pea  hopes his heart break just as much as his own. And he hates that most of all. "Nate, please."

Sweet Pea stays deaf to it. " You know, you could've called. Had to phone Red to ask if you were even in town, and that wasn't a happy talk. I also had to eat that gross milkshake and fries thing by myself, which, you owe me for now,- damn it why won't it go the FUCK in?!"

The keys won't fit because his hands are shaking, too pained, and too jittery to match the lock. His throat feels raw, matching the pain in his chest, and his voice sounds broken even to his own ears.  "Why won't it go on?"

"Nathaniel, look at me, - "

The pain overpowers Sweet Pea. He punches the door, blow after blow after blow until the shape of his fists leave deep dents in the surface and a few bones crack under the weight of his fury. Fury, or heartbreak? In love, both might as well be synonyms.

The assault is stopped by a small hand resting on the taller man's crimson fist, too gentle and too loving for what he's doing. Sweet Pea stops nonetheless,  - Jughead Jones had him bewitched, ever since they were 16, trading giggly kisses behind Pops.

He could make Sweet Pea do just about anything. Either with a pleading tone or big Bambi eyes staring, asking for what his mouth won't, because he never had to. Sweet Pea always knew what Jug needed, what he wanted,  the desires he didn't want to name. He just KNEW Jug.

But clearly not enough to see this coming. "We can't keep this up. Its not healthy."

Sweet Pea snorts, vindictive, venom pouring dripping on his words. His soul is burning and he wants Jughead to know he's holding the matches. "And you, Mr. New York junkie fuck, know everything about health, huh?"

Hurt washes over Jug's features, and Sweet Pea wants to take those cruel words back with a quickness, take his boy in his arms, grovel for forgiveness. But they're past that now.

."Newsflash, asshole! It's the only thing we have, and it didn't kill us yet!" He's desperate.  And it tastes so bitter, so sour, a vicious thing clawing at every nerve of his body and invading every thought.

The smaller man's jaw clenches, his right cheek hollow. " Dying goes beyond not breathing, Sweet Pea. And I can't, - I can't let you do this to yourself anymore,"

and then, under the winking stars of Sunnyside Park, Jughead Jones places his dog tags in his bloody hands, plants a kiss on the corner of his mouth, and breaks his heart into a million pieces, all begging for a place to go wherever Jug is going.

"You were the best part of my life," liar, he's a fucking LIAR, a pretty one, sweet voiced and summer warmth with skin, but a liar all the same. If that was true, he would stay. If that was true, this wouldn't taste so much of heartbreak. "I'm sorry I couldn't be that for yours."

He's going to walk away,  leave Sweet Pea behind, AGAIN, like he did when they were 16 and in love without even knowing how to love yet. As if Sweet Pea means nothing. As if his love means nothing.

"I LOVE YOU," he screams, because he wants this boy to know, to be kept awake every night like Sweet Pea was. Haunted by just how deep this glass shard love could cut. Jones can run from him, but he won't be able to outrun this. "ASSHOLE."

Jughead halts, fists balled, chasing a phantom weight no longer there. "I know."

[popculturebuffet]

Ducktales: Challenge of the Senior Junior Woodchucks! and Quack Pack! Review/Thoughts

Hello errybody, I’ve decided being a huge fan of this verison of Ducktales, and someone who likes reviewing stuff and going on and on at length about it, to review this season’s episodes as they come out, both to get me writing critically again, and to get more non chat content on the old tumblr.  First, while you likely don’t care a little about my history with the ducks; While I , sadly though i’m trying to correct it, haven’t read MUCH of Carl Barks classic donald duck comics nor that of his avid fanboy and clear sucessor in quality and talent Don Rosa, I did read Rosa’s utter classic “The LIfe and Times of Scrooge” mcduck in high school and the story stuck with me sense. I’ll go into Life and Times another day hopefully, but naturally when the reboot was announced I was excited.. a great voice cast, and donald,my boy, as part of the main cast. The show has been a joy to behold and with steven universe having taken a bow JUST a week ago and Covid ravaging our lives, it coudln’t of picked a better time. But do these episodes keep the momentum from an utterly marvelous second half of season 2? The short answer is “Fuck yes” but the long answer is under the cut. 

Challenge of the Junior Senior Woodchucks! While “Challenge of the x” is a popular snowclone title I can’t help but think of superfriends with the title... or now I thought of it shortly before writing this, hearing “Meanwhile at the legion of doom” when they cut to fowl.. or rather “Meanwhile at FOWL” but in that same announcers voice. I”m a dork, that should be obvious But I was hyped for both episodes: Violet is a faviorite mine, I ship her with huey so them interacting for the first time was wonderful to me, and.. okay the subplot didn’t hook me and we’ll get to that, but we had her dads and one of my other faviorites (I have several, get used to it now) , Lena , at least putting in an apperance. And honestly.. the main plot lived up to it. As I said I didn’t really dig the sub plot, more on that in a second, but I REALLY enjoyed this. From the begining Huey was my faviorite of the three triplets, easily, as it’s fairly easy for me a grown ass dork with anxiety, self confidence, anger issues, depression and constant self doubt, to relate to a little duck with the same and I’ve loved Danny Pudi since community, so naturally I was excited for his turn for a spotlight season.  And again the show didn’t disapoint.. Huey has a rather decent arc with some unexpected turns: First unexpectly, the trailer lied as while Huey and Violet look ultra competiive, theirs no real confilct..s econds after that bit the two shake hands (after a good 20 seconds of adorable and hilarous failure to do so that fits both like a glove.), and try to be good sports. The problem is instead internal: As Huey muses to his siblings (Webby very much included, getting her own great bit of encouraging Huey while also assuring Violet she’s also great he just needs it more, which is accurate) “If i’m not hte best junior woodchuck who am I”. Like Louie last season towards the begining (when he didn’t have a clear purpose in their adventuring dynamic) and towards the end (When della nearly took it away from him), he’s nothing without his sense of who he is. It’s easily why he’s the one to comfort him when his other siblings are either torn between two friends or you know, Dewey. Louie knows what it’s like to be rattled about who you are.  And WHY Violet outclassing him rattles him so much is intreating and to me makes a ton of sense: Huey’s identity to me is so wrapped in his intellegence and woodchuckery because , besides being oldest, it’s what he HAS on his brothers. When you think about it, Louie is the charmer, Dewey is charsmaticin his own way and loves hogging attention not to mention being fairly athletic... to stand out Huey NEEDS his brains to be the one with facts, and plans and his book.  He may not be the first on the front lines but he’s the first to solve a trap or figure out where they are if scrooge or his mom hasn’t already.. and if someone’s markdely better at that, and worse in an activity that’s wholy his own and now it’s been revealed impmortant to his mom.. just who is he.  The poor kid simply breaks down at the thought and takes bigger and stupider risks, which is sad to watch.. and thankfully lightned by his delightful mental brekadown in the form of the stephen root voiced JW Guidebook, a talking hallucination who gives huey his knowledge and edge back in the contest.. but it’s STILL not enough. And that’s when the other intresting bit comes into play: Huey.. has a moment of weakness. Despite the guidebook saying to always save your fellow woodchucks when violet gets stuck slipping in a tree.. he does nothing and leaves, despite JW  , whose now become his concious, begging him not to. It’s a sad, well done moment, and one that makes the story richer. Naturally violet escapes and when huey falls off the lava bridge to the finish line in a nother moment of desperation, and after a returning JW burns because apparently ducks and sabrewings are fireproof but imaginary manfestations of knowledge arne’t, she saves him... and is a good friend and woodchuck in NOT chastizing huey for his moment of weakness earlier, but comforting him, revealing she’s tried three times before and adding some more depth to her character: Despite her awkardness with people, she’s a kind, caring person, and gives Huey the lesson he needs: faliure, and the ocasional bout of moral weakness, is okay.. what matters is you learn from it, dust yourself off and keep going. Huey bows out due to this, as while violet is more than willing to let him pass with her, Huey knows he hasn’t earned it, yet, but he can keep trying and that this is her moment, not his. And in that, I feel learns that he dosen’t NEED recognition to be his best self.. he just needs to be a good person and a good woodchuk. I’ts a damn fine story and despite not being the intended premire, works as a great one.. mostly. And also yes I ship them.. as much as two ten-elven year olds can be, but they are adorable and geninley have a good repore.  And before I get to the dispaointing subplot, i’d be an idiot if I left out Violet’s family: We meet her dads, hilariously wearing shirts that say i’m with dad which is also really fucking adorable, and have our first onscreen conformation that Lena’s now her adopted sister, with Lena loudly screaming it in one of the best lines of the episode.. it’s clever to me: it over the top makes sure that we know yes, these men are gay and her parents.. but in a needed way given disney’s tendncy to dance around that or loudly proclaim a minor character no one cares about is gay in a way they can edit out. It’s a great step forward for the channel and the company and good on the crew for going ahead with it and good on disney for not beign dumb about it, nor, like again they have a bad habit of doing, loudly shouting about it to the media. Excellent work. 

Now i’m done rambling about Huey’s psyche and america’s new faviorite gay couple, I gotta get the suplot out of the way: while the whiporwill is freaking adorable as is dewey’s bond with it, otherwise this plot is.. really damn weak: it has some good jokes (Louie’s blunt no when Scrooge asks if hte family wants to fight a bear, Webby’s disapointment when she finds their not walking in the path of literal giants, Donald’s runner with the spy drone mosquito (and Della’s instiance to just let it suck his blood), and Della proving she has the family temper with her own donald brand angry dance) it’s just.. not enoguh. It feels like it’s an oblogiatory plto for the family and while it does set up the season’s overaching plot with a strong character, as it’s intresting learning that Scrooge had an idol at adventuring and thus is following a legacy himself, overall the subplot itself is just there and distracting from the much more intresting A-Story. That being said it was at least sorta worth it for the ending bit where huey and violet suprisingly find launchpad at the end of the trial in a cave.. as do the duckfamily, both groups crying out “Launchpad?!” with launchpad giving out a hilarious “that’s me, i’m launchpad” and while the setup for it was weak, the idea of the family going around the globe to find missing mysteries wile fighting fowl over them is a great concept. Overall a really damn strong start to the season with a weak b-plot and i’m gald even if this isn’t what htey planned to start with it’s what they went with.  Quack Pack: Quack Pack.. is one of disney’s secret shames.. I mean it’s not SO secret as it’s on D+ while this show’s predecessor wonder over yonder and superhero fantasy classic american dragon jake long are not for reasons I sitll don’t get, but that’s a rant for another day. It clashed badly with ducktlaes,was meiocre most of the time (It helps the two episodes I did watch were donald focused as he, a nicely redeisgned dasiy, and their co-worker kent were the highlights), with the boys somehow being more obnoxious than they were at their worst in the original ducktales.  Now that’s off my chest the episode itself.. is really damn good and a nice take on sitcom parody, with the family getting ready for a photo. Dewey’s “since the internet” line in paticular killed because, having watched boths ome of the best sitcoms (roseanne, designing women) and some of the absolute worst (My wife and kids, last man standing,home imporvment etc), most modern ones i’ve seen, even the good ones, have kids written this terrible way. Otherwise though it was highly enjoyable and having Jaleel “Urkel/Sonic the Hedgehog” white here to take the piss out of his former genre as Gene (and doing such a great job I really want to see Gene back next season), is the icing. That and Huey going half insane trying to figure out what’s going on, as well as the unsettling reveal of the studio audience.  Really the ep is a laugh fest, as well as the glorious arrival of goofy who to my relief, wasn’t a hallucination.. which itself is a great gag as is the offscreen internal thought of “okay so now htey ahve to take goofy with them on this deadly adventure all the way back to the states?”. The using of the adults old designs, as well as having dewey do the triplets dance and wear an outfit similar to theirs from “Mr Duck Steps Out” (Which I saw earlier this year and other than daisy’s horrifying early voice it wasn’t half bad). It’s just hard to go into and throughly enjoyable. But analysis right the real meat is in my boy donald: Going into the ep I genuinely expected Dewey to be the obvious source of the wish: while knowing gene was involved meant it was easy to see it was his fault HOW was a good question.. but having Donald do so and throughly enjoyable, and naturally gives us two great gags int he rwo: Donald’s VERY donald response “I wish for that 6 times a day! how wsas I supposed to know I was rubbing up against a magical lamp” and everyone spouting off their catcphrases, all either actual ones, basically something she does all the time turned into one (della) or poor beakly who gets “i’m not a spy” for some reason an dis cross about it. But the fact Donald not only figured it out quickly but wants to stay.. is perfectly in character. Donald in general, and especailly here, dosen’t WANT to be an adventuer anymore: he does it for his family, but he’d probably perfer the tgif lifestyle where problems are minor and solved with heartwarming lessons.. not full of lingering restiments, damage you caused, or loosing a decade of your sisters life and having to struggle to care for her kids. The rest of the familys looks when he gives his reasoning say it all: they really get why he wants this.. but Huey, who nicely got to be the one to break the sitcom news to them on top of everything else, makes an even better one: their lives are who they are.. this.. isn’t real. LIkea tgif sitcom it’s a plastic imitation of life that’s nothing like it: it’s comforting sure since hte real world is fucking complicated and miserable at times.. but hiding from it dosen’t fix things.  And while Donald, of course angrily denies this while his family ends upf ighting the studio audience, it’s Goofy, loveable guest star and everyone’s other faviorite dad, who gets his friend to see the truth: eveyr family has thieir own normal. He and max are  widower and his kid. Just a family of three (I”m counting PJ since , by his tene years at least, Peg is missing, though Iw ish she’d come back as her and goofy would be cute and she deserves better than Pete but whatever, and his dad is an emotionally abusive douchehead). But their happy, they make memories even if goofy like donald can’t walk five feet without the universe, and that’s what counts> it’s a touching sentiment and i’m happy Donald now has a friend whose also a parent and probably made similar sacrifices, and some Donald hasn’t had to just yet and probably won’t now dellas back, but made it through. So donald helps his family fight the  humanoids, take sa picture and it’s just a genuinely sweet ending... a great episode with a great concept that also opens the door for the return of the world’s other best dad more times. And again I want to see him smooch pete’s ex wife. This is the hill I will die on apaprently.. and with that I leave you. it was a good start a fun thing ot dive into and I hope for more.. oh and before I go, while i’m not a GIANT max and roxanne shipper, Idon’t dislike the ship I just don’t hav ea large attachment, it was absolutley WONDERFUL to see that they went to prom together. Okay i’m done, until next week, courage and stay safe. 

[zephfair]

Day? Reincarnation AU Grimmichi

Day 30 (but only 28 for me) Reincarnation AU

Thank you @murderlight for the refreshing chat and the encouragement. It means so much! (Unfortunately I didn’t have any dreams about bubblegum ;D)

WARNING: Angst. Before reincarnation, there must come death. Yeah. The one and only time I’ll write Major Character Deaths.

The lovers are born. When one lover finds the other, their tale is already foretold. They live, they love, their lives end, and because they love each other more than heavenly reward, they return over and over again, cycling through the rhythm: finding each other, loving, then forced to move on.

Sometimes they live long, fulfilled lives in each others’ arms. Sometimes they drift back and forth in each others’ periphery but always orbiting each other. Sometimes they burn like a wildfire frenzied, out of control; sometimes they simmer, roiling in a constant boil.

The man who in one such lifetime was called Ichigo didn’t know any of this. The living are only aware of the life lived at the moment, what they see and feel and touch. A few may have vague remembrances, a shadowy memory resonating through the ages, but none can remember all their past lives.

Ichigo doesn’t know that. He has no idea that he is brought back to the world of the living time and again. He can’t recall that in each lifetime there are blue eyes that bore into him and demand everything he has to give.

And Ichigo always gives in.

No matter what era they live in, no matter where they meet, they are brought back time and again, somehow always finding one another, drawn to each other like the tide to the shore.

Sometimes it’s on the battlefield. Sometimes it’s in a boardroom. More and more it’s in a bedroom.

Ichigo doesn’t know why they are destined to fight, why they are destined to love, and would never want to know that one’s ultimate fate is to die by the other’s hand.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Ichigo laughed as Grimmjow insisted on putting on his own playlist since he was driving. Even after living with his boyfriend for years, he still mocked Grimmjow’s taste in music and made a show of plugging his ears.

