#bleachy ideas

[create-with-afp]

Writing... this day of 8.29.24

To sum up my writing endeavors for the last few months: "Eh." Like, I think about the next chapter, which is from the POV of Isane. I can visualize the series of events that will take place in this chapter, and I get excited to write in her voice and experience the quiet and the chaos of the Fourth through her. Then, I sit down and....

Nada.

I stare into the white page and the blinking caret and... nothing.

Personally, I blame coming down with Covid and the exhaustion of both Covid and living in general.

I did some free writing on other parts of my current project, and that turned out all nice and well. I'm still working through the editing process of that chapter, but I think the outline currently holds up when drafting some of the "plottier" scenes. Which is nice. Sometimes my outlines get murdered in the practice of actually writing the chapter because I get there only to realize that "no, in fact, X would very much not do this in Y circumstance, but I like the tension of this scene, so I'm gonna need to push Z back a little to make this feel genuine and authentic to the source." (And this is how you wind up writing 100k+ word stories.)

Maybe I will write a little on some WIP-ideas just to get back in the habit. (Do some meaningless fluff before tackling what will be a ride for poor Isane.)

[muses-with-afp]

In terms of Bleachy things that I am never not thinking about given my particular sort of brainrot, it would have to be Chapter 179, Confession in the Twilight. Today, I want to overthink long and hard about assumptions fandom often makes about Hisana. Some of these assumptions are not well-supported by the canon. Other of these assumptions likely stem from material added by the anime and/or the movie Fade to Black.

Because I'm sort of "meh" on the supplementary material from the anime and pretty "blah" on the Bleach movies overall, I will stick to the manga. (I am also a simple creature with only two brain cells to rub together now-a-days so... there's that, too.) I am sure there are more assumptions one could pick apart and torture to death, but for the sake of brevity (I write cackling because when am I ever brief?) below are my top three.

1. Assumption One: Hisana had no spiritual power/pressure

This one is odd to me because we, the audience, do not have a whole lot of evidence to base this assumption off of. Byakuya never says anything of this sort to Rukia during the confession:

Although, it is possible that Hisana was spiritually weak, and what made it difficult for her to survive was taking care of a baby with significant spiritual pressure/power. This explanation is entirely possible, but, based on the English translation, it is not the only interpretation one could draw.

Honing in on the"[b]ut it was hard for her to survive there while caring for you..." bit, this could suggest that Hisana, in fact, needed more than vibes and water to survive herself. We get a sense in Bleach that siblings often have similar capacities in terms of spiritual power and pressure, and we know Rukia is spiritually gifted. Accordingly, one could make the leap that Hisana, too, had some spiritual capacity. Now, I think the case for sibling similarities in spiritual talents is probably strongest for the souls born in SS since they presumably are most "genetically" related (or whatever concept passes for "genetic" relationships in SS), one assumes. This, of course, also assumes you buy the idea that Hisana and Rukia were just ordinary souls who passed from the WOTL to SS. KT, however, has thrown a wrench into this explanation by suggesting that Rukia is a secret... eighth thing/potential hybrid. (At least, I think we are up to eight soul "ecotypes" now .... Maybe it's nine if we add in the lore from Burn the Witch.) Perhaps this secret variation/hybrid is specific to Rukia, or maybe it applies to both sisters equally.

Other evidence that could support Hisana as having some spiritual capacity (beyond being a spiritual dandelion) includes:

According to Renji, the only way to escape Inuzuri was to attend the Academy/become a shinigami. It's possible that Renji was speaking only in terms of "legality" (i.e., the only legal way to leave your assigned district/town/placement is to gain admittance to the Academy) since we know Kenpachi and crew exist. Could Hisana have gotten out of Inuzuri using the Academy loophole? Sure! Why not? Was Hisana a bloody tank like Kenpachi and fought her way out of the city? Maybe but probably not, since she felt driven to abandon her sister, which doesn't seem very warlord-like of her. Maybe Hisana never actually left Inuzuri after the abandonment. The "[a]bandoned you and ran" (emphasis mine) part of the story makes it sound like she left the city, but maybe she just ran away from Rukia and went to another part of Inuzuri or the district.

Rukia somehow managed to survive (i.e., maybe it wasn't the demands (or just the demands) of a spiritually needy baby that drove Hisana to abandon her). We don't know much/anything about the period of Rukia's life between the abandonment and meeting Renji, so it's hard to say how needy she was as a soul baby.

Hisana hung out with/lived with Byakuya, who we know (a) has a metric ton of spiritual power and pressure, and (b) lives in a city full of similarly situated souls. Canonically, weaker souls seem greatly affected by the spiritual pressure of the more spiritually capable souls in Bleach, which could suggest that she had enough to withstand living in Seireitei and being married to someone with a lot of the stuff.

Depending on whether you think Rukia is anywhere near the ballpark in terms of her age vis-à-vis Ichigo (150 years, by the way), Hisana's life span would have been about 100 years in SS, which isn't particularly short. It seems that souls with some spiritual power/pressure tend to live longer than souls without it.

As Byakuya continues with his confession to Rukia, he says that Hisana "searched for [Rukia] almost every day for the next five years." If you take this literally, it sounds like Hisana went out into the slums regularly, which is pretty far away from Kuchiki manor. Without some sort of fast travel option (the Kuchiki are rich so maybe one exists...), it seems that she would have needed to learn a pretty good flash-step to make that trek anyway feasible. Although, it is possible that Byakuya meant Hisana searched for Rukia in a more abstract sense since, as a noble, she would finally have resources (beyond her physically trekking out there) to conduct a search. It could also be both.

2. Assumption Two: Hisana was (or was not) doing XYZ before marriage

This assumption likely piggybacks off the one above. Since we are given no indication as to what Hisana was doing before marriage, if you assume she was a spiritually weak being, it makes sense for the years between abandonment and marriage to be full of scrounging and hiding from scary beings/thugs/monsters/take-your-pick. And, true, the reckless noble/prince taking an unwashed but kindly peasant girl as a wife is an oldie goldie in terms of romance tropes.

But, as noted above, Hisana could have been literally anything. Shinigami? Sure! Secret agent/informant? Why not!? In CFYOW, Yourichi gets pretty annoyed at Tokinada for speaking ill of Hisana. It's possible that she's irritated with him because he's trying to goad Byakuya into an altercation and is using Byakuya's dead wife as the ammo (which, yeah, is a pretty gross thing to do). Alternatively, there could be a personal connection between the two women (which may provide further color on Rukia being chosen as a vessel for the orb, don't mind me just out here speculating). We know the higher districts are rough, and, at least according to Renji, Inuzuri is full of criminals and bastards of all stripes. Hisana could've been a crime lord, a lackey to a crime lord, a thief, a prostitute, a hustling gambler, a bookie, basically anything. The vagueness is glorious!!!

3. Assumption Three: Hisana died of ghost consumption a respiratory illness

This assumption likely arises from the anime (although forgive me if I'm wrong about this since it has been a while since I've watched the anime) and Fade to Black, which has a scene where Hisana has a coughing fit. The manga, however, gives no indication:

All Byakuya says is he "lost his wife." To what? Who knows?! Be more specific, Byakuya!

We also don't get a whole lot of evidence to indicate what killed her during the confession scene.

Hisana isn't sweating, and her futon is white as is the bit of clothing we see, so it doesn't look like she's necessarily suffered a physical attack/assault. She's also, notably, not coughing....

For reference, below are Byakuya's bludgeoned panels because we have a lot of parallels between her deathbed request and Byakuya's confession to Rukia:

To be fair, Byakuya's blanket and pad aren't bloody either, but his captain's coat sure is, and, goodness, is he sweaty! Although, perhaps Byakuya's memory of Hisana strips away the gory and gruesome bits (e.g., blood, sweat, coughing, gasping, gurgling death rattles, anguished groaning, etc.) since... well... no one actually dies pretty.

Based on the manga retelling of Hisana's expiration, the cause of death was... literally anything. Okay, I kid. I kid.

Sort of.

Maybe her COD wasn't literally anything. She was at least in a bed ready for death and had enough time to call upon her husband. (Although, so is Byakuya here, and he was stabbed like thirty minutes ago and is giving similar sorts of vibes to poor Rukia.) My guess is that whatever Hisana had, she succumbed to it over a period of time, which rules out causes of death that come fast, but a lot of deaths aren't immediate (unfortunately). Maybe she sustained internal injuries that took her, which would parallel nicely with Byakuya in these panels. Maybe she had "beautiful wife consumption," which is an oldie goldie trope for doomed lovers. Maybe she had whatever soul flu or illness afflicted Byakuya's dad. Maybe she had some sort of soul cancer. If you're doing the math (or a version of the math since time in Bleach is wobbly), Byakuya and Hisana married a year or so after WWII. It's not a pleasant thought, but cancer (leukemia and solid) rates went up five+ years later for obvious reasons, and perhaps this is an abstract/unconscious nod to that of sorts.