But Ichigo couldn’t call him boyfriend anymore. He glanced at Grimmjow out of the corner of his eye and saw Grimmjow had the same gormless smile on his face that Ichigo probably did. It certainly wasn’t the biting smirk that Grimmjow usually showed, or the wide evil grin he used when issuing a challenge.

Ichigo looked out the passenger’s side window as the landscape sped by, but he inched his hand over the gearshift and onto Grimmjow’s thigh. Grimmjow immediately trapped it under his own and squeezed.

“Not having second thoughts, are you?” Grimmjow asked, uncharacteristically sounding a little nervous.

Ichigo scoffed and turned to look at him. “No way. Not right now. Maybe I’ll have cold feet the day of the wedding, but I’m going to enjoy the hell out of the engagement.”

Grimmjow kept his eyes on the road but laced his fingers through Ichigo’s. “You’re not going to turn into some kind of psycho wedding planner are you?”

“Nah, neither one of us want that, do we? I’m just looking forward to the engagement party. The private one, tonight when we get home,” Ichigo lowered his voice and Grimmjow risked a look at him. Yep, his smile was definitely full-on happy which was a little unnerving on Grimmjow’s face. It was a goofy look Ichigo could definitely get used to.

“That’s the kind of celebration I want,” Grimmjow agreed. “You should’ve seen your face when I got down on one knee.”

“I don’t even remember what you said. I was so shocked.”

“Yeah, good thing your sisters got everything on video. It’s all kind of a blur.”

“It’s all been a blur, ever since I saw you that day in the gym and beat the crap out of you.”

“Excuse you,” Grimmjow said as he changed lanes to take the exit off the highway to their apartment. “I kicked the shit out of you. Never would’ve known you’re a black belt.”

“Ha. Ha,” Ichigo replied as he usually did to Grimmjow’s claims about his so-called superior fighting abilities. “You know I can kick your sorry ass any day of the week. It’s one of the many things I love about you.”

“Your ass is one of the many things I love about you, too,” Grimmjow smirked as they glided down the exit ramp toward the intersection.

“I just can’t believe we’re getting married. I never thought I’d find someone who … completes me,” Ichigo struggled to finish his thought without sounding cheesy.

Grimmjow just brought their entwined fingers up to his lips as they stopped at the red light. “I feel the same way,” his voice gruffer than usual. “I never dreamed I’d find someone who made me feel this way.”

Ichigo turned a little to smile at him and reassure him. “I feel like we were meant to be together forever.”

Neither one saw the tractor-trailer speeding toward their car, trying to race the yellow light. Neither heard the crash as the metal of their car was crushed and trapped underneath the truck.

Grimmjow was killed immediately. Ichigo suffered major injuries and had to be cut from the wreckage. He was pronounced dead an hour later at the hospital without ever regaining consciousness.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Grimmjow awoke with only one thought: he knew his name was Grimmjow. He didn’t know where he was, or how he’d come to be there, or why he was wearing a short, belted robe and holding a piece of paper.

After stumbling into the nearest building, a kindly woman sat him down and offered him water to drink. Grimmjow was very confused because he couldn’t remember anything, and yet he obviously remembered how to speak, and the language they shared, and he knew his body was thirsty.

He settled into a routine that came to feel familiar and somehow comforting. The woman, Mari, lived with an older man and two children who all said they weren’t related yet helped each other survive. The West Rukongai District 5 wasn’t nearly as rough as many were, but it still took Grimmjow a while to figure out what he needed to do and what was expected of him.

The first time he went to Mari and asked about food, she told him that he wouldn’t feel hunger and didn’t need to eat. But, Grimmjow’s belly growled and he finally went to her again and begged for food.

He didn’t understand why she looked worried then sad, but she promised she would find him something to eat. When she returned to the house with some bread hidden in her robes, she made him eat it inside and promise never to tell anyone else that he hungered.

Grimmjow didn’t understand it, but he agreed as long as she would keep providing for him. He did odd jobs, whatever was needed around their neighborhood in the district, and sometimes even took a turn watching the kids.

Grimmjow had no concept of time until one day he was at the market helping Mari set up shop selling the trinkets she made. There was a commotion down the street, and Grimmjow looked up in alarm as the shouts came closer.

He stepped out from behind the stall just as two young men ran toward him wearing sashes that marked them as part of the gang that enforced the district. Grimmjow hated the gang that terrorized and reigned by fear, but Mari had forbidden him from doing anything, saying he hadn’t been there long enough to understand it was just how things worked.

So when someone from behind the gang members yelled at them to stop because they were murderers, Grimmjow didn’t hesitate.

He whipped out his long arm to neatly clothes-line the first gang member who was running by. The man went down with a long wheeze. The second man skidded to a stop and yelled, “Get out of the way!”

“I don’t think so, asshole,” Grimmjow cracked his knuckles and made a come-at-me gesture.

The gang member drew a knife and slashed at him. Grimmjow elegantly dodged to the side and brought his fist down on the guy’s arm, dislodging the knife, as Grimmjow followed through with a solid blow to the man’s face.

He went down on top of his buddy. Grimmjow dusted off his hands just as three men in black robes panted to a stop.

“You stopped them,” the first man in black gasped out.

“You’re welcome,” Grimmjow said, turning back to the stall where Mari gaped in astonishment.

“How’d you do that? The one had a good bit of spiritual pressure,” another man in black asked him.

Grimmjow shrugged. “Don’t know. I just don’t like the way these asshole gangs threaten all the villagers. Who’re you to care anyway?”

“We’re members of the 13 Court Guard Squads, Squad Six,” the first man said proudly.

“Okay,” Grimmjow didn’t know and didn’t care.

“Don’t you understand who we are?” the third man spoke for the first time. Grimmjow noticed he wore a patch on his robes that the other two didn’t. And although all three were wearing swords, only this one seemed comfortable with the scabbard against his hip.

“No, I don’t give a shit. You said these two were murderers, and I don’t want that running around my district,” Grimmjow said simply.

“Haven’t you met a Shinigami before?” the man with patch said, stepping closer to Grimmjow who shifted almost imperceptibly to keep himself balanced in case he had to strike. The man noticed and looked interested.

Grimmjow suddenly felt something flutter against him, like a gust of displaced air from someone opening a door across the room. It didn’t do anything but flicker over him, but behind him, he heard Mari gasp. He turned in time to see her collapse.

When he took a step toward her, the man grabbed his arm. Grimmjow looked down at the restraint then up at the man and unleashed a vicious punch from close range. The man fell back and let go so Grimmjow moved to Mari.

“She’s fine,” the man said as he rubbed his chin. “It’s just my spiritual pressure. It typically overpowers people when I let it flare, but you, you didn’t even flinch.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but you’d better get out of here if you’re going to keep hurting my friends,” Grimmjow told him.

The man squatted down beside him. “How long have you been in Rukongai? Did you grow up here?”

“No. I have no idea. I don’t think it’s been long.”

“Interesting,” the man said then surprised him by asking, “Are you hungry?”

Grimmjow snorted as he tried to make Mari more comfortable. “I’m always hungry,” he answered without thinking.

“I think you should come with me,” the man said then fell back on his ass when Grimmjow glared at him.

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Mari moaned and her eyelids flickered, taking Grimmjow’s attention from the man.

The man shook his head and said, “You would do well at the academy. You won’t make it very long here with that kind of hunger. Think about it.”

Grimmjow sat holding Mari until the three men rousted the two on the ground and pulled-pushed them away. He watched until they were gone and the market got back to normal when Mari sighed. “I think there’s some things you need to know,” she said softly.

When they went back to the house that evening, she took him aside and explained about Shinigami and what she knew of them, their spiritual pressure and the academy. She said that only those with large amounts of spiritual pressure ever grew hungry, and she’d worried about Grimmjow ever since he’d told her.

“I’m not leaving,” he said stubbornly when she was done.

“I don’t think you’re going to have a choice,” she said gently. “They could send someone for you at any time. It would be better if you go to them yourself.”

Grimmjow argued and ignored her and stubbornly pretended that the hunger wasn’t slowly consuming him. It wasn’t until one morning when he fell over trying to get off his futon and didn’t have the strength to get back up.

Mari brought him some dried fruit and petted his head while he almost inhaled it. “Grimmjow, be smart. Things will be so much better for you, if you go to the Shinigami.”

“I don’t need anyone telling me what to do,” he tried to snap between chewing. “Not you, and not them.”

Only the thought stayed with him, and when he was starving again by midday, he began to reluctantly agree with Mari. He worried what might happen if the Shinigami came looking for him, and he didn’t want to be a burden to the little family any longer.

Mari only hugged him when he declared his intentions and he left without further ado.

Grimmjow didn’t know what he was expecting but the Shinigami Academy wasn’t it. It took him a while to get anyone to talk to him, and it wasn’t until he grew very angry and let his temper out in a roar that anyone important paid attention.

Then he was bundled into offices and talked to by excited personnel and before he knew it, was given a bed in the dorms, a carefully folded uniform, and the promise of all the food he could eat.

Grimmjow didn’t remember anything before waking up in the Rukongai, but it felt like everything was a strange dream before the academy. The book learning was dry and boring at times, but the lectures were good times to catch up on naps. He burned himself and the hapless students standing too close numerous times during kido training. But he quickly excelled in all the strength training, and several times, high-ranking Shinigami were brought in to watch him and judge his spiritual pressure.

His time at the academy was interesting overall, but in some ways it gave Grimmjow a little itch under his skin. Once he learned about the world of the living and the literal role of the Soul Reapers, his mind often went to it. He began to wonder about it, in the still moments late at night when he was sneaking back to his room after finding an extra snack.

What was his past in the world of the living? Who had he been as a human? He’d arrived in Rukongai young, vital and very strong. So what had happened to him? Had he left anyone behind? He’d shown up in Rukongai alone, but from what he learned, that didn’t mean he’d died by himself.

And there was the problem of the women. And more than a few men. Somehow Grimmjow had known what sex was, even though he didn’t know what sex was, it was like knowing how to speak when he’d first arrived in Soul Society.

But when other students and even a handful of Shinigami flirted with him or blatantly asked him if he wanted to meet them somewhere alone, Grimmjow wasn’t interested. He finally tried it out once with a female student, but although it left her grinning wildly, worn out and thoroughly satiated, Grimmjow knew there was something missing.

So he tried again with a male Shinigami, an unseated member of the Fourth Division, and it was just as unsatisfying. His body felt fine and had enjoyed the encounter, but Grimmjow’s itch grew stronger, and he felt like he was missing something important, something that he couldn’t ever name.

It wasn’t a surprise to anyone in his class when several divisions courted Grimmjow even before graduation. Everyone knew of his immense spiritual pressure and how he’d bonded so quickly after he’d received his zanpakuto. While others struggled to even hear its name, his Pantera came easily, naturally, like a second skin, a long-lost best friend.

Grimmjow was ready for their final test—their first visit to the world of the living. He was as eager and twitchy as the rest of the class who would finally get to go face-to-face with a real Hollow. As much as some wanted to perform konso, Grimmjow just really looked forward to a potential fight.

He and two classmates were sent to find a particular ghost that haunted a hospital. The spirit seemed strong and smart and had so far resisted all attempts at konso. But its spirit continuously attracted Hollows which then wrecked havoc in the area.

Grimmjow hoped to hell it resisted or that some of the hungry Hollows showed up.

So they phased through the walls of the bustling hospital and went on the search. They weren’t supposed to split up, but Grimmjow slipped away, prowling along the halls and nosing curiously into various exam rooms.

He ended up in the emergency department, in the trauma unit where he could literally feel the stress and tension oozing from patients and staff alike. Grimmjow stood for a while watching the doctors and nurses hustling to save human lives.

Then he felt a strange sensation on the back of his neck, and he turned slowly. Down another hallway stood a young man with bright orange hair. He appeared to be stopping at the doors and searching in each room for something.

He would have looked just like another frantic family member or loved one, if Grimmjow hadn’t seen the severed Chain of Fate that looked dangerously short and frayed in his chest.

Grimmjow strode toward him, thumbing Pantera out of the scabbard. “Hey, you lookin’ for someone?” he called out when he was only a few steps behind the spirit.

The spirit whirled and gasped, “Grimmjow?! Grimmjow, it is you! Finally!”

The force of the spirit’s energy hit him and he rocked back on his heels, stunned as much by it calling his name as its strength.

“What the hell? How the fuck do you know me?”

“That’s not funny, Grimm. I’ve been waiting for you forever!” The spirit grabbed his shoulders in strong hands and tilted its head up to stare deeply into Grimmjow’s eyes. Then the spirit frowned at what it saw, and Grimmjow roughly pushed it away.

“Are you hurt?” the spirit tried to touch him again, but Grimmjow batted its hands down. “Oh my god, do you have amnesia? It’s me, Ichigo!”

“I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I sure don’t know you,” Grimmjow pushed Ichigo so hard he went through the nearest wall.

He was right back in Grimmjow’s face in an instant. “What’s wrong with you, Grimm? It’s me, your boyfriend! We got separated after the crash, but I’ve been waiting for you. I’m not going anywhere without you!”

“Then I got some good news for you,” Grimmjow unsheathed Pantera. “Let’s get this konso over with.”

“Oh fuck, you’re one of them now?!” Ichigo shouted and took off. Grimmjow was caught flat-footed for an instant then raced after it.

“Get back here and let me send you to your rest!” Grimmjow slammed through two walls and darted up the stairwell.

“I’m not leaving without you, you stupid bastard! Do you have any idea what I’ve gone through, staying here? Missing you?” Ichigo ended up on the roof, Grimmjow close behind.

Grimmjow wasn’t expecting the spirit to know hand-to-hand, so he was surprised again when it came at him with a loud cry. They fought and wrestled their way across the roof, but neither one would give in.

Not even the arrival of the two other students, breathless and pale, could stop them. Grimmjow thought he had the upper hand when he finally rolled on top of Ichigo and pinned his arms at his sides.

“Grimmjow, why?” he choked through tears as they streamed down his face. “Why’d you leave me? Why didn’t you come back? Why are you doing this? I love you!”

“It’s my job,” Grimmjow said, struggling to hold him down and retrieve Pantera from where it had fallen. “And I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t know who you are.”

There was a long moment when Grimmjow looked down at the pain-filled eyes gazing up into his very soul and thought he felt something. But maybe it was just the spirit vibrating under him, its energy fluctuating wildly. Its body shook and it screamed.

The force of the spirit’s roar pushed Grimmjow off it, and he could clearly see the Chain of Fate, or what was left of it. It completely disappeared under his horrified gaze, and the spirit shrieked even louder.

“Oh shit,” Grimmjow whispered and grabbed for Pantera.

But it was too late. The Chain was gone, and as the three Shinigami watched, a hole opened in the spirit’s chest where the chain had been attached.

“It’s turning into a Hollow!” one of his teammates yelled from behind him.

“And there are more on the way, Grimmjow! That’s what we came to tell you! Your fight with the spirit attracted every Hollow in the area!” the other classmate shouted over the din.

Grimmjow was still watching the spirit—Ichigo, it had called itself. A mask suddenly formed and covered its head. It was still roaring and shaking as its body mutated and contorted into a writhing monster.

Answering shrieks were sounding over them as more and more Hollows appeared in the skies above. Grimmjow was vaguely aware of his teammates grabbing and pulling at him, but he could only stand and watch.

As the Hollows descended upon the newly formed one—Ichigo, he had said?—it shot up into the air, taking the battle to the sky.

Grimmjow watched in stunned silence as the newest monster—Ichigo, why did that sound familiar?—swept through the Hollows, slicing into them with claws and biting them with fangs. It looked like he was devouring the Hollows one by one until they were all gone.

Then with bloodied mask and a shock of orange hair above, the Hollow—Ichigo, he was Ichigo, Grimmjow couldn’t forget it again—looked down at the Shinigami who stared back. While his shaking classmates drew their zanpakuto and prepared for battle, Grimmjow just looked up at Ichigo and didn’t move.