But, who can say??? Not me, that's for damn sure!

From a practical story-telling perspective, I imagine that KT leaves a lot of wiggle room around this period to avoid caging himself in for whatever reveal he had/has in store regarding Rukia's backstory/heritage/why Urahara picked her to put the orb into/etc.

[grlmsgrotto]

Urgent D0nation post

TLDR; Our water heater is broken beyond repair and we were scammed out of 700 euros for it. we need 310 to repair the damage done and the heater, gas intake and filter for our water intake. We currently can't use the water as it's started to give a strong bleachy and chlorine like smell and taste and we fear for our health if we were to use it to wash ourselves or use it for cooking.

You can donate HERE , Twitter thread HERE

more info below.

Hi, my name is grim, i'm a disabled artist that's trying to gather money to fix my water heater and water filter. our building is really old and i mean, OLD.

to the point a lot of the house's repairs have come from our pocket because it was starting to fall on us. things from lightbulbs blowing up to literally having a ceiling fan fall on me because the wires were so old they literally crumbled off along the rust on the screws being so bad it added to it, so you get an idea.

we still somehow get by okay most of the time! but this time..

we were scammed by an 'installer' to set our water heater as the previous one was so old it literally too, just busted. so this person installed one and we were charged 700 euros. the man not only was extremely anxious the entire time but hasty, too hasty. we thought he was in a rush and payed no mind but things started to go weird when he had nothing to give us a receipt or a number to call him if the heater gave us any issues. we let him go thinking it was just someone that was tight on schedule but to our demise, the heater was not only faulty, it was broken. yes it worked for the first two months! but then it started to fail. we thought it was just the building's old crap as always but no, this week it literally busted off the wall because the internal pressure caused it to bust open. it spilled the internals from the bottom and the front pannel literally came off with the loudest bang i've heard.

We're two heavily disabled people with no income living in this house and the cold water along the fact it's not safe to drink or use is doing a number on us. if you could please share or donate, it'd mean a lot. thank you for taking the time to read, it means a lot.

[m0rceauuuxxx]

splashed on an unlabeled perfume decant this morning so I genuinely have no idea what I’m wearing. It faded pretty quickly (although that could be my clogged sinuses talking) but the initial scent was clean, almost bleachy. Starched

[seasunandstar]

The Idea of Housework

-- Dorianne Laux

What good does it do anyone to have a drawer full of clean knives, the tines of tiny pitchforks gleaming in plastic bins, your face reflected eight times over in the oval bowls of spoons? What does it matter that the bathmat’s scrubbed free of mold, the door mat swept clear of leaves, the screen door picked clean of bees’ wings, wasps’ dumbstruck bodies, the thoraxes of flies and moths, high corners broomed of spider webs, flowered sheets folded and sealed in drawers, blankets shaken so sleep’s duff and fuzz, dead skin flakes, lost strands of hair flicker down on the cut grass? Who cares if breadcrumbs collect on the countertop, if photographs of the ones you love go gray with dust, if milk jugs pile up, unreturned, on the back porch near the old dog’s dish encrusted with puppy chow? Oh to rub the windows with vinegar, the trees behind them revealing their true colors. Oh the bleachy, waxy, soapy perfume of spring. Why should the things of this world shine so? Tell me if you know.

[david-watts]

do you ever just throw up out of anger 

[callabang]

Fic Rec: 2021 (Flyers) Favs

this year I read eight million words of hockey fic (not a joke); here are some of my favorites

before we start — if, this year, you have written, commented, kudos’d, bookmarked, beta’d, fic-chatted, brainstormed, outlined, edited, sketched, compiled, created, or said something kind: you are a part of this community and we are better off for having you here! fandom is about sharing the things you love with your friends, and i’m happy we got to spend a little bit of this weird fucked-up year doing just that

as for this little slice of fannish activity: these are a few of my favorite flyers fics posted in 2021, representing a tiny sliver of all the incredible fics i read and loved. if you have favorites of your own, i’d love to hear about them :)

and now, without further ado, in roughly chronological order:

unchained melody | Stromesquad | tk/nolan

Every day of Nolan’s life is the same. She married her high school sweetheart when she was twenty-one years old after he graduated college. Her only variation is which rooms she cleans, vacuuming and dusting the living room and bedrooms on Mondays and Wednesdays and cleaning the bathroom and kitchen on Tuesdays and Thursdays. She goes to church on Sundays, where she sits quietly in her pew and prays for even just a little excitement.

notes: this is such a lovely and atmospheric period piece. it captures the monotony of nolan’s life and the thrill of tk’s introduction into it so exquisitely. a gorgeous and sweeping f/f historical romance!

gonna put a spell on you | whitchbhitch | tk/nolan

Travis thinks that people would be surprised at just how many curses get hurled at hockey players.

notes: in a fic featuring inventive magic and a not-insignificant amount of very hot kinky sex, i love this one for the caretaking and emotion that’s so evident throughout the whole story

i think i’ve seen this film before | okaynowkiss | tk/nolan

It’s fine if they’re going to do whatever it is they’re doing. Or, it’s a bad idea, but Patty can’t stop himself. It’s just that somehow he doesn’t want to make it, like, part of their friendship. Being friends with TK is actually pretty cool and important to him. It’s not about hockey and it’s not about sex, it’s its own thing, and if it got messed up he would fucking hate that.

notes: pining and tension and subtle miscommunication, nevertheless suffused with so much warmth and emotion that this will be a comfort-read forever

occupying space | toxica939 | tk/nolan

There’s orange juice in his stupid goatee. He’d get Nolan’s face wet if he kissed him right now, probably feel cold and scratchy against Nolan’s chin, smell like sour sweat if he got his arms up around Nolan’s shoulders, a little bleachy still, probably, from the load Nolan pumped into the terrible little patch of chest hair between his nipples last night. He’s disgusting.

Nolan loves him.

The thought’s like a bruise. Something better left to poke at later, press down on, see if it hurts.

notes: this fic is sweet and intimate, but my favorite element is some really compelling nolan characterization and the way that it shapes his interactions with tk

give no fucks when i'm with you | jamiemoriartys | scott/raff

“Old man,” Scott grins. “Should’ve stayed in Austria.”

“But Scotty,” Raff pouts, “then who would’ve kept you straight?”

“That’s not the idiom,” Scott says, thinks Raff meant keeping him honest. But it doesn’t matter, because Scott’s neither honest nor straight, and Raff’s really not helping with either, at all. As an afterthought, he adds, “And you’re not doing that, anyway.”

notes: this one is SUCH a sweet and fun take on fond negging and romance and the nobody-knows-they’re-dating trope, it definitely informs my own little mental map of what this pairing looks like

the birds keep time with the pines up yonder | notthequiettype | tk/nolan

Letters exchanged.

notes: this is a teeny tiny little historical epistolary fic that packs a huge and masterful wallop, both in terms of immersion in the setting and immersion in their relationship

cult classic | vinemaple | jake/joel

The circles under Joel’s eyes aren’t provided by the special effects department, he just literally hasn’t slept in twenty hours.

notes: this fic manages to pack so much incredible characterization into a relatively short but wildly compelling au; every line contains a new and perfect detail, and it builds to a punchy and precarious end

a change in net assets | revanchists | carter/joel

A lot of questions are jockeying at the front of his brain, like why am I here, and why are you here, and why are we both twenty pounds lighter than we should be, and whose place is this, and did we both sleep in that bed last night, and what the actual hell is happening.

Or, Joel wakes up in a parallel universe, where he graduated college, doesn't play hockey, co-owns a dog, and, oh yeah: he's dating Carter Hart.

notes: this fic has a great blend of domesticity and surreality that i adore, with tons of sharp and funny lines and a determined ending. i love a joel who jumps in headfirst

always something there to remind me | smudgedfreckles | scott/raff

Scott goes to put the rock on his dresser and wonders if it’s weird that he’s accumulated a little pile of—trinkets, really, that Raff’s given him, like some weird magpie. Hat, zoo tickets, arcade cat, museum token, chopstick wrapper.

 And this rock.

Raff keeps giving them to him, though, so in that case they’re both weird and Scott still doesn’t know what it all means

notes: this is a vignette-style fic that gives us a beautiful, romantic look into scott and raff’s relationship while also luxuriating in the place-specific details of philadelphia! intimate and domestic in a really lovely way

tangled webs we weave | Mellow_Yellow | carter/joel

“Take it easy, Carter,” Joel said, nodding at Carter’s name on his facility badge.

Carter found himself watching until Joel left through the opposite exit, his sloping gate carrying him out and into the hallway.

Bemused, Carter turned back to his work.

“That guy was weird,” he said to his whip spider.

notes: this author has such a gift for writing interiority, and i love the wry, head-on descriptions of carter’s feelings and actions. carter reads as neurodivergent in a way that i find super compelling, and joel in this is a funky little sweetheart whom i adore 

keep the car running | Springsteen | tk/nolan

When an injury suddenly ends TK's season and then his career, Nolan isn't really surprised that they drift apart. What does surprise him is TK showing up on Nolan's doorstep one morning, months later, with an old car and his familiar crooked smile. From there, it's incredibly easy to pick their friendship right back up from where they left off. The thing is, Nolan might be looking for something more than friendship with TK.

notes: i really loved this hopeful portrayal of a career-ending injury, which proceeds with such sweet gentleness. the story builds so beautifully and naturally and also contains some moments that are just pure delight and humor

stuck with me now | gareth | carter/nick

he thing is: while Carter wasn’t intending to break the Guild’s code, intent doesn’t matter with that kind of a betrayal. It’s the kind of thing you can’t undo. He’s always had to sleep with one eye open—to be a Mandalorian is to be the hunter and prey—and it’s like that.  Just in greater magnitudes. The future was always going to be this way: surviving, until he isn’t.

Or: Carter's a Mandalorian hunter.  Nick's an ex-Republic shock trooper turned mercenary.  They're both after the same bounty.  Unstoppable force 4 immovable object.

notes: i knew nothing about the mandalorian going into this, but this fic swept me up regardless. the author achieves a perfect blend of worldbuilding and fast-paced action, while also infusing the whole thing with rising and inescapable emotion that comes to an incredibly fulfilling climax

til the gravity's too much | pinknovembers | tk/nolan

Nolan has a sleepwalking problem that's not so much a sleepwalking problem as it is a psychic problem. TK's nosy about it, but he thinks he's allowed to be since it's his house that Nolan keeps showing up at.

notes: this fic strikes such a great balance between mystery/suspense and emotion. the dimensionality and complexity of the characters is really moving, and it’s so rewarding to see nolan’s growth over the course of the narrative

þæt wæs god hláford | chevalric | joel/tk, tk/nolan

It's pretty hard to do your best when no one really seems to want you to. Even for Joel "Best Tryer" Farabee.

notes: i always really love fics about kneeling and mentorship and power dynamics, and this one is a particularly heart-rending story about learning to ask for help and learning to be okay! i love joel’s meandering internal monologue and the way warmth and care suffuses this story

tie a knot in your lifeline, wrap it around mine | thesedangers | carter/ivan

A gravedigger and a prince find their way home.

notes: this is such a gripping and exciting fantasy fic, with really inventive worldbuilding and some of my favorite found family elements. a fully-realized and perfectly-executed genre fic with a real hero’s journey at its center

at rising tide | hackysack | tk/nolan

The loss of the sailboat may be forgiven, but Nolan will be suffering the indignity of falling into the Mediterranean Sea for many years to come.

notes: this is a gorgeous impressionist painting of a period fic, with dreamy descriptions and a depth of tenderness and humor that feels like sinking into the warm sea.

Dead reckoning | murkya | tk/nolan

Patty came over after lunch, one eye hecticly red and his jaw occasionally grinding about as if something was wound too tight inside and he was stuck on trying to work it free.

notes: this is a real and resonant fic where you can feel how well the characters know each other even as they navigate something new and unfamiliar. the narration of tk’s inner machinery is articulated with such perceptiveness and precision, and it makes the moments of humor shine even brighter

[trashcankitty12]

Tag Game 

Tagged by: @darkpoisonouslove

(I have no idea about the rules for this, so I’m just winging it.)

If I were a month, I’d be: I love summer months for the weather, but I’m going to definitely say April. One, it’s my birth month. Two, much like April, I have very pretty weather days and very stormy/tornado risk weather days.

If I were a flower, I’d be: a daisy. Simple, but cute.

If I were an album, I’d be: Evermore by Taylor Swift. Full of yearning. (Mostly gay yearning, but since she’s not gay, it’s just yearning in general.)

If I were a mineral, I’d be: Minerals? I’m honestly not sure... Is a diamond a mineral? That’s my birthstone...

If I were a sound, I’d be: cats meowing loudly for attention/food. (And cats purring themselves to sleep).

If I were a color, I’d be: blue. Just a simple blue. Blue: my comfort color and the color of my favorite teddy bear and my eyes (which are my favorite things about me) and the ocean and the sky.... I just like blue.

If I were a drink, I’d be: Dr Pepper. Because that’s what I drink the most often. Or maybe rum. I like rum. I don’t get to enjoy it as often though... Maybe two or three times a year.

If I were a fruit, I’d be: apples. Or watermelon. I love watermelon so much.

If I were a quote, I’d be:

Either “No legacy is so rich as honesty” or “Though she be but little, she is fierce”. (Both by William Shakespeare.)

If I were a television series, I’d be: I’d like to think that I’m somewhere between Batwoman and Cats 101.

If I were a movie, I’d be: The Aristocats. (Yes I know it’s a problematic movie... But it’s also a comfort movie to me and I’m probably gonna be like Lady Adelaide and leave as much as I can to my cats.)

If I were a fashion brand, I’d be: Walmart? Or something like that? I dunno. I don’t really shop fashion brands. I tend to get clothes from walmart or thrift stores or as hand-me-downs.

If I were a mythological creature, I’d be: some sort of cat creature, I’m sure... Or maybe a dragon with a hoard of books and blankets and cats.

If I were a taste, I’d be: I have no idea... Maybe Dr Pepper taste? Or southern fried chicken? Maybe chocolate?

If I were a scent, I’d be: clean. Like not a strong smell that you can detect or a bleachy smell... But the smell is just like a fresh smell. You know? (Because I can’t use anything with harsh smells/scents because psoriasis and migraines.)

If I were a fabric, I’d be: I’d be a bad Alabama woman if I said anything other than cotton.

If I were a body part, I’d be: eyes. 

If I were a song, I’d be: Um....? Shit there’s so many I could be... But the one that seems to most encompass my life, down to even my first years, it’d be “Little Miss Perfect” by Taylor Louderman and Write Out Loud. Maybe a touch of “Girls Like Girls” by Hayley Kiyoko.

If I were a god(dess), my 4 attributes would be: Justice. Honesty. Protection. Family.

Tagging: @meluisart @magixwitch @everythingpuddle and @electra-jolts-magnetism if you feel like this.

[jackalopes-pen]

Cookies

Look- okay I know how this looks and I know that it’s one am-ish but sometimes people want to lose themselves in imagining a fluffball of a man giving his children cookies when they had a bad day okay? I do not kin Patton, I simply admire from a distance. Okay? Do you understand why this is occuring? Good, now enjoy the one of, if not, the fluffiest thing I have ever wrote.

Logan- Another day of being ignored until the last second when finally they realized he was in the room. It usually didn’t wear down on him too much but today was different. He admittedly made efforts, even raised his hand but to no avail. At least it was over and he could relax into his room’s bed as Thomas has was in his room in the real world. He vaguely heard a knock on the door but didn’t care to answer. He needed a nap, or maybe coffee.

He woke up 30 minutes later to his alarm to remind him that he did have to update his planner to account for the recent shift in schedule due to today’s meeting outcome. He was about to reach over and silence his alarm when his hand fell on a plate. He glanced over to what appeared to be a dark blue plate with a circuit board patterning and a warm cookie with Crofters Jam filling. he was confused until he noticed the hand-written note in light blue marker. The letter described how, presumably Patton, was grateful that Logan was trying his best and that even though he may not always be heard he’s cared for. A small creeped on to Logan’s face as he put down the note and bit into the warm cookie apparently made with love. 

“Thank you, Patton.”

Roman- Of course, bring removed form the coveted status of hero certainly bruised more than just his pride. At the moment he was at his desk still vigorously writing out his ideas for new TikTok sketches when his eyelids began to feel heavier than his sword and shield after a long battle. He knew he had to earn back his worth but perhaps his beautifully crafted four-poster bed with silk sheets and the fluffiest pillows he could imagine would be a nice change of sitting arrangement. He changed into his comfiest pajamas and slipped under the covers as he vaguely heard a knock at the door but sleep had already claimed him. 