With a final cry that sounded a lot like a distortion of Grimmjow’s name, the Hollow ripped a hole into the sky, darker than even the moonless night, and disappeared through it.

Grimmjow finally moved, sinking to his knees and dropping Pantera. He slumped on hands and knees and panted like he’d just fought the entire horde of Hollows himself and retched.

“What was that? What happened?” one of his teammates was babbling.

“It just turned into a Hollow! Right here! And then it ate all those other ones!”

“Well, where did it go? It’s not still here, is it?” the boy spun in a tight circle.

“It sounded like it knew you,” the other said to Grimmjow.

“I don’t know what the fuck is going on,” Grimmjow said as he wiped at his mouth.

“I think we need to get back to the rendezvous point,” she said, pulling at Grimmjow until he got to his feet, weaving like he was drunk.

They didn’t speak of it until the seated officers who had accompanied the group came down on them, demanding to know what had happened to draw the attention of all the Hollows.

Grimmjow sat silently through the debriefing and didn’t even care when his teammates pointed at him suspiciously and talked about the new Hollow knowing him.

“Is it true? Did you know the spirit?” the officer asked him directly.

“No,” Grimmjow said and refused to say anything else.

His classmates were enraged with him because they had to cut short the trip and return to Soul Society. His two teammates were livid until they found out they wouldn’t fail the mission because of Grimmjow’s disobedience.

He didn’t even suffer any consequences because he was already committed to joining the Eleventh Division, and they weren’t about to turn down such a powerful fighter just because he’d disobeyed some orders from superiors. If anything, his stock only rose.

But amidst the congratulations of graduation and the excitement of joining the Thirteen Court Guard Squads, Grimmjow couldn’t feel any joy. The memories of that night haunted him. He recalled every word that the spirit— that Ichigo had said to him and replayed it over and over. He sat alone by the dorm window late at night and looked out, wondering why his eyes overflowed whenever he thought of Ichigo’s face and eyes and smile.

As Grimmjow grew used to life in the Eleventh Division, the fighting and camaraderie helped renew his mood. He found that he fit in well, even though the top seats were filled with unmovable officers. Still, the entire division appreciated his strength and his willingness to fight anyone anywhere.

He didn’t even seek out the frequent offers of companionship but declined them to go to his quarters alone and think about Ichigo and where exactly a Hollow could disappear to.

He kept an ear out for missions to the world of living, just in case, but the Eleventh wasn’t usually to be trusted with them.

Grimmjow was working his way up through the ranks when Captain Aizen of the Fifth Division defected from Soul Society along with Captain Ichimaru and Captain Tousen. Grimmjow didn’t much care about any of the politics, and he didn’t listen to rumors about Aizen making super-strong Hollows called Arrancars. He figured he’d just answer the call when it came to fight and damn the consequences.

When that day finally came, he was ready. Grimmjow was stationed to help guard a city in Japan called Karakura that Aizen wanted to destroy. Grimmjow didn’t bother to learn the details, just crowded through the Senkaimon with the highest ranked officers of the Eleventh.

From there on, it was pandemonium.

Grimmjow soon lost track of the other Shinigami as a white humanoid figure with a bone helmet lunged at him. He fought back with a fierce shout.

The Arrancars proved stronger than the Shinigami thought, but throughout the chaos of battle on every side, the Shinigami slowly began to prevail.

Grimmjow finally cut down the Arrancar who had been attacking him, and he stood, roaring above him. A noise from behind him made him jump and turn.

There stood another Arrancar, nearly as tall as Grimmjow, all broad-shoulders and rippled muscle in his white hakama and open jacket. His bright orange hair was long and nearly covered a quarter of a mask still on his jaw, white with vivid red stripes.

Grimmjow went cold all over.

“It’s you. Ichigo,” he whispered, and the Arrancar’s black and gold eyes narrowed.

“Grimmjow,” he said.

“Why are you doing this? Why are you fighting for Aizen?” Grimmjow took a firmer grasp on Pantera.

“Does it matter? You abandoned me. Why should you care?”

“I didn’t abandon you,” Grimmjow argued. “I died!”

“So did I,” Ichigo reminded him. “But I waited for you. I couldn’t leave without you.”

“I didn’t have a choice. I don’t even remember what happened, I just woke up in Soul Society!”

Ichigo stepped closer. “That means that you died satisfied, that you were happy to go on. And to leave me.”

“I don’t know,” Grimmjow said. “I don’t remember anything. But I know I would have to be a fool to ever leave you willingly.”

Ichigo flickered out of sight and reappeared an inch from Grimmjow. “Then never leave me again,” he said and stabbed his hand through Grimmjow’s gut. “I’ll make you remember. We were meant to be together. Forever.”

Grimmjow gasped at the unbearable pain but brought Pantera up and sliced at Ichigo’s chest. It only left a shallow wound but was enough to make Ichigo release him.

“I don’t know that,” Grimmjow struggled to speak as he clutched at the wound. “But killing me isn’t going to help. My soul will just return to the world of the living.”

Ichigo burst into motion, but this time Grimmjow got Pantera up in time to block and the battle began for real. Grimmjow had to admire the way Ichigo fought, and they moved as if in a dance, one pushing forward, one retreating, both seemingly equal in strength and agility.

Grimmjow couldn’t care about the greater war around them; everything he had was focused on Ichigo.

An explosion in the distance didn’t draw their attention any more than the other fights going on nearby. For every strike Ichigo gave, Grimmjow returned two-fold. When Grimmjow pushed him back, Ichigo struck again.

When they locked swords and Ichigo leaned in, Grimmjow found himself leaning forward toward him. Ichigo’s lips were as warm and welcoming as any Shinigami’s, but they felt so much better. Grimmjow didn’t relax his guard but Ichigo’s weight was pushing him until his back hit a wall.

Ichigo broke the kiss to brokenly gasp, “I would’ve done anything for you. I wanted to protect you. I didn’t want you to be alone.”

“I wish I remembered you,” Grimmjow whispered against his lips. “I wish I could know you.”

“I waited for you,” Ichigo’s eyes were tearing up. “I only ever wanted you.”

“I never wanted anyone,” Grimmjow confessed. “I think maybe I was waiting for you.”

Ichigo took his mouth in a fierce kiss again, and Grimmjow felt the sword against his begin to drop. He didn’t let down his guard, but he did reach out with his free hand to touch Ichigo’s face, stroking long fingers down the mask.

“Let’s do this,” Ichigo said suddenly and pushed back from Grimmjow. Ichigo dropped his sword, and Grimmjow hated that his first thought was worrying what scheme he had in mind now.

But Ichigo just stood there, opening his jacket wide, then letting his arms fall loose at his sides.

“What are you doing?” Grimmjow asked, struggling to keep up.

“If you kill me, I’ll fade away. But the souls that I’ve eaten and merged with, we’ll all separate and be purified, right?”

“I, I don’t know,” Grimmjow admitted. “Ichigo, I can’t take that chance.”

“You have to,” Ichigo said firmly. “You may not remember, but you always tried your best to kick my ass in life. Now I’m giving you the chance to do it once and for all.”

“I don’t need charity,” Grimmjow snapped and then wondered where the outburst came from.

Ichigo just smiled sadly. “I can’t wait anymore, Grimmjow.”

“You really want to be together forever?’ Grimmjow asked in wonder.

“Yes,” Ichigo said firmly. “I always did.”

“Then promise you’ll find me this time?” Grimmjow said quietly.

As Ichigo’s tears began to fall, Grimmjow stepped up to him and kissed him. He felt something that had been missing for as long as his memories come rushing back.

“Ichigo,” he breathed out.

“Never leave me again,” Ichigo begged.

“This is the last time,” Grimmjow vowed, brought Pantera up and stabbed him in the heart. Then he dropped his zanpakuto and held Ichigo as he slowly faded and crumbled away.

**

If every great love is forever in every life in every form, then Ichigo’s soul goes freely to Soul Society where Grimmjow razes every district until he finds him again.

If every great love is forever, then the cycle is halted there in Soul Society where they can fight and live and love for a thousand mortal lifetimes until the wheel turns again.

And so they love forever.

***AUTHOR(ha) NOTE: I actually wrote a couple things that I don’t believe possible within canon but hey, artistic license and whatnot.

The biggest thing that bothers me is the belief that an Arrancar would remember who it was as a human. I believe that according to canon rules that would be impossible. The original Hollow has to be changed, integrated, eaten and merged so many times with so many other Hollows that I don’t believe the Arrancar looks or acts anything like one individual Hollow or human. I think they’re all amalgamations that a dominant personality eventually surfaces on and takes over the speaking role. So I don’t believe that there was ever a human Grimmjow out there; he’s just the sum total of a whole bunch of humans+Hollows.

And then I promptly went against my firm belief and pet peeve and used the same exact plot device with Ichigo. But hey, he’s super-strong so let’s just pretend he was able to keep his memories and eat all those nourishing Hollows to evolve himself, okay?

Sorry for all the Jesuitical reasoning on things. As much as I despair over a lot of things in canon, I still stand by it.

[beauvoyr]

Lazy People’s Club for the Sleepy and Tired | 16

flowering | the unloved and the loveless

Pairings: Noctis/Reader Genre: Friendship/Romance/Friends-to-Lovers Tags: Fluff, Humor, Eventual Romance, Slow Burn, Abuse, Torture, asphyxiation, no beta we die like men, pre-Omen trailer route, pre-demon Noctis Chapter Rating: T Crossposted on: AO3 Summary: You will love him to ruins.

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Alone, Noctis falls into thoughts he’d rather not entertain.

THERE IS FIRE IN YOUR EYES, setting your pupils aglow. Curious thing, your eyes, for they draw him close and closer and closest. They never used to be that colour, that strange, infernal colour. Once upon a time, he gazed into your eyes, the glassy depths reflecting the blues in his. Now, nothing is left behind.  

Something tells him he should lament the loss—but the loss of what, exactly? He cannot truly have lost something if he does not remember what it is in the first place, isn’t it? Yet, the image you cast against a backdrop of fire is one of love, a severe attraction that ran for many months. It makes him forget he stands on the cusp of a shattered world when you stand at the other end, awaiting him with your arms wide open.

Yes, you are always a creature who wants to be embraced, wants to be cuddled, don’t you?

He can provide that. He’s the only one who can provide that.

Each step he takes on the cracked ground is heavy, the earth pulling his feet in vain efforts of thwarting him in his journey. But he is a fighter, a warrior rivalling his father’s tall tales. Even if each step threatens to delimb him, he preservers if it means reaching your side. The expression you wear is nothing like he’s ever seen before, nothing like the small smiles you feed that Glaive, nothing like the longing looks you cast at an albino. The one you reserve for him is one born out of love and nothing but sheer love. It makes him want to card his fingers through your hair and kiss your scalp. It makes him want to brush his lips against your fluttering eyelids, just to still you from your nightmares. It makes his want turn into need.

Come here, Noctis, you mouth at him, wordless. Come here and let me love you.

And who is he to deny what his world wants?

He reaches out for your face, wants to receive the words on your tongue with his, only to reach for his ceiling instead.

“Nightmare, Noct?” Ignis’ tone is quiet, standing somewhere by his bedside.

The world comes back to Noctis in successions. A ceiling with two fluorescent tubes lightly burned on its ends. Sunlight filtering past his chintzy curtains, flecks of dust highlighted in the air. Scratchy blanket tangled around his ankles; that explains why walking had been difficult in his dream. Noctis lets his outstretched hand fall against the mattress with a thump, blinking the sleep from his eyes. Ignis, if anything, clears his throat to indicate he’s still there.

“Noct?” his Advisor tries again, a touch louder this time. “Are you all right?”

Finding his voice proves to be difficult. He swallows and fists his hand on the bed sheet. “Yeah,” Noctis answers, gravelly and utterly lacking conviction as opposed to his answer. “Yeah—yeah, I’m okay. Just. Give me a minute.”

A minute is a sliver of 24 hours, yet Ignis’ words are full of reluctance at the thought of loaning him a moment in privacy. “Very well. Should you need anything, I’ll be outside.” Shuffles of footsteps lead to the door, but it stops just as soon as his door creaks open. “Please hurry, your class will start soon.”

With that, he leaves Noctis to entertain the weight of his dreams once more.

someone had been following him, it seems. as one who is highly attuned with the art of stalking and ruthless killing, getting followed is an occurrence as common as sweating on a balmy summer’s day. only, byron realizes that he is getting stalked not on the streets of insomnia, but right in the very walls of the andronicus manor. this, by all means, isn’t the work of a professional. this is done by an amateur since only amateurs wear perfume to work. leaving behind a cloying fragrance as evidence of its existence, the mollifying blend of lavender and baby powder is one byron hasn’t smelled in so many years.

dusting your bookcase and rearranging the titles in alphabetical order, byron carries on with his duty as though there isn’t someone standing by the door, permeating your room with that very same smell you loved. he knows this, knows this very well. planned for it, even. setting aside his feather duster, with his back turned to the perpetrator, he is free to withdraw a sleek blade from some of his collection housed in his room. it’s a beautiful piece the length of his finger to his wrist, one composed entirely from silver with opulent carvings circling its handle. the only reason he could afford this lethal beauty is thanks to his generous salary, in which he should also indirectly thank the snake quintus himself—not that he ever would.

byron’s fingers trace the edge of its glinting blade, having sharpened it yesterday.

it’s too bad, really, that it had to come to this.

he turns so sharply, so abruptly with an ill intention to catch the familiar culprit off-guard, launching the blade in the air. it cuts through every resistance there is in physics, slicing the distance from the bookcase to the exit in seconds. he sees it, sees the horror in her eyes as she ducks behind the heavy mahogany, wedging the silver in its sill. footsteps flee the scene, just like that day. byron straightens up and clicks his tongue. awfully pesky thing, wanting him to give chase. doesn’t she know he’s busy enough with handling your schedule and house chores? awfully, awfully pesky of her.

well, this is certainly a game of cat-and-mouse he can entertain for the sake of putting an end to it. and how does it end again? oh yes, with the mouse pierced between the cat’s canines.

byron tracks down the runaway stalker with an unerring calmness, knowing full well there is no escape from this manor. none that he does not know of, all 32 exits—78, if he counts crashing through the windows. if she turns right, she heads to the west wing, where the backyard traps her with its high walls. if she skitters left, she risks going to the foyer, making it a spectacle he certainly won’t object to. she certainly can run, but she obviously can’t hide. it shouldn’t set a smile on his face, but it does all the same.

of course, he isn’t a strategist of a great calibre like quintus, so he overlooks one crucial detail: an elderly maid aiding her escape, shaking as she rams the culprit into a room behind her and stands steadfast, or as steadfast as she could at such a delicate age. one solid knock and he could take her out, though he doesn’t. he wants answers and he wants them now.

from the inner pocket of his blazer, byron makes a show of withdrawing a secondary piece from his collection. it is a twin of the blade, the second sibling out of the quartet. he hears her gasp and oh, it’s such a miserable sound that stretches his smile wider. “for each lie you tell, i will remove something from your body. and believe me, i will make it hurt. are we clear?”

her teeth rattle with her words. must’ve been dentures, he supposes. “y-you won’t hu-hurt milady. over m-my d-dead body.”

“yes, i suppose,” he hums agreeingly, “i’ll kill you first, then i’ll kill her. now, let’s make this quick.”

her resolve caves in faster than punching her in her face, then she’s huddling herself as close as possible to the crook of the doorknob. “please, please,” she wheezes, something he already knows where this is going, “milady mnemosyne doesn’t mean any harm. please just let her continue watching you, continue watching her daughter. she doesn’t hurt anyone. she just wants to see, so please.” she squeezes her eyes shut, tears bumping the wrinkles on her face. “just let her see the child, let her live like this until the end of her life.”

obviously it’s mnemosyne andronicus, who else could it be?

that bit is glaringly obvious from the start. her full cheeks have grown sunken and the lustre in her hair is a dulled knife, but nobody else wears that perfume in this house. throwing a wrench into his plans, as always, the good-for-nothing astrals are meddling in mortal affairs again. mnemosyne has no place in this house now, not when her role as a birth-giver has long expired. her untimely reappearance will ruin all the years he’s worked on you, softening your clay shaped by his hands. at this rate, you’ll fall short of your ambitions to overturn quintus’ dictatorship—and that is a concept he will never compromise, not when the stakes are too high.

“from what i understand,” byron starts, slow and measured in case the old hag has some hearing deficiency he isn’t aware of, “she’s been under strict orders not to be let out ever since lord quintus took her in his custody. i don’t suppose you’d like to answer to him regarding your transgressions, do you?”

“no—no, please, don’t say anything to master.” more tears cascade, staining her ugly uniform. snot drips from her nose and ugh, byron hates it when people start talking through tears as if anything’s going to make sense. “milady mnemosyne truly loves her daughter but master’s a cruel man. he says she’ll bring the world to ruin like solheim—milady doesn’t believe it, milady wants the young child to run away—but master is so cruel, so, so, so cruel.”

that bit on cruelty is an experience byron understands, but not the other half. “solheim?” he repeats the word, turning it over in his mouth as though its history can be tasted. “what’s that?”

she’s full-out quaking now, more tears bursting from her eyes as she hastily smears them over her face with the back of her hand. “i don’t know—that’s all i know believe in me—so please just let milady look at the child, please, i’m begging you.”

the hag doesn’t seem to be capable of lying because she certainly looks as brainless as she appears. she did share an interesting tidbit, so byron grudgingly grunts his agreement and stows the blade again. before he turns to leave, he taps the snivelling maid on her crooked nose, and gently reminds her of this, a small act of kindness scattered among his many bloodstains:

“if i catch anyone else talking about our meeting, be very rest assured that you will not wake up from your sleep. do keep that in mind every time you open your mouth. farewell, and may you die from old age than my hands.”

MAGIC IS A FICKLE THING, unlike anything penned by famed authors with many novels backing their credibility in prose. Elementalists bring forth flames from Hell to mix it with lightning from the skies, crisping those blocking their path. Necromancy, a gift your upgraded Kaliva possessed in King’s Knight, allowed you to resurrect incapacitated party members and manipulate the dark arts. Yet none of them came close to describing the dull hum at the back of your head, discernible only if you concentrate on listening to the air. Nyx was right about the whole buzzing thing; sometimes it comes off sounding like electricity, and other times, it fades out much like how one tunes out a radio. If you carried on with your day’s work, you’d hardly remember that Noctis’ magic channels through your veins, a part of himself he readily loaned to you.

High school history classes taught everyone the same story over and over again: The Crystal is the divine cornerstone of the Kingdom of Lucis, entrusted in the hands of the Lucis Caelum for safeguarding. To the public, it isn’t something worthy of their concern. They’re just the common folk, going to school, getting good grades, making friends, graduating high school and entering university, and before they know it, they’re manufactured by the masses as a workforce to strengthen the Lucian economy. That’s got nothing to do with magic. Magic is just some story everyone knows—except, nobody cares because it’s nobody’s duty but the royal family’s. If you grew up in a normal household, you suspect you, too, would brush it off and say, “It’s not my job, not my duty, so why should I care?”

Unfortunately, it is your job and it is your duty.

The Andronici aren’t like the others. The Amicitias are the sworn Shields of the Kings, proudly passed down from one generation to the other. The same should’ve been in store for you—had you been a son. When you were young, mother tried to pacify father’s hostility by kissing your forehead and whispering that he didn’t want you to bear the brunt of duties—burdensome duties, guilt, playing with others’ lives just to keep yours safe. But you weren’t fooled. It wasn’t about the duty or sparing you from sins, it was just father’s prejudice towards your kind, towards you.

The longer you muse on the matter, the more you’re reassured by your decisions thus far.

Defying father.

Coming to the Citadel.

Meeting Noctis.

And now, wielding a fraction of his strength to serve him.

Seated at your table once more, you’re clicking through the pictures Byron amassed. You’re nowhere near done and there’s still so much for you to process, but it’s such a shame that they’re all bringing up the same obstacle you couldn’t solve: What are they? Monsters, you know that much. But what significance do they hold to Niflheim? Does this mean that they’re forsaking MTs for these creatures instead? No, that couldn’t be it. Some of these looked too inconvenient to be hauled into dropships and exported to every part of Lucis, unlike MTs and their standardized humanoid assemblage. You frown as you venture into the next set of diagrams, trying to make out its implication.

Byron is at his favourite spot, messing around in your kitchenette with an earbud popped in. Probably listening to some peppy pop again as he diligently worked on a baking tray. “How do you feel, milady? Any better yet?”

Better is subjective. Nausea is the first to stop after you accidentally emptied the bare contents of your stomach on Byron, earning another one of his infamously his too-wide smiles. After spending a good day in bed, easily losing yourself between the sheets as you kept thinking you melted through your mattress, you could somewhat totter in a straight line without clutching Byron like a lifeline.

Looking up from your computer, you suppose you’re unfazed by the latest hurdle you crossed. “I’ve had worse days.”

That has Byron glancing over his shoulder before turning to whatever it is that he’s doing. “I know, but I’m still worried. I’ve come to realize that passing out from exhaustion and passing out from magic are two different things. One is something I can control, and the other has the Astrals laughing at me. I’m just thankful I didn’t end up ringing Dr Jude to check up on you. You haven’t written to him in a while, have you?”

Fainting is just surprise sleep in other words. It isn’t that bad seeing how much you’re a pro at it, like how Noctis is the Champion of Punishments. Seeing how you fainted enough these past few days, it’s safe to say that the worst has passed and you’re now able to perform basic functions without embarrassing the rest of the 20-year-olds in Eos. The moment the Crystal’s magic jolted your consciousness, darkness stole you from this world and erased your existence. Dissociated from the rest of the living as everything is placed on hold. As much as the whole experience was supposed to be magical because you were technically receiving magic, it was underwhelming. The novels definitely lied about fantastic fireworks going off behind closed eyelids, or that unearthly light consuming one’s body in animated cutscenes. Nothing had been out of the ordinary once the Astrals pressed the play button on your life again, no glow, no sparkles, no memories. Byron was there as usual, his lap a familiar pillow. And then there was Noctis too, an incredibly worried Noctis right in your face when he almost unleashed an onslaught of interrogation.

Flicking through another picture on your desktop, you take note of the beast’s elaborate contraptions before moving onto the next. “Not yet. Soon, but not now.” Another click, and your mouth curls in one side. “Actually, if you have time to worry about the Astrals laughing at you, it means you have the time to help me make sense of these stuffs. The suspense is killing me.”

“Aren’t they obvious?” Byron reaches overhead, withdrawing another baking tray. “Monsters, Niffs love their monsters. Especially when they get to play god and make them their ragdolls.” He shudders, not without exaggeration, switching on the tap to get water running. “Whatever it is they’re experimenting with, it’s clearly not working out. Yet. We need to be thankful for small mercies.”

Small mercies they are, but that isn’t the right answer. “It’ll definitely end up working out sooner or later,” you retort, pausing at an incredibly intrinsic rendition of a thing with a glowing core jutting from the centre of its chest. Something about the sight has your breakfast mush churning inside. “And when it does work out, Lucis has absolutely nothing to defend with.”

“There’s…the Kingsglaive.” Byron sounds somewhat uncomfortable at his own uncertainty, setting down the tray with more force than intended. “If all else fails, the Walls should work.”

You bite off a sigh, already conjuring five different ways Niflheim could play this out. “Exactly. We’ve been depending on them too much, that’s the whole problem.” Minimizing the window, you glance at the Crown City landscape splayed before your eyes, knowing full well all can be turned into rubble and dust if the empire desires so. “Theoretically speaking, even if Insomnia survives another war, the rest of Lucis won’t. Our citizens aren’t only Insomnians, there are other people out there. Other people like you. We can’t just ignore them, they’re Lucians too, just that they’re born outside the Wall. It doesn’t make their worth any lesser than Insomnians.”

The sounds coming from your kitchenette stops for an abrupt second before picking up again, this time much slower in pace. “…I concur, milady. Thank you for thinking of people like me.”

Spoken so haltingly for the biting butler, you couldn’t help but to inspect his silence. How rare it is for him to openly acknowledge your reference to his past. Never one to openly showcase his sordid background, he feigns nobility the same way you feign innocence in front of the prince. Byron keeps his shirts buttoned up to his neck, hiding a silver necklace behind thin cotton fabric. The holes in his ears, all fourteen of them, are remnants of a poorly kept secret privy for two. Yet, he still goes on with this charade, parading the prim uniform of a servant, even if the Ducati is his choice of a ride when he goes shopping. He carries with himself the duty of a servant signed under your name, just as much as you carry out your own obligations not only to your king, but to the rest of the kingdom.

Without his loyalty, you wouldn’t have made it this far.

And you should protect what little you have.  

Looking down to where your hands had balled up your shirt, you muster a feeble nod. “You’re welcome, Byron. Always.”

Byron doesn’t answer, his broad back still turned to you. He just wedges in the other side of his earbud, shutting you out of his world. Never an unkind gesture, you know him too well by now.

Something beeps, stealing your attention, and you quickly glance at your phone. The screen isn’t lit. Huh. It’s Byron who stops working, checking his phone. Seconds later, he twists to meet your bewildered eyes. “It’s Gladio,” he remarks, scrolling through his phone. “He’s asking if you’re feeling better, milady. I just texted him what you told me and – oh,” another beep graces him with another smile, “he wants you to come down for practice later. You certainly seem well so I’ll agree on your behalf.”

As if your frown isn’t deep enough, your brows draw tighter. “That’s weird…since when did you have Gladio’s number?”

Byron pockets his phone and appears, at most, nonplussed at your suspicion. Ever the actor he is, his hands flutter about in the most elaborate display of indifference. “Why not? He seems like a reasonable man and a good fighter. Rather than your awful choice of comrades being the babied prince and the chocobo boy,” he scrunches his nose at the nicknames, “I’d prefer it if you associate yourself with Gladio and that lovely man—Ignis, was it? You could learn so much more from those two than the comedic duo.”

You stare at Byron’s growing smile, finding this all too convenient—and far too suspicious indeed. “You’re just saying that because Ignis cooks too, you biased butler. Weren’t you the one chewing me out for having friends in the first place? Did a miracle happen or something while I was out?”

He only scoffs at your insistence, flicking his ponytail over his shoulder. “Milady, being a grown-up is a wonderful thing. I learnt that stopping children from doing what they want is counter-effective to my cause, so it’s best for me to let you explore this friendship on your own. That way, when all hell breaks loose and you’re suffering the consequences of your actions, I get to be the one gloating ‘I told you so’. Experience is the best teacher, or so they say.”

There you have it, his truest motive all along, unveiled in this special episode filmed in the Citadel. Your butler lives and breathes just for the sake of poking fun at you. Greatly amused at your bitter expression, Byron turns to his private project and waves you off like shooing a fly.

“Now, excuse me milady, I have brownies to bake. Hopefully they’ll be done in time, so we can enjoy them after training is done.”

“obstinate buffaloes, they are,” quintus starts one day over a cup of breakfast tea, rubbing his forehead. “i’ve had it with them. they see nothing but only the things they want to see.”

for someone who keeps yapping on and on about how a great strategist should be someone unaffected by emotions, quintus is certainly a fucking huge hypocrite. here he is, venting his heart out to a stoic byron, one who’s rearranged his expression to reveal nothing of his thoughts, and babbling nonstop about his stressful work life. if byron were to be petty, in which he thinks he more than deserves to be the pettiest person in lucis, his life as a babysitter, a murderer, and a butler is pretty damn stressful by itself. and nobody’s thought of hearing him out, how about that.

arms folded behind his back, byron emulates a statue and does nothing more.

and quintus doesn’t seem to mind having a heart-to-heart session to a statue, it seems. “if we bolster our defences with the revival of the military, we can at least be granted a chance of salvaging all the fights we lost on our lands. we lost galahd, we lost gungnir, and we lost valesti. we cannot afford to lose more.”

byron despises quintus from the bottom of his decrepit heart. he truly does. yet the man makes dastardly good points, one that byron cannot counter. insomnia is a child dependent on its mother’s protection, the walls. on its own, it is but a helpless toddler whose candy got stolen by niflheim, the big bad bully of all nations. while they might not be able to combat the mts and daemons if they reestablish the military during its first year, the second and third and subsequent years could be better. it’s that simple. gaining a peaceful stand as a beacon of light and hope does nothing for its people, doesn’t feed the needy, doesn’t revive the dead. it’s time for lucis to wake up and realize that a dark age will soon come.

quintus slams the table with a trembling fist, gritting his teeth. the solid sound has byron jumping under his skin, all at once relieved he isn’t the poor, vulnerable table abused as an outlet for frustration. a sizeable dent caves the surface, and if byron isn’t well underway imitating a statue, he would’ve whistled low under his breath. because, damn, the old man still had that much of strength left in him? who would’ve thought?

unaware of the damage he has done, quintus holds his head in his hands, squeezing his eyes shut. the lament he whispers is one byron’s heard many times before.

“if only my replacement isn’t a daughter…if only she isn’t mine.”

“COOL, EH?”

Cool is an understatement. You swear if there’s another word you could use to describe this moment, it would’ve jumped out of your mouth the moment Gladio’s access card beeped your entry and slid impressive steel doors open. But no, now you’re just an excitable twenty-year-old on a belated school trip around the Citadel with your babysitter in tow, and cool is the closest thing condensing the train of oh my god what the hell this is amazing I didn’t know this place existed can I touch everything? that’s colliding in your brain right now.

Byron is a lot more eloquent than you. “I usually do not make it a habit to cuss in front of newly made acquaintances, but this is fucking amazing.”

Gladio barks with another laugh at the starstruck look on Byron’s face, preening at the heartfelt praise. You’ve seen this before, that juvenile glee Byron gets when he’s got another magazine spread with Claire Farron on the cover, or bought something that Claire Farron endorsed. It’s always Claire Farron this, or Claire Farron that. If it’s not Claire Farron getting him giddy, the only other option left is a blade. You can’t blame him for being hypnotized by rows upon rows of glinting polearms shelved in stacks, brackets of swords decorating the walls as far as the eyes could see. Behind polished glass are firearms of varying builds and sizes, from submachine guns to the regular Glock mounted on steel grills. You’re craning your head to get an intimate look at the infinite depths of this armoury when Gladio waves you in.

“Welcome to the Royal Arsenal,” he proclaims, striding backwards into his territory with arms thrown wide. “Ignis and I got the latest stuffs in, so you’re in luck if you’re lookin’ for something new.”

You don’t know where to start when all your words have escaped you. Panels of LED lights overhead made sure everything dazzled like diamonds, silver edges to a sword more enticing than the hard rock itself. Your butler’s already wandering off with his fingers grazing the long stretch of a collapsible scythe, murmuring incomprehensible things under his breath, lost in delusions only a weapon can incite. You’re not any better, having already located a wall of scimitars and admiring a hilt tastefully carved in gold. The role of the babysitter successfully passed down to Gladio in light of Byron’s inability to function, the Shield has a warm hand between your shoulder blades as he points at the swords.

“Might be a little too heavy for ya,” he advises, meeting your questioning gaze with an answer. “For now, anyway. Once we’ve built up your muscles, you can have a go at ‘em.”

“Swords are the staple weapon in an RPG, so I definitely need to learn how to wield one,” you insist, moving past him to feast your eyes on a wall full of katana with their ornamented guards done in Lucian crests. Underneath each blade lies a complementary scabbard lacquered to the point where its reflection catches your eyes, corded wrappings knotted tight.

Gladio’s eyes roll skyward and he does this little shake of his head that says a lot on his stand, following you from behind. “Muscles, kid, muscles.” Big bear paws leave your back to ring your upper arm in one hand, giving you a squeeze. You shoot him a look warning him with what he’s about to say, and Gladio mischievously allows himself another squeeze. “Ya either swing the sword around, or the sword swings you around.”