He growled as he was suddenly awake by his sing bird alarm clock and took note of the wonderfully delicious smell coming from his nightstand. What was that smell exactly? Was it white chocolate and red velvet? He gazed around his room to find a plate with his crest circling the edge and a warm cookie that looked as good as it smelled with a hand-written note. Roman lifted the plate gently to read the note from his favorite padre. It talked about how he was perfect no matter what and that even he wasn't hero he certainly Patton’s. The note almost brought a tear to his eye as he took a bite of the soft yet form cookie and let the chocolate melt in his mouth. 

“Thanks, Padre.” 

Virgil- It was not a god day for Virgil. Not only did that lying snake weasel his way into Thomas’s acceptance but also he had the nerve to reveal his name. Not only that but now that Thomas is having an internal war, Virgil has mountains of work, what feels like daily anxiety attacks, and he has to see that scaley horror every day. He would rather figure how to permanently kill a side then deal this much. Today was even worse though because apparently he’s the villain for having eyes and seeing a snake as a liar. Whatever, he just needed a depression nap and his playlist. He almost heard a knock at the door as he let himself drift into world where he could shoe those two sad excuses for sides what he really thought. 

He had no idea what time it was but it was probably late. He woke up as his playlist was on Black Parade and sniffed something sweet in the air. He didn't remember anyone warning him about Patton baking so he began to panic until he saw a plate sitting barely in view behind the Nightmare Before Christmas pillows and Jack the Skeleton plush. He pushed himself over tot the other side of the bed to see what someone had put there. It was a plate with storm clouds all over it and a Panic! at the Disco logo obscured in the center by a dark purple cookie with black sprinkles on it. Underneath was hand-written letter which Virgil carefully pulled out to read. It talked about how Patton understood that right there was a lot going on but that he could always reach out. It detailed that it was okay to not be okay and that it wasn't a burden to help him. Virgil smiled as he grabbed the cookie and bit into it’s soft sweetness.

“Thanks Dad.”

Janus- Today was probably one of the worst days he’d ever had the pleasure of experiencing. Rivalries were normal and that’s fine but it’s not fine to go that far below the belt. Janus was angry pacing his room trying to talk himself out of murder and failing miserably. It was just too much at the moment. Knives were always pointed vaguely in his direction not right at his throat. It always seemed like physical appearance was the problem here even though they know shapeshifting is an option but it’s also not an option- what do they want out of him?! Eventually he landed on the idea that he may as well just sleep it off and sharpen a knife when he woke up. He crept into bed after changing into something comfy and warm, turned on his heat lamp and descended into sleep as he almost heard a knock. 

He woke up to an unfamiliar sweetness filling the air of his room. It was sugary sweet and rather enticing but for all he knew Remus could’ve gotten bored again and done something dangerous. This time, to his surprise, there was a plate on his nightstand. His glanced over at the scaley pattern along the plate that only stopped at the sunflower in the center. There was a yellow cookie with dark chocolate chips layed intricately on the baked good. He noted a small written letter under it and decided it would be rude not to read the note first. It talked about how the sides were still warming up him and that eventually everything would be normal. The letter also noted that it was brave of him to let down a wall for them and that it is okay to be vulnerable. Janus let a real smile cross his face as he began to enjoy the sugary treasure.

“My thanks, Patton.”

Remus ( yes really ) - It took quite a lot to throw Remus into a full on frustrated rage. Somehow, today managed to do that. He understood he wasn’t the most likeable aise among the seven six of them. Even so, did they really have to pull the evil twin card and the unstable card? It was like playing strip poker in the middle of a blizzard, it’s not fair! He was trying his best just like any other side so why do you appreciate precious little Roman and leave Remus’s corpse for the dogs to eat? In fairness the biting would be kinda nice but that’s besides the point. Maybe a nice long murder fantasy would get him back to something more tolerable. He changed into a crop top and booty short and threw himself in the general direction of the bed before passing out. 

He woke up and immediately fell off the bed which he was barely even on in the first place. What a great way to resume his 24 hours. As he picked himself up he smelled something sweet but also a little bleachy. He looked around before his eyes landed on a plate covered in tentacles with his logo in the center. He sniffed it before noticing the note. He picked it up almost spilling the plate and read the written note. It said all these things about how even though he was a little strange he was still loved. He was still creativity just a different kind and that should be respected. He gave a toothy smile as the note informed his that this dark green cookie was made with expired ingredients, mildly burned, and had bleach for flavor. He nommed on the cookie with delight as the disgusting taste filled mouth.

“Thanks, Daddy~”

________________________________________________________________

Additional: Patton knew his kiddos pretty well and he knew that today was one of the not-so-good days. He always liked to calm down with a cookie so he may as well treat the others! It took an hour or maybe two to bake all the different cookies and write all the notes. It was certainly nice to see his kiddoes sleep peacefully on or half-on the bed. Knew they would, now he made them all he needed was for them to be happy. He certainly didn’t expect letters back. A small white envelope with Logan written dark blue, a parchment esk envelope with a red wax seal and Roman written in red ink, a mangy ink splattered letter with Virgil written in Tim Burton font, a yellowed envelope with Janus in careful yellow cursive, and a torn and bitten letter with Remus made out of letters from articles and newspapers. Each one talked about how kind the gesture was and how much they each appreciated it, with some more sappy than others. His favorite thing though was they all ended by saying thank you in their own way. It was all a dad could ask for.

[pbandjesse]

I am tired. I dont know why I have barely been able to sleep this week but it is really making it hard to function. Like I am dreading having to wake up tomorrow and go to work. Sucks. 

Today was a lot. It wasnt like as bad as yesterday. But I was just really tired. At least I didnt sleep through my alarm and didnt have all that stress on top of the tired. James was feeling off today too. He stayed in bed and I got ready to head to work. 

The car was all frosty and we still dont have an ice scraper. We had one last year. No idea how we lost it. So I had to sit in the car while it warmed up. Let me just find some music to wake myself up. 

Some of my kids that have been gone were back today. So that was nice. But one of my kids was a bit of a monster and hit one of them in the face with a pool noodle so hard he got a bloody nose. And that was a whole thing. I got him cleaned up and went to find some ice but no luck so I wrapped a popsicle in a paper towel and just didnt tell him. And like 20 minutes later he was eating it and we all had a laugh over it. 

I finished some stuff but I was frustrated because my story quilt is going very poorly. I think I have a way to fix it but I tried two differnt things today that went so bad that I was just really upset. I will need to sit down and figure it out this weekend. But I was pretty unhappy with myself. 

But I got my bear earrings up and people were really excited about them!! One pair sold within a half hour and I have another pair on hold. Pretty exciting. I had 4 orders in total today and people told me they were even putting my notifications on so they know when I post and that felt really exciting. People like me! Pretty awesome. 

I had a lot of kids today though and so it got a little loud around lunch. So I took half of them outside so the ones in class could focus. It was nice to be out there. We skateboarded and rode down the hill. I need to bring a wrench to fix the long board as its still to loose. But I am getting better at controlling both boards and I can almost skate on two wheels which is exciting. 

I was glad for the day to be over. I was really tired. Its been really hard being so tired. And I knew James was going to be there when I got home and I was looking forward to that. 

I made it home easy. Only drama was one truck who was being an ass. But I got home and was exhausted. 

James cuddled me on the couch for a little but then ran out to the store. I did some cleaning and packed an order. I had a snack and played animal crossing. I went back to cleaning when I went in our box of cleaning products, a  bottle of bleach cleaner broke and I got bleachy cleaner all over my hands and I have washed them so many times and I still cant get it off!! I am going to take a shower and hopefully that helps. 

But James came home and made me a salad. I shared it with sweetP. And then we played Among Us with friends for an hour. James is still playing. But it was a lot of fun! I was the imposter once and only killed Evan. I dont like being the imposter. But it was fun to do it once. I just like doing my little tasks. 

But I got off and James is still playing. I packed up two more orders. And now I am laying in the studio with sweetP. I am pretty ready to get a shower and go to bed. I really hope I can sleep well tonight. I hope you all sleep good too. 

Have a good day tomorrow! Be safe!

[swellwriting]

LOVER Pt.1

- I Forgot That You Existed -

Bucky x Reader/ The Winter Soldier x Reader

A/N: Welcome to the beginning of this journey, hope you are excited for the rest of the story, please let me know what you think, like/ leave a comment/ reblog and all that stuff it’s really appreciated :))

Word Count: 2.7k      Series Masterlist   Part 2

Warnings: Just violence for this chapter.

Hydra had fallen and S.H.E.I.L.D had fallen with it, given they were truly one and the same in the end. But just because the secret was out, it did not mean that Hydra had gone extinct. They thrived working in the shadows and casting new light just made more shadows in new places for them to hide. Like rats they scurry from one safe place to another, making new hidden bases, moving back and rebuilding old ones. That was their dumbest tactic.