“Muscles are overrated anyway,” you grumble, unsuccessfully wrenching your captive arm out of the Shield’s tight grasp. When Gladio doesn’t even budge an inch, you kind of wish Noctis’ magic would zap away his Shield’s annoyingly mocking grin. Fighting against Gladio, the man the Astrals decided to inflate to the size of a behemoth, is assuredly going to end up in your loss. The strategist in you says giving up would help in conserving energy, but it’ll swell his ego. The fighter in you, however, yells for you to struggle harder against him in hopes it’d loosen up his hold or something. You’re tugging for your arm’s rights, and Gladio tugs back just a wee bit harder to show off how easily he subdues you. Any harder than that and you think you’d successfully lose a limb to him in this game of tug of war. “Seriously—Gladio—you’re the one who's going to be swinging me around at this rate—“

“What was that?” he taunts. “You want me to swing you around? Don’t mind if I do.”

Horror crosses your face at the suggestion, struggling intensified. “Gladio—don’t you dare—“

It turns out that ‘don’t you dare’ is Gladio Speak™ for ‘I dare you’. You’re not quick enough to face off against a Shield who’s got years and years of experience building his muscles. The subtle tug on your arm turns into a downright yank and your nose collides with a mouthful of T-shirt before something swoops under your knees. Your shrill cry bounces off metal walls when a wildly grinning Gladio goes, “Upsy daisy,” and scoops you right off the ground singlehandedly like he’s carrying a bagful of groceries, like he’s hoisting his broadsword around, like he’s moving a pillow—and certainly not another human being!

Death grip latching instantaneously on his muscled chest, tottering unsteadily in his one-armed carry, you desperately cling onto him with your life. “Gladio—put me down this instant—“

“Not comfy enough?” Gladio counters, the sharp arch to his cocked eyebrow certainly a cliff you’d jump off at a moment’s notice. He’s jostling you around a little when he’s adjusting his hold into something he thinks cozier for you, pulling involuntary yelps and high-pitched squeals you’re embarrassed to admit as yours. “Or do you wanna ride on my shoulder? You like that?”

If you weren’t already concerned with how your reflection looks stupidly aghast in the glass panels, clawing Gladio with Titan’s strength coursing through your nerves, you would’ve bopped him right in the face. He’s that close anyway, just a little boop from your palm will tell him to stop messing around right now— “Gladio, I swear to Gods if you don’t put me down, I’ll—“

“—be terribly upset and there’ll be no brownies after our tour.”

Byron! Your mind squeals at his impeccable timing in saving you time and time again, inwardly cheering for your saviour. Gladio huffs at the intrusion, turning around to award a disproving albino standing eerily straight by the halberds. Permanently fixed in a strangled smile and ruddy eyes in upturned crescents, that’s definitely not a happy face. But that unhappy face makes Gladio happy, doing a one-armed wave from your head to your legs dangling in the air like a kid who’s showing off his prized collection.

“Nothing going on,” he says, grinning lopsidedly, “just tryna make her happy.”

“Pretty sure happy and distressed are on opposite ends of the spectrum, you know,” you retort, though it falls on Gladio’s deaf ears.

Byron takes stock of your horror and leans against the metal shelving with his arms crossed. Always hard to impress, that butler of yours. Thankfully this time, it works to your advantage. “Uhuh, happy. Sure. I’m very happy too, if you must know.” Then he squints at Gladio’s unfading grin. “You clearly get off from showing your strength, don’t you?”  

“Can’t say that I don’t,” Gladio admits with nary a guilt in his offhanded shrug. Uncomfortable warmth spreads from your ears to your chest when his amber eyes are dark and dirty, looking at you with a corner of his mouth sneaking upwards. “We all get off on different things at night, ain’t that right?”

If that’s supposed to mean exactly what you thought he meant, the shock leapt to your cheeks. Gladio’s roguish charm undoubtedly magnetized those around him to stay since most would initially be drawn to his arresting physique and bold ink that should’ve been preserved as Lucian high art, at the very least. Hearing him talk would seduce everyone’s pants off in thirty seconds flat since he’s got that perfectly balanced ratio of devilish debonair going on—not to mention he’s maxed out his CHARM stat at +999, so that’s pretty hard to resist. Fortunately, Kaliva comes with high RES, so you’re very much saved from the CHARM status effect, only answering his smouldering gaze with a mildly flustered blink.

Ever unimpressed, ever hard to please, Byron saves the day by intoning, “That’s nice to hear, dear,” in the same way a grandma says to her grandson after asking about his day. Never one to waste his time, he covers the distance between him and Gladio to outstretch his arms like someone’s about to pass the laundry load to him. “Now, please return her to me.”

Gladio breaks off the disconcerting eye contact he shares with you to aim a smug smirk at your butler. “You sure those noodle arms can take it?”

Byron tips his head aside as white bangs curtained visibly mirthful eyes, matching a barely perceptible smile. To any other, it would’ve looked like a trick of the light passing through the night. To you, it’s a dangerously unstable look just waiting. “I assure you, these noodle arms have held her more than you ever did.”

Gladio’s none the wiser to the threat, his chortling mimicking a volcano ready to erupt. “Fine, you win this round. Take her.”

Like an illegal commodity traded between two gangs, Gladio conveniently unloads you in Byron’s waiting embrace. You’re unsurprised to find him tense under your touch when an arm hooks right under your knees and the other goes on your back, holding you tight. Held this close, moulded against his body like the shadow to your light, you could feel the hard edges of knives bumping your ribcage. You know each of their names, the silvery siblings going by Astaroth, Belial, Lilith, and Nephilim. After all, you’ve used Astaroth to pin and Lilith to cut.

And Gladio is lucky not to learn their existence today.

Byron gently gets you on your feet once more as the Shield muses, “Y’know, you’re pretty impressive. Didn’t expect you to have some muscle under all that suit.”

Ever unimpressed, ever hard to please, ever the actor ready to dramatize a play, Byron laughs softly. His greatest strength lies not in his knives but in his smile, for he’s learnt from a strategist of the greatest calibre.

“I may be beautiful, but I am just as deadly. Don’t let that fool you.”

TO: THE ARCHITECT

FROM: NOCTGAR

SUBJECT: [none]

MESSAGE: assignments suck.

That had been his opening statement some thirty minutes ago to an offline Kaliva. Prompto occupies the opposite end of his dining table, flicking through a textbook double the size of his head, something he checked out of the library a day ago. His lecturer turned out to be such an ass, forcing them to buy books that cost somewhere between a liver or a leg, but genius Prompt had a better idea. The library’s already included in their tuition fees per semester anyway, so why not use it? Not that Noctis ever stepped foot inside the library before and he doesn’t even know how to work the library’s system, but mad props to Prompto for outsmarting the lecturer. Now all that’s left for him is to snap pics of related pages and he’s saved his kidney for the entire semester.

Flipping through his copy of Mastering Strategic Management, Noctis squints through antlike lines of text before sighing. “This isn’t going to work.”

“I’m brain dead too, fresh outta juice, I know how you feel.” Prompto is all too eager to nod along, a sweeping gesture at the collection of lined papers, pens, textbooks, and notepads strewn about. “Can’t believe it’s only been two weeks and we’re getting invaded by assignments. Where’s our human right to proper rest and stuff? I need a vacation.”

“We just had one,” Noctis points out.

Prompto slumps across the table in what seems to be another artful imitation of a corpse buried permanently in the avalanche that is his textbook. “Did I say vacation? I mean retirement. Gonna spend my pension in Altissia and never come back.” His voice comes off muffled, but there’s no mistaking the generous amount of pain slathered on his words. “I can’t do this anymore Noct, I’m gonna call it a night. You’ve got class tomorrow, right?”

Noctis consults his planner with a thoughtful sound. Scratches of pencil, fluorescent highlights, and a cactuar doodle Prompto tucked into one of the pages later, he shakes his head. “Nah. The lecturer cancelled it last week. He’s got a conference somewhere.”

“You’re so lucky,” the blond groans, thumping his forehead on the textbook in protest. “I’ve got an early one tomorrow. Ugh. I’m gonna head home and grab a shower before it’s too late.”

“Want me to drive you back?” Noctis gets up from his seat, already making a move to grab his keys he threw somewhere on that marble countertop over there, but Prompto’s jumping to his feet and the deafening drag of chair is enough to stop Noctis in his tracks.

“Nah man, I’ve got this one. I’m gonna jog my stress out all the way to the train station and jog a little more on my way home.” He quickly swipes the rest of his belongings into his chequered carryon, cramming textbooks and papers and pens altogether in that one space before shouldering the canvas. Standing in dogged determination, he gives a once-off mock salute and marches to the exit. “Night dude, have fun sleepin’ in tomorrow, you hear me?”

And that’s the end of that, what with Prompto slipping on his worn blue sneakers and leaving Noctis behind with a cheery wave, the door locking automatically behind him.

Well. This is weird. Standing there all alone in his apartment, a little past nine on the clock hanging by the TV, it’s awkward to be left on his own for once. Most of the time there’d be Ignis hovering over him like a persistent hoover, picking after the mess Noctis trailed behind. Prompto comes in by a close second, sleeping over and remodelling Noctis’ guest bedroom into his second home. He’s even got his toothbrush and a closet of his own, leaving behind a chocobo plushie safeguarding his bed until his next visit. Then there’s Gladio, who’s always there to kick Noctis into shape and barking at him like the pain in the ass he is. Noctis doesn’t miss any of that ass-kicking galore, but now that they’re not here, it’s kind of strange.

Scratch that. It’s just strange.

Fingers raking through his tousled spikes, Noctis checks the clock again. It’s just barely 9.04 like time’s mocking him. Not that this hasn’t happened before, what with him being left all alone, but it’s still an unpleasant feeling. Sure, he could just crawl right into bed and sleep all the way past sunrise tomorrow, a prospect he should be grateful. Grinding for materials in King’s Knight is another option he could pursue, although that offline Kaliva won’t be raiding with him past midnight anytime soon. Outlast 2 is always up for replaying in case he wants to forgo a night’s worth of sleep thanks to all the jumpscares, but.

The jarring silence is starting to get to him.

A silence resembling that of the sunsets he stared out of his windows, waiting.

Waiting.

And waiting for the bedtime stories that never came.

Six. Noctis drops his back onto the couch and kicks his legs up. He hates it when he gets into one of these moods again, the exact same kind that made people label him as difficult and moody. He’s not difficult and moody, he’s just. Alone. And talking is hard. He’s not good with words; talking is Prompto’s job since he talks enough for three, something that Noctis appreciates about his best friend who’s ready to make a subject out of the nutrition facts on a cereal box. Nobody else understood him like Prompto did. Nobody else came close enough anyway, never closer than he allowed.

Elementary school had kids eagerly flocking around him to ask superficial questions like how many servants he had, or if he could do whatever he wants since he’s the prince. Girls in their pink ribbons and tulle skirts hounded him with their posse, rattling off one question after another until he blacklisted lunchtime in classroom and escaped to the backyard. He’d say high school was better, but then he’d be lying through his teeth because it wasn’t any better, it was worse.

And Prompto had been there to see the worst of it.

P.E. teachers purposely made him run 100 meters in less than 10 seconds as benchmark demonstration for the rest of the student body, letting them ooh and aah over the image of a prodigal prince who’s always better than everyone else. History teachers picked him to recite the events of M.E. 606 just because it’s the part where the late King of Lucis first activated the Wall and of course Noctis had to be the one telling the tale. He can’t risk screwing up at maths when Miss Moriyama jabbed the blackboard and called him out. Between reviewing council documents Ignis scribbled and studying for exams and doing his homework and trading classes for arcades, his circle never grew.

And don’t get him started on girls and their cliques and boys and their gangs, or the wrinkled noblewomen introducing their daughters in late night galas and greedy businessmen snagging his handshakes like it’d seal a trade or two.

Nobody else had a sixteenth birthday that was declared a public holiday through the airwaves. Nobody had to read a speech scripted by the Citadel’s PR team either. Nobody else could brag about their twentieth birthday when it couldn’t be compared to his twentieth birthday, officially declared an adult on the national TV for everyone to celebrate. Imagine walking into the class the next day, stomaching all the stares, having girls coming up to him with prettily packaged gifts and boys awkwardly sauntering up to stutter a birthday wish. The only thing left for him to do was to breathe out some thanks and wait, blank-eyed, as he amassed a mound of offerings. Because, seriously, Insomnians are going to have a field day if they find out that the Prince of Lucis is some guy whose scarred history and stunted emotional growth makes social interactions tough for him. He’s had enough on his plate already.

Trying to get out of his slump, first thing Noctis grabs is the TV remote, switching it on and scrolling through the channels until he finds something that has loads of fake laughter tracks, like this gaudy talk show with a reedy brunet hosting an interview. Then he stalks off to the kitchen and raids the fridge, pulling out some wrapped meal Ignis prepared this morning. Contrary to popular belief, he knows how to work the microwave and get the electric kettle to boil, so Noctis pops a ceramic plate into the metal box and lets it whir along. He scrambles through the fridge again to uncap some meyro sparkling berry juice, sipping at the refreshingly fizzy drink, unloading his dinner once the microwave dings.

So it’s just him, some stupid show on the TV gossiping about the latest celeb trend—feathered eyebrows? Holographic highlights? What’s that supposed to mean?—before he goes on channel surfing again, cycling through some fifty-something shows in the span of less than a minute. There’s a nature documentary on the Secret Life of Coeurls and it doesn’t look half as stupid as the rest of the channels, so Noctis gives it a shot, spearing through his pasta.

As he sits through the gripping part where kitten coeurls mewl for their mother, scrabbling over steep rocks in search of her scent, his phone vibrates with a notification tone he assigned specifically for King’s Knight. Message. Right. Eyes still trained on the baby coeurls bravely venturing into the wild, Noctis grabs his phone and slides to unlock it. King’s Knight automatically logs in and brings up the latest message, one he quickly skims over—and then rereads it again once he realized who sent it.

TO: NOCTGAR

FROM: THE ARCHITECT

SUBJECT: Sorry.

MESSAGE: Apologies for the late reply. I was busy. What were you working on, Prince?

The baby coeurls mewl for his attention and Noctis is half-looking at the TV, half-keying in a reply to your message.

TO: THE ARCHITECT

FROM: NOCTGAR

SUBJECT: [none]

MESSAGE: projects. boring stuff. what were you working on?

Several minutes tick by with the coeurls finally reuniting with their mother, who licks them the moment they scramble all over her big paws, basking in her attention and love. It’s a little heartwarming and if Prompto were here, he’d totally sniff and grab the tissues for his nose, but. Noctis steals a glance at the spot beside him. Cold. Empty. The credits start to roll all too soon, white serifs on retro black, and quite suddenly it’s a bit too quiet again once the show’s over. Just him, alone, without the baby coeurls vying for his undivided attention.

Shaking off the familiar darkening of his mood shadowing the mellow afterglow from the documentary, Noctis busies himself with dropping off his plate and silvers into the sink, leaving them for Ignis tomorrow. That’d earn him an earful, but he doesn’t care. Couldn’t even care less at the moment. Grabbing his phone along the way, he switches off the TV and clicks the lights on his way to his room, shutting the door behind him. Minimalist once it’s tidied, there’s his bed with its sheets smoothened out, his trusty spot to hang out until sleep finds the way to his head.

Another beep and Noctis drops on the mattress as he holds his phone over his face.

TO: NOCTGAR

FROM: THE ARCHITECT

SUBJECT: Ugh.

MESSAGE: More boring stuff.  Nothing fun. Long day today.

He frowns, trying to picture the inflection in your words.

Is that an undertone of exhaustion right there? He’s seen the toxic way you take care of yourself—by not taking care of yourself. Throwing your body headlong into your thesis, and then throwing yourself headlong into Gladio’s training session, you obviously have little regard for your health. Kind of like him, once he gets into that mindset—just that Ignis mothers him way too often these days. Shouldn’t that be Byron’s job? What’s he doing when he should be the one caring for you? Thinking about that smirking butler of yours, the one whose startlingly scarlet eyes stare at him too much, kind of irritates him so Noctis diverts his thoughts to your message once again.

TO: THE ARCHITECT

FROM: NOCTGAR

SUBJECT: [none]

MESSAGE: me too. wanna talk?

Noctis almost hits send, but stops himself just in time.