On their tails, they had the Avengers chasing them, and the Avengers weren’t easy to hide from since they seemed to be growing in numbers every day.

To make matters worse for them, because you just loved to make things worse for the organization that ruined your life and stole it from you in more ways than you could count, they had you, their very own prized “Asset Number 2” who was living just to continue to kill them all. You wouldn’t stop until you could safely say that Hydra was a thing of the past.

And any new organizations like Hydra that came up, you would put their fire out before they could burn someone else as they did to you, as they did to him.

You would search for intel, scan digital global maps, return to old bases trying to find where the disease of Hydra had spread to next. Hydra was right to call themselves by this name, Lerneaen Hydra being the type of monster that when you cut one head off, two more would grow in its place. It was tiring chasing after the “heads” but what else was their really to do with your life, with your abilities, work in a small town diner? Not a chance.

You consider for a moment what it would be like, serving drinks with a cherry fake smile, winking at men that made your stomach curl for an extra tip, and then bringing them out back and slitting their throats for trying to put a hand up your short uniform skirt? It would just never work out.

The explosive device you had set on the door goes off, blowing your hair back and spreading a bit of heat against your cheeks.

“That was a close one.” You thought aloud, feeling your face to make sure your eyebrows were still there. You had been looking into this specific base for a long time, you were tired of trying to figure out passwords and lock codes so you did a small heist of the local police department armoury and decided the loud and proud approach was more your style today. The alarms blared like music to your ears.

“That’s right, panic, scurry around like rats, grab a weapon, it won’t help you.” You say in a sing-song voice, purely for your own amusement, it had been a long while since you had had a partner to joke with.

You grab your .44 magnum revolver from your thigh holster, lean up against the wall and listen for nearing footsteps around the corner, you check and make sure you have all nine bullets loaded and when you hear the tip tap of the scurrying rats you duck down and peer around the corner, shooting upward as the men run towards you in blind panic. There were six of them, you counted each one as you put a bullet in their heads, even as they realized you were there and went to turn and run you were too fast.

You took a moment to admire your work because hell if you didn’t who else would?

The men wore bleachy white lab coats now stained in their own dark blood, “damn lab rats,” you say with a spite filled yet satisfied grunt as you spit on their bodies.

You look down the hallway, no one else seems to be there but you know better than to waltz down there with only three bullets left. You grab a grenade off your hip, pull the pin and hold it to your lips as you count to three before dramatically rolling it down the long hallway like a bowling ball until it hits the door at the end and stops.

You hear men begin to yell “grenade” but your timing’s too perfect, they don’t even finish the word before their lips are probably blown right off their faces.

“Strike!” You congratulate your self as you slowly stride down the hallway, a swagger to your step. Fuck a diner, this was what you were good at. You excelled at this.

One of the men wasn’t quite dead, you walk up to him, stick the heel of your boot into his chest where the skin is torn open and then kiss the blade of your knife before pushing it through his heart. You fake a frown as you watch the light leave his eyes.

“Awe just a spare, you ruined my streak!”

As if human lives were equivalent to bowling pins, but in your mind, the lives of Hydra officers were lower, even lower than an inanimate object, but can anyone blame you, they treated you the same way.

You skip down the hallway, twirling your knife in your hands until you think you hear a noise, holstering your knife you grab your prized AP4 gun off your back and hold it up to your line of sight, tired of the dramatics and wanting to see Hydra blood splattered on the walls of their underground steel hell box.

You find nothing and no one as you kick the door to the lab open.

In total there were only a few lab rats and couple meek soldier mice? Hydra must be feeling the pressure you’ve been putting on them lately, good.

You plug in your USB and start the download of all their files, this will help you figure out what Hydra’s up to and where their other basses might be.

You hear a noise down the hall, one expertly quiet footstep that only a super-soldier would notice, you should have checked the surroundings before you left your back so open, someone comes in and you raise your gun at them about to yell at them to drop their weapon, until you realize you are being held up by a man with a bow and arrow.

You laugh for a moment, he shoots an arrow as you lower your gun and you catch it, breaking it in half thanks to your super-soldier strength and laugh. Your laugh fades to shock when someone walks in beside him, his gun is covering part of his face but you recognize that metal arm, that messy hair that needs to be trimmed, his face as he lowers the gun a bit to look at you.

“Winter?” You ask, losing all of your focus as your mind panics and before you realize the stupid arrow guy shot again, right into your stomach, it feels like a sharp pain, it goes straight up your spine and into your head making your vision go blank and your stomach ache. You’re lying on the ground, when did you fall?

“Fuck,” you say but it comes out so quiet and you feel so weak, you squeeze your fingers to stay awake, to focus but something is wrong, something is so very wrong.

You hear faint footsteps.

“Someone already cleared out this base, I’m assuming it’s our gal there that you shot in the stomach without thinking.” Says a voice you swear sounds like Tony Stark, or at least how he sounds on tv.

“She was pointing a gun at me!” Clint defends and Bucky chuckles as he walks over to you, you’re alive and struggling on the floor, like an animal, helpless and visibly angry about it as you grab at your stomach.

“She’s not dead,” Bucky confirms as he grabs your hand, but he doesn’t look at you like he knows who you are, he doesn’t look sad to see you dying on the floor. And as the pain fills your body, as your head pounds against your skull, your eyes water, your mouth tastes tangy like metal you realize he has no idea who you are, your eyes go wide as you desperately try to speak to him, but you spit up blood which horrifies him.

“Impossible, I’m using those arrows you made me Tony, you said instant kill, that doesn’t look instant.”

“They are poison coated, Legolas, the poison should kill any normal person within seconds, seems our gal here is both a badass Hydra killer and a special enhanced. Barnes bring her on the jet, let’s nuke this joint.”

Clint instantly feels bad as he watches Bucky carry you away, how was he supposed to know you had killed those guys in the hallway, he came in after Nat and Cap who went into a different room, so he just assumed they had taken care of them. He looks at the small pool of blood you left behind on the ground and then grabs your USB, putting it in his pocket and hoping he can give it to you later.

You are only partially conscious, conscious enough to hear and to feel the pain circling your body but that’s about it.

You feel them lay you down and then strap you in, a safety measure, perhaps to keep you in place, or more for their own safety, you aren’t sure. You blackout from the pain, only waking up sometime later, you aren’t sure where or how long it’s been but the room is bright white, it’s filled with fancy technology on the walls and a nurse looks you in the eyes and then scurries away to get the others.

You blink a few times, sit up even though it sends shooting pain up your spine and to your toes, your brain feels numb, they must be heavily medicating you, and to achieve that they must know about your…abilities.

“We go into lots of Hydra bunkers, it’s not rare to find specially enhanced soldiers there, or traces of their past existence, but it is rare to find one who seems to be doing exactly what we were,” Tony says as the room quickly fills with various curious Avengers

“Do you usually shoot at them too?” You ask.

“No.” Tony answers easily while Wanda answers simultaniously, “yes.”

Tony looks at her, raises a playfull brow which gets him a shoulder shrug in return, and then turns back to you.

“Lets cut to the chase, you’re special. Another Super soldier by the looks of it,” he says as he flips through your lab results.

“I’m the same as Winter, same make, different model.” You joke as you gesture to your body.

“Winter?” Steve asks confused.

“Yeah, Winter, he is the only reason I even got shot, he broke my focus. I’ll never be killed by a dude with a damn bow and arrow.” You counter thinking that somehow answers who Winter is.

“Who is Winter?” Tony says, asking you again.

“How do you not know who he is? He was with you, in the base, on that jet. I saw him and blanked. The Winter Soldier, I’m exactly like him, he helped them create me, I am a copy of him.”

“Let me guess your name is Summer right?” Tony jokes.

“Spring, actually. Hydra is really creative, luckily they maxed out at two of us and didn’t run out of seasons.”

Tony chuckles at the nickname and speaks up, “FRIDAY, call Barnes to the medical ward.”

Then you just wait, still confused still in pain as the love of your life walks through the door.

“You didn’t tell us you knew our almost casualty here?” Tony asks and Steve listens intently, never having heard of “Spring” before now.

“I don’t?” He answers and your heart drops. You were right, your hunch from the way he looked at you before was right, it wasn’t that he moved on and didn’t care, it’s that he completely forgot, he has no idea who you are.

The Avengers, or at least the ones in the room, Steve, Tony, Clint, Sam, Wanda and Bucky, all stare at you with looks of confusion and some filled with accusation.