And how exactly is he supposed to talk to you when he doesn’t even have an inkling of an idea where he can get your phone number? Sure, he could just ask you straightforwardly, but. That kind of seems. A little. Y’know. Yeah, he doesn’t even know it in words, but he knows it. So he takes a second to stare at the burnt fluorescent lights until he blinks and still sees the tubes imprinted on the backs of his eyelids, and then erases his message, replacing it with a new one.

TO: THE ARCHITECT

FROM: NOCTGAR

SUBJECT: [none]

MESSAGE: gonna go fishing. wanna come?

Once satisfied with how he casually phrased it, Noctis’ thumb hovers over the button, hesitating for the barest of second.

Then he hits send.

And so begins the waiting game.

—or not, seeing how a message comes in as soon as he sent it.

TO: NOCTGAR

FROM: THE ARCHITECT

SUBJECT: Sure.

MESSAGE: I’ll wait for you.

TO: THE ARCHITECT

FROM: NOCTGAR

SUBJECT: [none]

MESSAGE: be there in T-45.

TO: NOCTGAR

FROM: THE ARCHITECT

SUBJECT: Okay.

MESSAGE: Drive safe. Don’t hurry.

That’s kind of. A little. Yeah, Noctis doesn’t even know what it is this time, but something’s growing warm under his skin. Just warm, like the microwaved pasta in his stomach now. Nice and warm, like blankets and pillows. And it feels good. It feels really good. Depositing his phone on his bed, Noctis yanks his shirt over his head, aiming it at the laundry basket. Nope, he doesn’t care it doesn’t go in and ends up somewhere in the darkest corner of his room, something Ignis will add to his nagging list tomorrow.

Not when he has somewhere to be right now.

[tbc.]

NOTES:

ngl I’ve been a mess after my friend’s passing last Christmas and it really dampened my 2018 spirit. Much thanks to those who sent in kind messages and encouragement, they really helped me cope with my loss. Hope everyone’s 2018 started off on a good note! If it didn’t, don’t worry, you’ve got me with you. :’)

The next chapter is another Interlude like Chapter 10 with cuter stuffs like gOING FISHING HELL YEAH WHO’S EXCITED FOR FISHING (I am). Here’s the next chapter’s preview, and just because I was editing Chapter 24, here, have Chapter 24’s preview too!

PREVIEW:

No matter their distance from the Crystal, it’s getting easier and easier for him to pick up the lingering traces of magic in the air and tap into the source. Practice, just like what Nyx said. Like connecting to a server, a jolt of acidic violet sparking to electric blues, and he grabs the camping lamp from his armiger just as easily. He feels you jumping behind him when shards of magic flutter around his hand, materializing a bright lamp out of nowhere. “Not creepy, just real dark. Here,” he offers his arm, “just stick close to me.”

CHAPTER 24 | PREVIEW

Sensing your hesitation, Noctis makes a sound in his throat, rubbing the sheets. “C’mon, you’ll fit.” He reinforces his point by scooting a few more inches to leave you a lavish gap between him and the wall, but you know that’s not what it is. You want to know if it’s what he wants too. Really, desperately wants.

[rainystripe]

when you see stars

so i wrote a fic and the hommie @createandconstruct helped  A LOT WITH HER BETA SKILLS!! (which BTW GO READ HER LATEST SPOOKY FIC IT’S SO GOOD GUYS) 

but yeah

more under the cut~

pairing: Jughead Jones/Betty Cooper fandom: Riverdale 5,583k words Summary/excerpt:  “No regrets?” she asks in the tiniest of whisper. Blue eyes watch their feet, never breaking contact with the neat pastel pink flats against his own cuffed hand-me-down shoes. It’s a simple question filled with so much more. It’s innocent enough to answer. He knows that he feels something. They can’t go back now.

aka, the beginning of a sexual relationship between two fumbling, awkward teens and in which jug realized Betty is bossy when in control of any situation.

porn obvs.

AO3

Jughead Jones.

Self proclaimed weirdo, young ‘soft emo’, the Serpent’s son, Wednesday-fucking-Adams…was in a predicament.

You see, Jughead is wondering at this very moment, how he even landed in such a position. One position so strange that pinching the jean covered skin beneath his thigh has become a habit within the last three hours. A moment so obscene, so utterly adulterated, and un-Jughead, that his heart is possibly (it is) trying to rip through his rib cage and onto his lap in a bloody mess. His breathing has long gone from the unthought regulated act, he might stop breathing at any given second. His palms are sweaty and the room feels warm. He swears the heat is getting cranked up and up every second  just by the ghost of his thoughts. Even though he’s aware of the fact that the dingy trailer doesn’t come with AC. The Jones’ aren’t that well off.

Still. Jughead did not expect to end up in the tiny trailer with his childhood friend. Not only that, but in the childhood home that was suddenly starting to become tainted with hormonal teens. Like blood on water, the scandalous act crept through the little room before engulfing the entire space, making it theirs the moment that Betty Cooper step foot within the breaches of a seemingly innocent, troubled home.

Hot and bothered is one description that he thought he’d never, ever, in a million years be: Except, he was.

And, oh boy, he was.

Sucking in a ragged breath, the air itself felt like it wasn’t enough. Innocent lungs, filled with nothing but Riverdale’s finest, crisp air and the occasional fumes from the used cigarettes that littered the coffee table and dirty carpet of the small trailer, Jughead struggles to take another unsteady breath. He’s used to certain smells. Three come to mind: Cheap beer, the greasy stench of Pop’s and the Andrews residence. All three make up the one thing that most bring him comfort and a sense of familiarity: home. But there’s something warm and sweet wafting up his nostrils. A smell so subtle and suddenly very nostalgic. It’s weird, almost as if he were being introduced to the scent. The fragrance makes his fingers twitch, suddenly having the overwhelming feeling to stuff his face into the crook of her neck to get more.

Coconut.

Betty Cooper smells like sweet coconuts. At least, the artificial stuff…

And wow does she smell good. Good enough for him to tug on the ends of her pastel pink sweater, the action which makes her lean in closer. The scent is light, not overpowering, but it’s there. Sweet and comforting.

Addicting.

Did she use everything that was coconut? Shampoo, conditioner and body wash? He was starting to wonder because up until three hours ago, the thought had never crossed his mind.

There’s also one more thing that he smells. Cherry? Strawberry? Something-berry. Something definitely within the berry family, and it’s on her lips. The gloss shinning so brightly that it almost blinds him when she leans her head closer to his own. Orange light beams right through the small window to the left of the living room. The cheap green curtains look like throw up and even then, in all their ugliness, they still fail to do their job. But he doesn’t mind, because Betty Cooper’s lips are ghosting right above his own chapped lips. Her warm breath providing him with more of her essence, one which he greedily sucks into his own lungs: consuming her. It’s an erotic scene, one which his stormy blue eyes can hardly take in because never in a million years did he think he belonged in such a scene.Jughead was starting to feel overwhelmed, dazed by the ever changing events that Betty keeps putting him through at that very moment.

Jughead Jones was a strange being. He’s an alien among humans, except he’s not. He’s simply his own sort of being within the normalcy of Riverdale: The Town with Pep! And those aware of the alien living among them…they made sure to make him aware of his invasion

Okay, that’s a lie. There was one place where he was a ghost that occasionally became human enough to remind people of his existence: Riverdale High School.

See, as a sort of alien,  Jughead was certain, almost positive (which is a total joke now) that he wasn’t a sexual person. Unlike his best friend, Archie who was into digging around his laptop in the middle of the night to catch a free stream of the buxom ‘babes’ getting into some sticky situations, Jughead was not into that at all. If anything, the concept of porn was disgusting. Nude’s, films and the act itself was just something he would have never guessed for himself. God, the world must be laughing at him now.

Hell, the last time his crotch was touched was when he lathered his body in the shower that morning, and it was just that: hygienic purposes. Not the sexual act that had all his available blood rushing to the section between his legs. It was difficult to even think up the last time he touched himself for pleasure. It was that rare. Girls and even men weren’t important to him. Sure, he could appreciate a good looking person, who wouldn’t? But to actively nurse the idea of a person through sexual needs was weird.

It was un-Jughead like. Jughead™ just didn’t do sex, at least, not with others.

Yet, why was he wishing for Betty to do more? The shaking in his bones betrayed his earlier feelings of heat. He’s on fire and he’s sure of it, but he’s also freezing? Betty’s big emerald eyes shine brightly when she tilts her head in the right angle and they aren’t helping her cause. In fact, she’s making it worse with each blink of her doe eyes, her long dark lashes distracting him for a split second.

Wow, Betty was pretty.

She’s so distracting in-fact, that he misses the part where he nods in approval to her request to go farther. Jughead’s eyes are back to being trained on her lips and the raised skin that makes up her signature mole just below her lip. The blonde is made up of nothing but smooth, supple looking skin. Skin that makes him think of a blondie, good enough to eat. Wow, that’s a new one: food reminding him of his childhood friend. So, she was starting to become that important, so much in fact that she’s comparable to a brownies cousin. But Betty is important, of course she is. Archie, Betty and himself are the three amigos. Self-proclaimed Best Friends. Although if he had to correctly define: it was Betty and Archie, Archie and Jughead. Betty and Jughead was rare, but it was never awkward when it was just them as a combo.

This current moment in time was redefining the meaning behind the duo. Their status once again begins to morph the minute the neat golden ponytail dips down and away from his vision to where he locks eyes with the puke green curtains once more.

Spooked, Jughead snaps his head down, his body shaking in anticipation and nervousness. Heart racing, his chest visibly shakes when he sucks in a breath.

“B-Betts, what are yo-“ he begins, and as soon as he does he’s cut off by the doe eyes staring back at him. He feels like he’s going to die then. His brain struggling to calculate the situation in which Betty is attempting to unbuckle his belt. It happens so quickly that by the time he can sit up an inch, Betty’s warm fingers are already scalding hot against his erection. With a gentle squeeze, a sharper intake of air is sucked in response.

“Juggie…” Her whisper is barely audible, but he hears it over the loud pounding that is his heart in his ears. Seriously, maybe he was dying. Maybe the lack of oxygen filtering through his lungs was beginning to take effect or something. Was he going into cardiac arrest? Was Betty Cooper really cradling his cock in her sweet, soft hands?

“You’re so hard.”

Was the world ending?

Betty sounds amazed, surprised at how quickly things escalated. The concept of foreplay was one that she’d wanted to test out the moment things got out of hand and boy was it working.

Formulating a response proves to be a challenge as all his mouth can do is chatter. Tongue tied for a good three seconds. Jughead’s body won’t stop shaking, almost as if he’s naked out in the snow with nothing but his bare arms to keep him warm. The cold chill however, comes in the form of Betty. Which begs the question: Why was a seemingly perfect blonde, the perfect honor student and Miss Teen Riverdale 2015-2017 and girl next door sitting next to him, doing such dirty things? Betty isn’t supposed to be this adult-like. No way, if she was to ever do this it would be with Archie, not himself. Everyone and their dog knew that Betty would be the one to end up with Archibald Andrews.

“…going, okay?” her sweet voice comes through again to which he blinks and nods. There was something about Betty, he noticed, if she was using her honey voice, one could easily tune out everything else and just come undone under her spell. It was comforting, and well meaning. A voice warm enough to quell all his worries. Those big green eyes of hers would suck the life out of you and transform one into her puppet. Call him Pinocchio Jones.

No wonder the entirety of Riverdale was under her spell.

The raven-haired boy nodded whilst paying no attention to anything that the blonde had just asked him. He nodded as if in a trance. Betty nods back at him with a nervous little smile before her face disappears again. The old couch creaks when she adjusts her body to lay against his thigh. All Jughead can do is watch in wonder as the scene before him unfolds. There he was, under mind control through the evil powers of Betty Cooper, whom he’s allowed to let his manhood hang out for. She was the only person ever (besides his doctor who delivered him and mother) to be allowed to see him in such a state, let alone with a raging erection. One erection so painfully obvious that every little touch causes his toes curl and the hair on his neck stand in anticipation. What was Betty going to do? Jack him off or something? After all, this moment in time has come out of nowhere, but hey, he wasn’t complaining. Although, he could easily come up with commentary after, one which he was sure she wouldn’t want to listen to given the circumstances surrounding her literal lips above the crown of his manhood. The fact that Betty is face to face with his erect member is enough to smack him back into reality. There she was, blonde angel with bright green eyes, curiously facing off with the taught, silky skin of his cock.

“Betty, I-“ and just like before, he’s shaking again. The words begging to go past his lips tumble out in a choked gasp the moment that there’s a kiss in the air.

And on him.

“Shh…” he’s hushed and Betty cradles his cock against the corner of her lips before planting another soft kiss against the throbbing veins that curl around the muscle. Her eyes are intense, zeroed in on her prey with a look so heavily resembling teenage lust. He listens like the obedient boy that he’s suddenly become. Betty is his master and he is her slave, and that becomes fact the moment his arm reaches for his center to try and block her away from him, but is quickly smacked away. “B-Betty, come on. W-what…” his breathing is labored; the pupils of his baby blues are blown wide and his chest is heaving. All that he can do is clamp both hands down against the armrest and headrest of the old couch in a lame attempt to calm himself. The tips of his fingers turning white with tension. There was no going back now. Betty Cooper had seen and is currently in possession of his hardened cock.

Christ almighty.

With a gulp that almost causes him to choke, the boy hisses and pulls his body back into the couch as far as it can go, and away from Betty’s lips. She takes the crown of his member into her glossed lips and away from him, but it’s futile. Thin, small fingers hold him gently in place, squeezing rhythmically around him, like a beat to a song. The act alone so foreign and obscene that Betty questions her actions. The sensation isn’t that off putting, but she has to open her mouth wide enough to keep him in. She blinks a few times, her eyes focused on the plaid pattern around Jughead’s waist.

“Jesus Christ.” Jughead manages to gasp out, his beanie clad head bumping hard against the headrest. Since he couldn’t remember the last time that he pleasured himself, one thing was for sure however, and that was the feeling of his hand compared to a soft, moist, hot mouth was something that could not go hand in hand. Betty’s mouth reigned superior.  A new champion was named then, and holy fuck did it feel weirdly good. Being as sensitive as he already was, the raven-haired boy couldn’t sit still while she kept him in her mouth. She sucked twice while in place before letting go with an audible ‘pop’.  

“I’ve never done this before, Juggie…” she began. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Lies, he thinks. She definitely knows what she’s doing, right?

Right?

He wonders as he sneaks a glimpse at in her direction. Betty’s cheeks are in flames bright enough to rival his own. She’s looks sinfully cute, staring at this knee while those seemingly innocent hands grip him in place. God what a scene. Betty with a penis that happened to belong to him, a penis that she had just been experimenting with.

“You don’t have to do anything…”

God, god. GOD.

Everything was awkward, talking was awkward, breathing was awkward, being alive was even more awkward. Betty however, didn’t seem to mind one bit as she shook her head. “I want to.” She manages to breathe out only before stealing glance in his direction as well. She looks away rapidly before focusing back on her task, the one where he can’t remember her asking permission for. Jughead’s heart skips two beats and he gulps, nodding. “Okay.” Comes his whisper.

He screws his eyes back together when he’s enveloped again, his feet jerking back against the bottom of the couch with a painful smack. This time she goes a little bit farther, taking him in right to the center which causes his nostrils to flare in two long exhales.

Betty was really doing this.

Said girl shuffled forward on his thigh, allowing her for a much comfier experience and position. Never once letting go of the member in her mouth and hands. Having something that isn’t food in her mouth makes her ponder her decisions. The fact that she’s on someone’s lap with a specific part of the male anatomy in between her lips.

“Shit.”

That somehow encourages Betty and she sucks upward carefully, an action that has Jughead squirming. The little glances that she manages to take fuel her even further, one that also ignites a fire in her tummy. Seeing the power that she suddenly has over the beanie clad boy is indescribable. Jughead staring into the ceiling, his adam’s apple prominent against the shadows cast by the small stream of light that bounces off the walls in various hues of orange, brown and red. All which extenuate his features. Sharp jaw, prominent cheekbones and a pointed nose. The best part, she notices, is the sprinkle of birthmarks scattered throughout his face and exposed neck.  Betty notices the way that hip lips twitch, almost as if he were talking to himself, a thought funny enough to make her smile. Jughead, riding a blowjob through a mantra in the form of a pep talk? Twisting her face at the smile, she sucks up before going down again, this time using her tongue to massage the underside of his throbbing member. She starts off slow, but it doesn’t take her long before her blonde head is bobbing up and down at a steady pace against him.

She doesn’t know if she’s doing It right, but judging by his reaction, she must be doing decent enough to rile such a reaction from him. Jughead is swallowing air at rapid speeds and when he looks down at Betty, his heart cannot handle going any faster. It just can’t.  

There she is, his childhood friend, in all her blonde, pastel wearing, good girl glory: sucking his dark soul away. With her hand wrapped at the base of his cock and dark patch of hair, the golden pony tail sways at the actions produced by the bouncing of her mouth against him. The lewd sucking sounds are wet, sounds which he can tell that she’s trying her best to keep silent. Her cheeks have sunken in on themselves, showing just how hard she was sucking while her jade eyes became hidden underneath the dark strands of blonde lashes.

One, two, three. One, two, three.

One, two.

Pop.

“B-Betts.” Strains Jughead. He’s sure that she’s been at it for at least four minutes, but those minutes have felt like ours and he was sure that he was going to burst at any given moment, especially now. The sight of Betty, with her glossed lips which were now messy and smeared with her saliva and berry lip-gloss.

“You like that, Juggie?”

Good god.

Blue eyes search green ones with rapid speeds, and he nods. “Okay.” She mutters with a sweet smile before her hand is twisting up, lathering itself with her left-over saliva. “I’m glad.” She spares him another look before a pink tongue is flicking at the tip of his manhood, teasing him. A bashful smile plays at her moist lips which look plumper than usual due to the friction caused her actions.

Jughead shudders uncontrollably. Betty takes him in again and this time she takes in more before she gag’s once and let’s go to cough. He lurches forward but Betty is faster and shoves him back, clears her throat and shoots him the deadliest glare he’s ever seen. His response is to sink back further into the corners of the couch and go back to gripping the life out of the old cushion. Like a kicked puppy, Jughead wants to please his master while remaining faithful and mutters a “careful” in her wake. He can feel his face burning up even more and the tips of his ears feel like they might fall off, his body is on fire and Betty knows, because she’s back on him not a second later, this time going for a few more minutes.

“Christ.” The boy hisses, dark brows knit together, teeth bared while his fingers dig into the fabric of the couch. He won’t last any longer, she knows. So instead Betty stops, uses her tongue to awkwardly circle his width inside her mouth, taking her thumb to rub along his length, stimulating the engorged veins that keeps pulsing against her palm.

“I’m gonna come.” He gasps out, his body shooting up and away from Betty at an angle, an action which causes her to follow him. “Then come, Juggie.” Popping him back into her awaiting mouth, Jughead shamefully whimpers while attempting to remove the girl from him but to no avail. She whacks his hand away. His gasps are audible, mixing along with the light wet sucking that fills the air of the small trailer. His body gives way and he slumps against the couch as his hand snaps out to grip the girl’s shoulder, fisting her neatly pressed clothes. “Betty, Betty-“ voice hoarse, he attempts to stop her, warning her. “S-stop it.”

Instead, she continues, the blonde ponytail bouncing in place as she quickened her pace. A hum from Betty makes him sigh. The sucking is strong and velvety, smooth and hot, powerful enough to send electricity from the top of his head to ends of his toes. Jughead is close and he knows it, but there’s no way to tell her on time, he tried once and she ignored him.  She feels amazing. Hot mouth, slick and sensual, who knew a blowjob felt this good? He’s panting now, and the curls at his forehead have escaped the grey knitted beanie.

Betty won’t admit it, not now, not ever but her own heart was hammering against her chest. The sound so extreme and loud against her ears that if she didn’t concentrate on Jughead, she wouldn’t be able to stop. Still, she was excited for what was to happen next.

A light sensation fills his body, coursing through his veins. A feeling so powerful and arousing that it makes him lightheaded and causes his toes to curl painfully within his shoes. His stomach twitches uncontrollably while his hips jerk upwards and his eyes begin to roll back. Jughead only has time to register the high that’s beginning to invade his body before his eyes screw shut. A hand reaching to push Betty away, he doesn’t want to taint her like that. But Betty and stubbornness go hand in hand, she doesn’t budge, if possible- she keeps sucking harder and faster, while her hand pumps furiously at the base of his cock. That alone sends him into a daze, the stimulation sending him over the edge.

And then everything goes silent. At least, he thinks it does.

Betty sucks, not knowing when to stop until she hears the sharp intake of air and the grunt that follows. Jughead jerks violently into her mouth and her gag reflexes kick in just as something hot hits the back of her throat.

Oh.

It doesn’t stop there; the thick fluid shoots out in four consecutive bursts. So, she shuts her eyes closed, feeling lightheaded herself when she registers is happening. Before she knows it, she’s swallowing thickly against the jerking muscle in her mouth. It takes two tries to get the salty gunk to go down, but she does it and let’s go of him as soon as she does, panting for air. It’s almost as if she’d been deprived of it for hours. Instantly the heat that accumulated at the pit of her stomach began to travel downward, in an uncomfortable tingling that made her thighs clench in response. Betty swallows, tasting the last bit of Jughead’s salty remains on her tongue.

Mossy eyes land on the boy before her, his head is thrown back and his mouth is agape while sucking in large quantities of air. His dark curls are loose against his sweaty forehead, the beanie which had fallen behind the couch the moment his threw his head back in ecstasy. Jughead kept his eyes closed, and his adam’s apple bobbed a few times, Betty noted. Curiosity hit her then and she looked down to noticed his member still twitching in the against her loose grip, but it was considerably limp compared to just moments ago. There’s a burn that she feels suddenly which causes her to let go of him to push herself up against the cushions.

“Juggie?” the concern in her whisper is undeniable. Did she go too far? Had she been too harsh? The apples of her cheeks flare up, images of the past ten minutes crashing into her like a million bricks.

I just did that, she thought. I did that.

She looks away momentarily to stare at anything but Jughead and his exposed member. Betty berates herself for pushing him into the act. Allowing her to get the curiosity out of her system brings on a wave of utter shame and embarrassment. She knew Jughead was one to comply with pretty much anything that she asked for, and she knew he would crack the moment she planted her lips on his. Still, she tested his boundaries and realized that he was putty in her hands right after noticing the dazed look in his baby blues. Like a robot, he agreed to everything its creator wanted, even to a blowjob. A blow job for Jughead Jones: Mr. Wierdo, I’m Weird.

A grunt from her right breaks her chain of embarrassing thoughts and with wide eyes, Betty turn to look at her friend. “Jug?”

Jughead blinks twice, counting the cracks on the old ceiling. There’s a ringing in his ears and Betty’s voice is muddled. He can feel the dip to his left when she turns to him and he musters all his strength to flop his head in her direction.

“Jug, I’m so sorry.” She begins before placing her soiled hand on his arm. “If I did anything wrong, let me know. I shouldn’t have asked you to do this. God, I’m so stupid!” and just like that, normal Betty comes back. And with ‘normal’ Betty’s return, he realizes that he has to calm her down because she’s ready to start berating herself into nothingness if allowed to. Jughead shakes his head and reaches out to grab a hold of her wrist which stops her in her tracks. The blonde was ready to start a routine that included walk in circles for at least an hour. Looking down at him, honey brows dip in concern and utter anguish. She doesn’t fail to note how his other hand moves to cover himself before quickly stuffing himself back into his dark boxer briefs.

“Betty, it’s fine…don’t worry. That was…” he starts to mutter before clearing his throat, feeling it compress suddenly and finding it hard to talk to her. The room suddenly feels like a furnace and Jughead feels the moistness on his back from the layers of clothes on top of the sweat he managed to work up.

“Bad?” Betty’s shoulders sag and her eyes are as wide as they can get while a frown graces her cursed plump lips.

“What? No!” Jughead shakes his head and clears his throat again and reaches down to button and buckle his pants back up. “Betty, as awkward and humiliating as that…was.” He pauses. “It’s was actually really good.” Looking up then, Betty feels her heart begin to race, suddenly being taken back by the positive comment on her new-found skills within the world of sex.

“…really?”

“Yeah, really.” An awkward smile forms at the corner of his lips and Jughead can’t help but break out into an uncomfortable laugh. Rubbing the back of his neck, he shrugs. “Didn’t think you had it in you, Cooper. Especially, like… to practice on me…of all people” he shrugs again.  There’s a pregnant pause and Jughead focuses his sights on a dried-up cigar bud rolled under the coffee table.

I just ejaculated into Betty Cooper’s mouth, the thought alone causes him to cover his face with his hands. What else could have gone totally wrong? Have sex with her?

Not that he would mind.

“Oh gods.” He hisses into the silent living room. Betty is standing over him, watching with curious eyes. It all comes crashing down on him. Up until three hours ago, Betty was just his childhood friend and classmate and the ever so lovely-certified diner date at Pop’s. But now they’d gone and crossed over boundaries that were crossed by people, by couples.

I don’t think I’m equipped for this.

“Jug…we can…” even Betty doesn’t know what to say. There’s an ache in between her legs and her words are jumbled up, and she’s one to think before she speaks. Yet, she can barely do that. “Umm.”

The miserable look on his face says a lot when he looks up at her. Betty points in his direction. “We can pretend like this never happened. I just…” her words wander she ponders her next sentence. “…gave you a really good massage. Yeah?” Puss n Boots is staring back at him and his heart leaps into his throat.

“I, uh-“comes his stutter. What in the world was going through her head? Was she regretting the act just he’s coming to terms with it? A frustrated sigh escapes past his lips. “Betty, no. It happened.” His arms shoot out to point out the obvious. “I’m sure that we can try to block that memory but it won’t work.”

He’s right, of course he is and so Betty nods. “Right.”

“Right” he echoes. “Granted, I would have not expected for my day to turn out this way.” Jughead stands and runs his hands through his curls, an act that Betty can’t help but note is super attractive. “Mhmm, sorry about that.” Grumbles the blonde. Standing straight, nimble fingers tug at the ends of her flower patterned top. “But Juggie, thank you for, umm…saying yes.” Betty continues. “I know you agreed to a kiss and that exactly wasn’t just a kiss.”

“No, it’s wasn’t. You took the kissing down south.” He teased. The blonde shoots him a glare filled with mixed signals and flaming cheeks. “Wait, wait.” Again, a pearly pink finger nail is directed at him. “I did ask you!” Betty’s fist makes contact with her palm. “And then you went, ‘Oh, uh, yeah’.” The face that she pulls is funny enough to make him snort. Betty’s eyes are half lidded and unfocused while she imitates the boy before her.

“I did not do that, Betts.”

“Sure you didn’t.”

“I didn’t…” he knows he did and so does Betty because she sends him another one of her glares, this time one of her brows arches in a perfect angle. “Okay, maybe I did. Shoot me.”

Arms crossed, Betty’s flats tap against the dirty carpet and Jughead draws in another shaky inhale. “Betty, I’m serious when I say that I-“ A sigh. “-I actually enjoyed our fornication. Christ, strike me down if you’re real.” He mutters loud enough for Betty to listen in before her giggle fills the open space. “Jesus can’t help you here, Jug.”

“I doubt he’d help out two teens who aren’t married, and already giving blowjobs considering that’s what he preaches.” Jughead shudders at Betty’s words and flops back down on the couch. “Don’t say that word out loud, it’s as bad as the word ‘moist’.” Betty manages to laugh once again while joining him on the couch. “Okay, noted. Don’t use sex terms around Jughead. I’ll make sure that makes the press.” Her shoulder makes contact with his arm in playful banter which Jughead can’t ignore. Looking away from his shoes, he spares her a glance with a smirk. “Not the words, but the actions don’t sound bad.”

It’s Betty’s time to glare, sucking her bottom lip in-between her teeth. Jughead doesn’t miss the bright skin on her cheeks. “Cat got your tongue, Betts?”

“Oh, hush.” She shyly replies. They sit in comfortable silence for a few moments before Betty feels a tapping against her foot, so she does the same. A simple game of footsies between two teens. Giggling, Betty carefully slumps against the raven haired boy and is surprised to feel his head resting against her own, all while never stopping their foot tapping.

“No regrets?” she asks in the tiniest of whisper. Blue eyes watch their feet, never breaking contact with the neat pastel pink flats against his own cuffed hand me down shoes. It’s a simple question filled with so much more. It’s innocent enough to answer. He knows that he feels something. They can’t go back now, because at every touch that Betty keeps giving him, his body reacts with tingles bursting where she touches him, and wow she still smells good. A simple curious request landed them here now, and he muses that he doesn’t mind. As wild as the experience had been, and as left field as it felt, there was nothing hanging above his head.

“No regrets.” The deep voice comes in two vibrations, both which travels from her head to her chest, causing her heart to speed up. She nods and wiggles her right hand free to find his. Realizing her intentions, he’s quick to comb his fingers through her own, giving her a light squeeze in return. The act it’s oddly comforting and his heart restarts itself again. Maybe this wasn’t so bad. He didn’t know what was next for them. Whether she stopped after today or kept going, he was willing to go along with her plans. Whatever they were, one step at a time. Or for their sudden sexual state, one act at a time.

Betty giggles as she stomps down on his foot, which he quickly swipes to the side to knock hers to the side.

“Betty?”

“Yeah?”

“I saw stars.”

Betty pauses to think on his comment. He saw stars? She thinks. Blinking in confusion it takes her a moment before she gapes the very second that realization dawns on her. Jughead was talking about their earlier ‘results’. Stopping their little game, a flustered Betty pushes her weight onto him, who in return rubs at his nose with a bashful smile on his face, eyes crinkling in amusement.

Now that’s something that I can get used to, he muses, enjoying the way the blonde stomps on his foot, taking her second win for the afternoon.

…

the end? maybe? ;)

[thesteveyates]

The Contessa 26.

Canterbury tales.

An unknown bloke who designs fast dinghies and dayboats.

What was i thinking ?, here i am working on the design series posts for ‘F’ and ‘G’ now and for some reason i completely missed out on some of the ‘C’s, so in this post i’m going to try and correct that with a quick look at one of the best traditional smaller cruising boats ever built and then take a look at the work of British designer ; Keith Callaghan.

Contessa 26.

“Sweet sailing, seaworthy, safe, seamanlike” : these are all words that have bee used to describe the Contessa 26 as designed back in 1966 by David Sadler alongside boatbuilder Jeremy Rogers who built the boats under his ‘Contessa’ brand.  The basic design drew strongly on the Folkboat shape ; Sadler having been a Folkboat owner. In size, shape and displacement the Contessa is very much akin to a later model Folkboat with it’s semi-long keel, keel hung rudder, low coachroof and so on….to it’s ‘compact’ Folkboat like cabin under a low coachroof.

These are all pretty old boats now and there are a lot of very tired and run-down ones kicking around, and they do pop up occasionally as cheap sell-offs ; i tracked one on EBay last year that went for less than £1000 but that one looked as though it needed a new engine, all new rigging and new sails…..i’d be happy to sail one without an engine, in fact i would make the boat faster by filling in the prop void and just having a big oar to get home with !.

What they are as an older GRP boat is a much heavier layup than more modern GRP hulls, please correct me if i’m wrong but iv’e never heard of a very bad case of boat-pox in the Contessa 26 either.    Even a rough one is eminently rescue-able and, i would say. totally worth the effort : that of course begs the question “would i have one” ?.  My answer is both yes and no in the context of that answer over time.  In the past my answer would have been yes except that i chose a Frances 26 instead because it’s a bit of a ‘chunkier’ boat inside and there were lots of things i liked more about the Franny !.       My current answer is no because i now want boats that dry out on their own bottom with either none, or very little support : both the Contessa and my old Frances will stand on their keels, that’s how i scrubbed mine, but both of them need legs to stand on a beach.

Contessa 26…..what is it good for ?