“So your story doesn’t work,” Sam suggests, instantly not trusting you, not that the others trust you any more than he does.

“It’s not a story, or an excuse it’s the truth. I was The Spring Soldier, Asset number 2, I was created by Hydra, I was the only person they found who could survive the half-assed knock off serum they created and used on Winter first. I was trained by Winter, he was my partner, my lover.” You say the last part quietly and they pretend not to notice as you look at your hands.

“You just don’t remember me, it’s happened before,” you finish.

“I thought you got all your memories back Buck?” Steve asks.

Clint chimes in, “How do you even know if you remember everything you…forgot,” but no one pays attention to him.

“I do,” Bucky assures himself aloud.

“I forgot you existed once too, and I’ve dealt with you forgetting me before too. After you left Hydra I couldn’t find you anywhere for years, they said you went chasing after some old friend, they couldn’t find you either.

I heard that you joined the Avengers and there were all these trials in the news and it seemed like you had moved on and I was tired of chasing after you so I thought it was my turn to forget, I begged a lower officer to perform the procedure, I thought to forget you would be hard, painful. I thought that it would kill me, but it didn’t. It wasn’t long before the memories rushed back. You should remember me too by now. What all do you remember, about the past?” You spill your guts, quickly running over your past skipping some of the darker moments. You ask the question as calm and collected as you can, masking the heartbreak as you search for answers.

“I remember Hydra, I remember the war and I remember Steve but not you,” he says so flatly like he isn’t bothered. As if he isn’t even trying to rack his brain for memories of you.

And he looks at you in this way that breaks your heart, behind his eyes there isn’t love, there isn’t hate, just indifference.

And it hurts because you want him back so badly but he doesn’t seem to care. As painful as the past is you crave it at this moment. Life with Winter was hectic and hard but it was worth it to be with him, this peaceful and quietness that lingered without him, without being part of Hydra was deadly. And then he had to twist the knife.

“I remember everyone I’ve ever killed, I remember everything the soldier did but I am not him.”

“Yes, you are!” You say raising your voice a little, like a wounded animal backed up against the wall.

“No, I’m not.” He says and he doesn’t yell but he says it like he’s so sure of himself and it hurts, a blow to the heart as if he’s stomping on the memories as if he’s ripping up pictures in your face. And he isn’t saying the words out loud, he’s not saying he doesn’t love you, but he might as well be.

As Bucky leaves the room in a rush the team gives you a new mix of looks. Tony looks at you as if you’re a new project, something begging to be fixed. Clint looks guilty and confused. Sam and Steve are both defensive, they had spent so long helping Bucky move on from his past, helping him believe he wasn’t the same person, that it wasn’t his fault and here you come, ruining that idea.

Wanda looked neutral, like she sort of felt bad for you but also didn’t trust you either.

The love of your life just walked out the door, leaving you behind like dust without a second thought, for what felt like the hundredth time, and you were stuck in a room of strangers who were all silently judging you and making their own opinions on you.

To make it worse you were handcuffed and strapped to this damn hospital bed. You had to get Winter or Bucky to remember you and you had to get the entirety of the Avengers to trust you and believe you aren’t a threat. What a fucking nightmare.

Part 2

Tag List: @finnofamerica @theseuscmander @fortisfiliae @theboywhocriedlupin @draqcnheartstrinq @carolinesbookworld 

Let me know if you would like to be tagged, this series is getting its own special taglist since I discontinued all my other ones.

[muses-with-afp]

In terms of weird-o Bleachy thoughts that rampage through my mind at various times, there is always this page from the TBTP arc:

And while this is a banger of a page in an arc full of them, my goober mind mostly telescopes in on this one panel:

Am I not supposed to wonder at this panel? Because here I am on a Friday wondering. More specifically, I am wondering: What am I supposed to take away here? And, what is it that I do actually take away here (today at least)?

As usual, I'll start by describing it because you have to start somewhere, I guess. This scene is a mostly pointless aside to the story, since I don't think we learn anything super substantive, plot-wise. What we do learn is that Byakuya is what passes for a "teenager" during this period, takes his training and role super seriously, and Yoruichi tortures plays with him on occasion.

The panel that draws my eye, however, seems to be communicating a few things at once: One, Byakuya realizes he has a guest. Two, that guest is Yoruichi. And three, Yoruichi greets young Byakuya tits out, which provides some color as to the nature of their relationship. I don't think either points two or three are revelations to the audience. Is anyone shocked the guest is Yoruichi? No, we've already spent some time with her in this arc and know she's definitely around. Also, is anyone really shocked that she and Byakuya have a teasing quasi-sibling relationship? Again, no, we've probably gathered as much since at least the SS arc.

For me, then, it's point one that scratches at the ole brain pan. What I am to make of Byakuya realizing he has a guest? Does he often receive guests at House Kuchiki? My guess is no. He looks sort of curious. The art isn't giving, say, razzle-dazzle anticipation, either (i.e., in that he is really keen on the guest being someone specific). I suppose you could squint really hard and say he might be hopeful as to who could be calling on him, but more in a diffuse "someone took time out of their day to see me" sort of way and less of a heart-skipping prayer that the guest is XYZ, who he's been dying to see again for ages.

I think this latter interpretation might be closer to the truth once the scene continues, and Byakuya goes from, "A guest for little ole me?" to this:

Which is just the zany shit I love to see from my Bleach characters. To be perfectly honest, I think Kubo does a pretty good job at nailing teenagers in all their ridiculous reaction formations and exaggerated responses to things (I say lovingly). However, I think that his relative curiosity ("A guest?") turned immediately to, "GO AWAY, YOU," could be read as he may have been excited or hopeful to receive a guest, one who is not Yoruichi. And, his overblown reaction to Yoruichi likely betrays the fact that even though she's a pain in his ass, he's pretty happy to see her.

So, what to make of all that. Well... perhaps we're supposed to take home the idea that perhaps Byakuya is isolated, even now. We get a hint of that at the very beginning of the scene:

Here, Ginrei (Byakuya's grandfather) notes that he is staying at the manor rather than the barracks, which implies that at least one close family member doesn't always come home. Given that Byakuya's father is the Vice Captain of Squad Six, it's likely his father has a similar schedule (i.e., periods of absence from the home where Byakuya lives). Combined with Byakuya's curiosity at receiving a guest and subsequent deflation at who that guest winds up being, perhaps we are supposed to understand that he's pretty lonely.

Now, before someone accuses me of going easy on Byakuya, I definitely think some of that loneliness is of his own making, given what a cocky brat he is to Yoruichi in these panels, a perspective that gets echoed by Kaien shortly afterward:

But, being a cocky brat is sort of a thing teens do on occasion. And, not having a lot of people to socialize with probably doesn't help with beating that quality out of someone learning how to behave appropriately.

Given how this arc shakes out in the end--with Yoruichi going into hiding to help a friend--the potential people left to call upon Byakuya dwindles further. Then, after his dad dies an unspecified amount of time later, it dwindles further still.

And so, on that thought, I end this post. Because what's Bleach without a little tragedy coupled with humor? (My personal favorite variety of Bleach.)

[breadcaaat]

part five

part five

Jeongguk x hybrid!reader

| part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six

Words: 5.4k

Genre: action, fluff, angst, violence... eventual smut

Warnings: buckets o’ blood, more nudity, foul language, discussion of human trafficking 

Jeongguk was on his knees, face mask and headband on, fat yellow sponge in hand, surrounded by rosy suds. He already knew he’d be throwing these clothes out at the end of the day. That was fine. He could buy new ones, especially now that he was financially set for the next few years.

Yes. You read that right.

On Y/N’s flight from the auction center, she’d crawled out a vent she had hid in to escape the guarddogs and dropped into an office, where a woman had been running cash through a money counter. One choke to unconsciousness later, and she’d packed away a full cargo of pure, fat, dirty cash from the sales that night into the backpack Jeongguk had spotted on the floor earlier.

“We can’t use this,” he’d said.

“Why not?”

“Because people were sold to make this money.”

“Not people; person, singular. About one moderately-priced hybrid.” 

Jeongguk looked at her uneasily. 

“Aish,” she muttered, “ - doesn’t matter. Think of it this way: we’re keeping their sellers from making profit and supporting one - ” she’d pointed at herself “ - of their products. Consider it ironic. And you can finally quit that job at the moving company.”

He still wasn’t sure where he stood on that topic, but for now his focus was simple. Leave no trace. 