Answer….pretty much anything and everything as long as it’s just you and maybe your partner, and don’t expect to be able to stand up in one ; just like a Folkboat !.  The list of Contessa 26 voyages and accomplishments is so long that it’s hard to pick out a good small sample but here’s a few ; this, by the way, is a quite shameless cut and paste from the Contessa 26 Wiki page.

“In a review Michael McGoldrick wrote, “The Contessa 26 … is clearly robust and overbuilt, and it has to rate as one of the very best ocean-going production boats in its size category. For example, it has no sliding hatch over the main companionway, a feature which makes the cabin roof much stronger and better able to withstand a pounding in an offshore storm. Evidence of this boat’s abilities as a bluewater cruiser can be found in the fact that it was chosen by both Tania Aebi and Brian Caldwell in their separate attempts to set the record as the youngest person to complete a single-handed circumnavigation. Because of the nature and origins of this design, the Contessa 26 has a narrow beam and limited elbow room down below.

Peter Hancock tells of his travels in Kylie in Sailing out of Silence, Sailing into Sunshine, and Sailing Home. Several transoceanic voyages have been completed, including two circumnavigations: by Tania Aebi in Varuna, as described in her book Maiden Voyage, and by Brian Caldwell who in 1995 aged 19, began a journey of 27,000 miles (43,000 km) in Mai Miti Vavau to become, at the time, the youngest person to sail around the world alone. These latter two sailed in the J. J. Taylor built Canadian version of the 26.

Norwegian couple Henrik Nor-Hansen and Nina Kristin Nilsen are currently undertaking a circumnavigation in their Jeremy Rogers 1976 Contessa, Bika having set-off from Norway in Spring 2005.

Australian Nick Jaffe sailed singlehanded in his Jeremy Rogers 1972 Contessa 26 named Constellation, to Sydney, Australia. He set off from Monnikendam, the Netherlands on 17 September 2007 and arrived in Sydney in the early hours on 1 February 2010.

Canadian Stéphane Tremblay, sailed singlehanded & engineless from Sandy Hook, New Jersey to Spain via the Azores & back against the trade wind, aboard his J.J. Taylor Contessa 26 Joshua III on 15 May 2008.

Thomas Höckne did two single-handed circumnavigations in a Jeremy Rogers Contessa 26 named “Tai Fun”. The first lasted between 1981 and 1985,and went via the Panama Canal and the Cape of Good Hope. The second lasted from 1987 to 1998, via the same general route. Both started and ended in Helsingborg Sweden. “Tai Fun” had no inboard engine.“

Now for something radically different : Keith Callaghan and boats that look like a Merlin Rocket on steroids.

Here’s one of his 18 foot open dayboat designs on Ebay.

https://www.ebay.co.uk/itm/Highlight-18-dingy-lifting-keel-keelboat-with-road-trailer/184145807743?_trkparms=aid%3D111001%26algo%3DREC.SEED%26ao%3D1%26asc%3D20160908131621%26meid%3D197d5f9bc66c4060920f3e4e0abcf029%26pid%3D100678%26rk%3D4%26rkt%3D12%26mehot%3Dnone%26sd%3D193350150500%26itm%3D184145807743%26pmt%3D0%26noa%3D1%26pg%3D2380057&_trksid=p2380057.c100678.m3607&_trkparms=pageci%3Abcefee2b-5570-11ea-9eda-74dbd1802dc4%7Cparentrq%3A6ceb59dc1700aad7016064c7fffdd082%7Ciid%3A1

I’m unusual for a sailor of my generation in that i didn’t come up through dinghy racing as most of my friends had done ; had i gained that early ‘seat of the pants’ experience i would have been a much better sailor earlier on….at least i think so.

One of the boats that i greatly admired when i was effectively learning to sail….usually as bowman and all round winch-winder….was a very wide (for the time) and reputedly fast wooden racing dinghy that i was told was a Merlin Rocket.  I never did get to sail that one but as a class it was one that i always watched out for and still do, on this coast we have an active class of them just down the coast at Salcombe and racing them there, or in nearby Looe, is a big deal.   I used to marvel at their plethora of control lines and their radical looking wide chined hulls with that uncompromisingly sharp bow.

Merlin’s and please note that none of these pictures are my own.

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The high ‘C’ connection here is that British designer Keith Callaghan designed a series of radical ‘Rockets’ and then went on to design a whole series of other fast dinghy’s and dayboats with a very ‘Merlin Rocket’ kind of look to them….plumb bowed and usually wide sterned boats that look a bit like small mini transat yachts.

I have to admit that iv’e always hankered after a Merlin just for fun, except that i’m too old, too heavy and too slow to sail one…..or maybe not !.  For many years now iv’e kicked around the idea of somehow getting a viable boat to the start line of the Everglades challenge and one boat that iv’e always had in mind would be an older ‘classic’ Merlin but much converted.   That’s not as stupid an idea as it seems as there plenty of different Merlin designs, i’m just learning my way around them and the EC itself is often sailed in smaller and slower boats.

At the moment it’s still a daydream project except that iv’e worked out which of the older designs would be the one to go for and even had a chat with the class secratary to sound them out on the idea.  The main problem, aside from taming one and learning to react quickly again is that i would have to convert it to a solo boat and one would be more easily handled offshore.  I can see ways of doing that with for example a ‘soft’ rig like a standing lug and maybe a small balancing mizzen…..the boat isn’t much different in overall size to local guy Steve’s Welsford ‘Navigator’ although of course it’s a radically different concept.

Who knows…….?

The high ‘Cee,s’ The Contessa 26. Canterbury tales. An unknown bloke who designs fast dinghies and dayboats. What was i thinking ?, here i am working on the design series posts for 'F' and 'G' now and for some reason i completely missed out on some of the 'C's, so in this post i'm going to try and correct that with a quick look at one of the best traditional smaller cruising boats ever built and then take a look at the work of British designer ; Keith Callaghan.

[fipindustries]

THERE IS A CRACK IN THE WORLD: afterthought.

           So there we go, my first, full novel, entirely written in English. I did it.

There is a crack in the world originated from three or four very basic seeds, eventually many others were incorporated, so many so granular that I wouldn’t be able to keep track of them all, but the basic ideas and characters have easy to track roots.

           The three sisters were the first thing I came up with, way, way back in 2012/2013 and from the sisters the first one I came up with was Telescopica. Yes, that’s right, Telescopica was the first character from this story I invented and she was based on the design of the main character from the tv show Fringe, if you want to know how she would look IRL, she is basically a hardcore version of Anna Torv. Later came Harmonica and she was based on Martha Wayne in the short batman story made for the flashpoint event where Martha was the joker. The common thread between both of them (and what ultimately decided they would be together in the same story) was the fact that they both were female characters I didn’t often see back then and that I thus wanted to tackle. One, the stoic professional hero, the badass, not in the rough and tough Michelle Rodriguez kind of way, but more of the slick professional John Wick kind, I basically wanted to write r63!agent-47. The other was female joker, which is a far different beast than Harley Quinn, I didn’t want the cutesy, quirky, lol I’m so evil that can be redeemed by the right dick, or worse, misconstrued as an anti-hero. I wanted a truly detestable and threatening maniac, I wanted someone off-putting, someone people could truly hate. I’m not entirely sure I succeeded in this last regard.

          I had these designs and ideas for characters yet nothing concrete at the time, but then I read one book: the gunslinger, the first book in the dark tower saga, and boom. I had my idea for a premise. One chases the other on a dystopian world, simple, effective powerful. They are batman and the joker, they are Javert and Valjean, they are Tom and Jerry, but more than all of that, they were sisters. I think this vision I had of them (and of the world they inhabited) really solidified itself when I saw for the first time the trailer for Bioshock infinite, the one with the “Beast” song from Nico Vega. The thing about that song is that it came in two versions, an acoustic one and an electric one, and the relation between both versions reflects pretty well the relation between both sisters. One is calm and introspective, the other is chaotic and loud, yet they are both the same degree of fucked up. They are about the beast of America and how we are not going down like this. Give them a listen and pretend they are both sung by their respective characters.

           But that was not enough; I had a layout for the basic premise, right? One chases the other in a dystopian world, but what happens during the chase? Why is one chasing the other? How did the chase start, and more importantly, how will it end? I didn’t have answers for this, all I had was a shitty, unfinished comic (that would later be cannibalized and turned into chapter one of this story) that I couldn’t finish because back then I hadn’t figured out yet what kind of paper to use for proper inking. Hell, I didn’t even have names for them! And then, as always, math was the answer.

           I was doing Calculus II in college (and failing at it pretty hard) and we were studying numerical series, about their formulas and about how to tell when they diverged and when they converged. And so I came across a few really cool words: the telescopic series, the harmonic series and the geometric series. OBVIOUSLY I had to use them as names. But see, these are three words, and I only had two characters, so the next logical step was to come up with a third one. And this character was going to be even cooler than the other two because this one was going to be the mysterious one, this was going to be the white ranger, as it where, this was going to be Jacob from LOST, this was going to be that one character that was constantly going to be alluded to but always kept in the shadows until the very end, and once revealed the character was going to remain aloof and strange. And her name was going to be Geometrica, the oldest sister.

          Originally Geometrica was supposed to be “good”, in as much as she wasn’t going to be a psychopathic manipulator. She was supposed to be the Zen one, not evil like Harmonica, nor as obsessed as Telescopica. She was the middle ground. The calm one, the one who was supposed to be above it all. But then I started watching Hannibal.

           Now my big problem with Hannibal is that season two, and SPECIALLY any scene with Gillian Anderson, is a fucking slog, they are slow and dull and boring, so much so that whenever her scenes came I would have to create my own gore since the show wasn’t giving me none at the time and so I drew, because of course. This is a thing I’m not sure if other artist do, that is drawing while watching tv because what is on the screen is just so goddamn boring (I would do this as well with doctor who, daredevil and true detective) but the thing is that while watching Hannibal I would draw, and particularly I drew Geometrica. First she was cutting her own arm, and then using it to beat someone to death. Once I finished this particular drawing I asked myself who could she be beating and the answer came instantly: Harmonica, because obviously the most Zen character in reality turned out to be the most fucked up one! That’s just a no brainer. And then my imagination fired up and chapter 17 was created. And that was when I knew for sure that someday, somehow, I would have to write the whole story.

           To this day, chapter 17, and particularly it’s final scene, is my favourite thing I have ever came up with, as a scene, as a concept, as a story beat and a reveal and the only reason I made it this far was because of how desperate I was to make that scene real. I came up with it in 2014 and three years later here we are, the dream came true.

           Now this is all fine and good, but none of this is what actually made me sit down and put the actual words on the paper, I had chapter one and chapter seventeen, but what about everything that was supposed to happen in the middle? All of this was simmering in my head but it wasn’t actually boiling. The steam pressure, as it were, was not moving any locomotives as of yet. And I could tell you a thousand more stories about how The Foremost was originally supposed to be a female version of the nazi guy in inglorious bastards, or how his and Karachay’s current design came from the character Shades in Luke Cage, or about how once I came up with the names Chernobyl, Karachay and Tzar I realized they were a perfect reflection of Harmonica, Telescopica and Geometrica and thus they had to exist in the same universe, or how I’m not sure where the character of the emperor came from but I’m convinced Warhammer 40K and Twig had something to do with it. I could tell you all this and more but instead I’m going to tell you about the story that finally made me take stock of my life, of my choices, and decide it was time, that the ideas had been stewing in my head for long enough and it was time for execution. Weirdly enough, the story that did that was The Northern Caves. Even more weird was that it was the second read of the northern caves what did it.

           I’ll say it right here, There is a crack in the world was me reacting to the psychological horror that TNC, and indeed many other stories like it such as cordyceps or the hell sections in Unsong, caused in me. A horror intensified by the mental problems I had been dealing with during most of 2016. But the thing was that ever since I moved to a new city and started looking for a job most of that horror had been replaced with much more grounded concerns. Instead of having the shakes because of existential, metaphysical uncertainty, I was getting the shakes due to economic and housing struggles. I realized that normal, everyday problems were the perfect antidote to counteract existentialism, and so those were the problems I decided to plague my story with. Lack of food, poor shelter, contaminated water, rampant crime, earthly, lower class concerns, those are the horrors within There is a crack in the world, as opposed to a children’s book writer making some book that apparently made people go insane. And then I decided not to stop there, another common thread in many of these stories was that there would be this mystery to the world, this unfathomable puzzle, filled with complicated plots, intricate lore and abstruse complexities which were begging for a plucky protagonist to be smart enough to solve it all. So I decided to make the lore in my story absurdly simple and yet completely impossible to solve no matter how clever or intelligent or rational you were: There is a crack in the world. That’s it, nothing can be done about it.

And then came the final touch, the characters. The final thing that I saw in a lot of what for lack of a better word I’m going to call “rational fiction”, an umbrella term under which I liberally group works such as HPMOR, Worm, After the hero, Unsong, The northern caves, etc was that in every instance the protagonist would be some form of bleeding heart. Someone who would be painfully hyperaware of the pain and suffering that happened all around the world and would desperately try to find the way to fix it all, to understand it, to make sense of it all. So my story would have none of that. I made Telescopica and Chernobyl to be as indifferent and callous as I could and as the story advances they slowly start to consider that maybe they can do something to help, that maybe they can try and make the world a better place, and then I prove how incredibly foolish they were for ever thinking that.

Not gonna lie, the story is filled with self indulgent bitterness and misery, and a lot of it is me getting carried away and probably venting some of the negative emotions I had accumulated all throughout 2016. If I want to be uncharitable with myself I would say that some of that bitterness came from me reading those stories I just mentioned and feeling inadequate knowing that I would never be smart enough to write anything like it (I’m a deeply insecure person, in case you haven’t noticed). But also, for whatever reason, halfway through the story I decided “fuck it, I’m just going to write some misery porn”, I started challenging myself to see how horrid I could go, what horrors I could concoct if I well and truly tried. Yet the thing is that I feel I never really went all out on it. I like to think that, as dreadful as the story could get at times, it was never truly absurd, never profane, I could be wrong though. There is an essay talking about this in way better detail than I ever could so just go read it.

           I published there is a crack in the world as I wrote it, which means I challenged myself not to go back and edit something in the previous chapter for the sake of convenience or to establish something I might need for later chapters. I forced my self to compromise and work only with what I had previously established in the story. This fostered an interesting practice where I would start to throw foreshadowing and small meaningless data all over the place which could be easily ignored or forgotten but that I could also go back to and expand into something more on the long run if I needed to pull something out of thin air for the plot. That is the way characters like Hector or Maurice or things like commando living on an abandoned military base ended up becoming a thing in the story, grown from just throwaway characters and trivia that I thought nothing of when I first put them in the page. The biggest example would be the kosmonavt, I had no idea what I was going to do with him by the end of the story but I knew an astronaut was a useful thing to have so I put him there in his own chapter, just in case.

           Another consequence of this was that, as the story progressed and I got a better grasp of the world, of the actual real consequences of having a crack in the world, of the actual sociopolitical organization the empire would have I realized I fucked up. A lot of the lore doesn’t really add up, there are details which are poorly thought out or scientifically incorrect. And if I decided to start introducing all of that it wouldn’t just interfere with what had been previously established in the chapters that I had already published but it would also interfere with where I wanted the story to go, with what I wanted to do with the characters and with my dear, precious chapter 17. All of this meant I had to foregone a lot of neat realism and worldbuilding that could have made it into the story if I had taken some time to think things through before starting putting chapters online, but the thing is that if I hadn’t put those chapters online then chances are I would have never been  motivated to write the rest of the story. Hopefully I’ll allow myself to develop whatever new story I come up with next in more organic ways, not being afraid to kill my darlings in order to let it grow naturally. We’ll see.

           Final thoughts: I’m actually really proud of this story, whatever its origins or the emotional fuel was behind it, whatever gross scientific mistakes I made in there, whatever edits I would like to perform to make it a stronger, more coherent whole, I truly believe is the best story I have written thus far and that is achievement enough for me, I know people had been reading it and even enjoying it according to AO3, not sure how many but more than zero is enough, I hope you guys enjoyed it and I hope you have thoughts and comments about it that you might want to share with me.

           Whatever the case might be, it’s been three months and a little more that I worked on this and it’s been a great learning experience. See you in my next work.