There was blood on the tile (thankfully no more than a few spots on the carpet) but it hadn't dried yet and so was relatively easy to mop up. His biggest concern wasn’t the staining, though. Y/N had told him that most all these hybrid crime centers had guarddogs: dog hybrids with sharp noses that made sure nothing unauthorized left any of the sites alive. His tiger girl had left a big, fat, smelly trail leading down the streets, up the walls of his building, and straight into his apartment through the balcony, so if they had any chance of remaining undiscovered they needed to blast any and all traces of smelliness to the fucking exosphere.

So, while he scrubbed away, she ran to a convenience store (clean, not covered in blood anymore, with her hood up and some sunglasses on) with a fresh wad of cash to buy four big jugs of bleach.

By the time she returned, he was already packing away all the towels and the sponge he’d used to mop everything up into a trash bag. They worked quietly, efficiently. Next, the bleach.

His most immediate concern was the apartment and any smelliness that lingered about it, so he as he bleached down their living space, she climbed down the piping she’d clambered up in the first place and bleached away all traces of blood and any previous scent-markings. (She’d pouted a little at this, knowing it was necessary but mourning the loss.) They decided to work on the alley together.

It was about five o’clock - an hour and a half later - when she deemed the apartment sufficiently un-smelly, so Jeongguk packed up the trash bag with all the unsalvageable, bloody materials and packed it down to the alley.

Halfway down the first flight of stairs, he sighed and noticed something not totally interesting, but notable. It was fucking late. He’d been up late before, of course, with long work hours and everything, but never this late. Walking down the echoey, concrete stairwell made him feel like the only man on earth and it wasn’t… a bad feeling. He was starting to understand the appeal of late night walks. Maybe he should join her on her next one.

When he got down there, he could already smell the bleach. She’d uncapped a jug and was currently splashing it along the apartment-side wall, getting rid of any blood-smells or previous scent marks. He caught her attention by setting the bag near the dumpster and scooping up a jug for himself.

“We’ll have to burn that. I can smell us both on it. Ever lit a trash-fire?” she asked, and he found himself chuckling despite everything.

“Sure, I’ve lit things on fire. Most boys do.”

“Good. Dump it on top of that drain instead.”

He did, and it landed with a thump and a squish, which made his stomach twist a little. “Ew,” he muttered. Y/N handed him a matchbook and pulled out a tube of firestarter.

“It’s going to rain in the morning.” She uncapped the tube and doused the garbage bag.

“When?

“I’d say in the next hour or so.”

He nodded. That saved them from hosing away the bleach. It’d also - presumably - wash away any obvious bleachy or burnt scents left behind by their cleaning.

Finished with the tube, she tossed it on the pile. “Before we light this, I’m gonna clean up my trail back a couple blocks. We still have two and a half jugs and that should be enough.”

“It’d be good to burn the jugs too, is what you’re saying?”

“Exactly. Be right back. Check for any details we missed. The bleach is stinging my nose and I can’t smell anything.”

He nodded, and she lugged off the remaining jugs of bleach to clean the rest of her mess.

🐯

Jeongguk got the honor of flicking the match onto their little trash fire, and it took quickly. Unbidden, a sense of relief flooded him. This should be the last of it. All we do now is wait for the rain.

Y/N sat next to him, stripped down to her skivvies once again. Her clothes were in the pile right now. “They smell like I just cleaned up a crime scene,” she’d told him when he’d asked why she was stripping again. He’d decided to just shrug it away this time. It was alarming how quickly he was becoming desensitized to nudity and blood.

“Have you ever done this before?” he asked. The sounds around them were almost ambient; like a campfire near a road. Except this was an alleyway and the trash fire was lit to destroy evidence. Potato, tomato.

“No. Why?”

“You’re good at it.”

She scoffed incredulously. “I just crawled into your apartment early in the morning covered in blood - which I know makes you nauseous - after having committed three gruesome murders in which I tore two victims open by the rib cage and used their entrails to kill the last one, then also a major robbery of an organized crime syndicate and - ” she tipped her head to look at him, eyes gleaming with the peacock sheen of her cat’s-eye night vision “ - you commend me on how good I am at concealing the evidence?”

He scratched his nose. It did sound a little ridiculous. I’m probably in shock, so. “... Just thought it was clever how you burnt it over the grate so it doesn’t leave any ashes. I wouldn’t have thought to do that.”

She giggled. “You’re the ride or die type, huh?” There was a shuffle as she shifted to lean on him, tucking her head between his shoulder and neck. “I know I’ve put you through a lot of shit - and I’m sorry - but I’m glad it was you in the restaurant, and I’m glad you fell in the river.” She nipped at the column of his neck and he had to remind himself that It’s platonic, she’s part animal, animals nip at each other platonically. “I’d probably be dead of fever in an alleyway had you not taken me in.”

She wrapped her arm around his, and they stared down at the trash fire as it died away, burning away quickly.

“Thank you,” she finished with a murmur.

He didn’t answer, but set his head on top of hers. She chuffed, and a little purr rumbled up through her chest.

🐯

“I’m sorry Mrs. Gim,” Jeongguk rasped “ - but I can’t come in today.” His voice sounded downright pitiful. It might’ve been the fake coughing or the toilet paper stuffed up his nose that had her convinced and already fussing, but that’s not important. Was he actually sick? Absolutely not. Tired? Absolutely.

In order to wake up early enough to make this call and skip on his morning shift he’d had to set NO MORE than eight alarms, each two minutes apart, and really they hadn’t been what’d woken him up; Y/N had by biting his ear with a growl that’d rumbled through his skull, just hard enough to make him yelp.

“ - Should I bring you some soup? You weren’t out in the rain last night, were you? Tell me you didn’t go outside with an umbrella or so help me - ”

Jeongguk latched onto that last bit and faked a nervous laugh.

“Jeongguk,” the woman hissed, and he almost felt sorry for himself.

“I can call in Jaesoo to cover?” he whimpered, and Sunghyun hissed again (Aish! Sure. Stay in bed and don’t leave it.)

A few goodbyes and reassurances to take care of himself later, Jeongguk hung up the phone call, picked out the toilet paper, and flopped back into bed.

“Is Gim’s your only shift today?” Y/N asked.

He grunted a negative, voice rough in the morning-time.

“What else then?”

“Night shift at Gloss. Then I gotta go deposit the money so it can rack up interest, pay off our rent - and that’ll take a couple different accounts, maybe banks.”

“Why not just one?”

“That much cash is suspicious.” He giggled then. “It’ll look like I robbed an organized crime syndicate or something.” She growled and jabbed at his ribs, and he giggled a bit more before quieting down again.

More than anything, he wanted to go back to sleep. The past few weeks compounded upon last night had exhaustion dripping off his every bone and pore, but realistically he knew there were errands he had to run today. Last night’s trash fire wasn’t the end of their clean-up, though it’d felt like it. His sense of caution still flared. There were loose ends that needed clipping.

The money was probably the biggest. With his situation, there was no way he could’ve acquired it in the eyes of the bank without having robbed a place, and revealing Y/N’s existence was out of the question completely. He needed a good excuse. And better clothes.

An idea flickered to life, but he rushed to tamper that flame before he did something impulsive.

It was no secret that Yoongi - his boss and friend - had connections underground. Though Jeongguk hadn’t seen it with his own eyes he knew his hyung had done plenty of gang tattoos, and he was many a kingpin’s go-to. Gloss was not only neutral ground in all the territory-mongering that went on, but also Yoongi’s pseudonym. None of his clients knew his real name and that was for safety. That was the type of crowd he’d been surrounded by since fourteen, when he’d done that first tattoo.

He must’ve learned something through by osmosis through all those - what - eleven years? If Jeongguk confided in him, he could learn how to go about this clean-up neatly.

On the flip-side, Yoongi might also fire him and cut ties. Another safety precaution. He wouldn’t - couldn’t - blame him for it. That was Gloss’s tried and true method for making sure his shop stayed neutral through all the crime and conflict of Seoul’s underground, and he’d kept it up for his whole career.

There was a shuffle in the sheets beside him as Y/N shifted to look at him. She was laying on top of the covers - too hot - and he’d zoned out on her tail as it had curled up and thumped idly on the duvet in a steady rhythm.

“You’re juggling something.” It was an observation, not a question.

“Yeah,” he murmured.

“Penny for your thoughts then?”

“I was just thinking about all I have to do today.” He stared up at the ceiling, hand on his chest and index finger tapping a quiet beat.

“We,” she murmured quietly, and he smiled.

“I don’t know if you can help me in what I have to do. It’s all legal and money stuff. I’m just trying to figure out where to start, I guess.” They were silent for a moment as he debated telling her about Yoongi.

Well, what’s the harm, huh? “I know someone that might be able to help us. Just, advice-wise.”

She hummed and fluffed her pillow. “Tell me about him then.”

“His name’s Yoongi, but at the shop he’s called Gloss.”

“You work there, right?”

“Yeah. He’s pretty much run the place since he was a kid. Dropped out of high school to do it. Since he wasn’t trained professionally his tattoo operation is underground and I mean, the guy’s been tattooing gangsters since forever. He must know something, you know?”

She nodded thoughtfully, and her eyes drifted shut after a moment. “I bet you he’ll still know something in a couple hours so… it won’t hurt if we sleep a bit more.”

“Yeah, good idea.” He yawned. “I’m exhausted. Gotta call Jaesoo first…”

🐯

It was about ten now. An hour ago, he’d written up a resignation letter and had just delivered it to the moving company, now meandering his way over to Yoongi’s shop to start up what would probably be a fucking monumental disaster. He was having Y/N meet him in the alley near there, both having decided their story would probably be more believable with her presence. He just hoped things would go well. Jeongguk knew he was putting a lot of trust in Yoongi telling him all this - he’d have to rely on Gloss’s neutral nature to not let on about him to anyone who came asking, which was a risk.

“There it is,” he murmured to himself as he spotted the storefront, and drew in a deep breath, adjusting the strap of the back pack on his shoulder. Shit, this is making me nervous. He let the breath out as a loud sigh, not too unlike a war cry. Let’s go. We got this! Yoongi’s my friend and he’ll handle it somehow. We’ll be fine.

The bell jingled as he marched in.

Yoongi was currently at one of the stations giving a client a trim, and he looked up at the kid with the usual greeting for customers on his lips, fading off the moment he saw his face. Curiosity replaced it.

“Jeongguk?”

“Can we talk?” His eyebrows were furrowed and he looked like he was hyperfocusing on something.

Didn’t even say hi. “Mm. Sure. Meet me in the back, I gotta finish up here first.” This’ll be interesting. He turned back to the client.

Jeongguk nodded, and briskly strode into the hall at the back of the shop, eyebrows furrowed cutely. Yoongi idly counted his footsteps, only to hear a little screech of rubber on tile as Jeongguk stopped and skidded back into the main area. “Hi hyung!” A little wave, and he disappeared again. Yoongi smiled faintly and shook his head.

Down the hallway, Jeongguk bypassed Yoongi’s office and scooted further down the hallway to an iron door. It provided access into the alley out back and could only be opened from the inside. He pushed it open and ducked his head out.

Y/N was nowhere to be seen. Good. She’s stayed hidden.

Jeongguk whistled a small tune.

A shadow dropped down from the fire escape, near-silent, and slid past him into the building. “Good to see you. On the left,” he murmured, and she disappeared into Yoongi’s office right as the man turned the corner, wiping his hands after a quick wash.

Seeing Jeongguk, he asked, “Why are you here so early?”

“I had something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Oh? Are you quitting?”

“What? No.” He shook his head, opening the door for Yoongi who moved past him to his liquor cabinet, not noticing the figure lounging on his couch. “You might understand better why it is I took on a fourth part-time, though.”

“Oh yeah? Shoot.” He pulled out a crystal decanter of bourbon and poured them both a glass. “Two pinkies or three?” He didn’t notice how tense it was Jeongguk got then, or if he did, decided not to comment.

Jeongguk’s hand tightened around the strap of his pack. This is it. Tell him everything. He decided to just act first before he chickened out.

He unzipped it and upended the contents on Yoongi’s desk. Actions do speak louder than words, right?

Yoongi paused his pour.

He may have had his back turned, but the sound of tumbling money is something he’s familiar with. He decided to knock back the glass before pouring another refill. “That better not be what I think it is Jeongguk. That better be you spilling a stack of flyers for a poetry slam or some shit.” He knocked back the second glass and poured another. “Two or three pinkies, you goddamned punk?”

“Two please.”Jeongguk murmured.

Yoongi kneels and pulls out a second glass from the liquor cabinet. Y/N chooses then to speak up.

“I’ll take two also.”

There’s a clatter as he bangs his head on the cabinet, spinning around with the widest eyes Jeongguk’s ever seen on him. “Who the hell - ?”

“I let her in,” Jeongguk murmured, shifting to stand in front of the door to block Yoongi from making a run for it. “She’s a friend of mine. Yoongi, meet Y/N.”

There’s silence for a moment. The tiger girl sits soundlessly on the couch, completely covered from head to toe in clothing - her face is even concealed by a dark pair of shades and a face mask. Besides her name and voice, there’s little to differentiate whether she’s a boy or girl. Yoongi recovers his composure quickly, standing up from the ground and picking up two cups as he does.

“Alright, two pinkies each and four for me. Why’s she here Jeongguk, and who is she?”

“Well, uh, her name’s Y/N - ”

“We covered that already. Who is she, Jeongguk?” Finished with his pours, he handed him their drinks and took his own, sitting down at his desk. Jeongguk sank into the cushions next to Y/N and handed her her drink. Surprisingly, she decided to take charge of the conversation.

“Do you know what hybrids are, Mr. Yoongi?” Idly, she took a sip of the alcohol and grimaced, thinking better of it and handing to Jeongguk.

Yoongi leaned back in his chair, crossing his ankle over one of his knees. He sipped at his drink. A tense moment passed.

“Sure. I heard of ‘em.”

Jeongguk blinked. “You have, hyung?”

“Yeah, people talk. I keep my nose out of it though, and that’s for safety.” He sipped at his drink again, then narrowed his eyes a bit. “Why are you asking?”

“Well - ” she started, taking off her shades, face mask, and hood. “I am one.”

Yoongi’s face remained impassive, masked, calculated. It was his business face, the one he used with customers. Neither removed or engaged. He nodded, but made no effort to continue the conversation.

Y/N took the lead.

“I’ve been… this, for about four years now. Started out as a pet whore then demoted to a cagedog. You know what cagedoggers are?”

Yoongi nodded again, and Jeongguk felt the hair at the back of his neck prickle.

“So, I did that for three years. In the last four months before I got out of it - the cagedogging, I mean - I purposely lost fights so I’d get resold and resold to the cheapest cagedoggers. The last deal took place at night in a restaurant Jeongguk was eating at, and he helped me escape.”

“That was the day I broke up with Bora,” Jeongguk interjected, and Yoongi nodded thoughtfully. He didn’t really know exactly when that was since his presence in the kid’s life was minimal outside of Gloss - but it gave him a rough timeline. A little less than six weeks ago.

“ - Right,” she continued. “So, after that night I didn’t really have anywhere to go, so I just kinda…” a little blush, and her ears fluttered back, “... followed him around for a day. Figured I’d return the favor somehow, and I wanted to thank him but he’s so goddamn busy all the time it’s hard to get a word in.”

Yoongi chuckled a little, tipping back the rest of his drink.

“So then he fell in a river, and - ”

Yoongi choked on his drink. “What did he do?”

Jeongguk grimaced, and picked at his bangs guiltily. “Uh.”

“When did it happen?”

“A day after I escaped.”

Yoongi narrowed his eyes at Jeongguk, who avoided making eye contact like the plague. Y/N rushed to move on with a heavy exhale before Yoongi started wasting time scolding him.

“Anyway,” she continued. “He fell in a river and I saved him. Brought him back to his apartment and ended up staying the night. We’ve been denning together since then.”

Jeongguk giggled a little. Denning. What a cute word choice.

“How’d you know where he lives again?” Yoongi asked, and Jeongguk perked up a little. He should’ve asked that question before and hadn’t, somehow. God, that’s such an important detail. I hope I haven’t skipped over anything else like that. He bit his lip in nervous thought, spaced out and distracted for a second.

“I’d been following him around, remember? The night at the restaurant, I circled back and made sure he got home safe. That’s how I learned where it was.”

Yoongi nodded a bit, satisfied.

“So,” he drawled, leaning forward to ruffle through the pile of cash on his desk. “Where the fuck did you get this?”

“I revisited an old auction site.”

“You’re talking abandoned storage auctions or slave auctions?”

“Slave auctions. Specifically hybrid.”

“Ah. Continue. Also, why?”

“I needed closure, I guess. It was the one place I solidly remember the location of.” She picked at the elastic strings on her facemask, uncomfortable showing any measure of vulnerability to someone not-Jeongguk. It’s okay, she assured herself despite wanting to swallow those words back up. He trusts him. I can trust him. Move on.

“So - ” she forced herself to look up, “ - there was a situation, and I hurt a few people and had to escape.”

“Y/N, you killed three people. They didn’t scrape their knees because you pushed them,” Jeongguk murmured, and Yoongi was surprised to hear the words come from his mouth more so than the fact Y/N had killed someone - he’d made a comment about murder so… casually.

“Right. Yeah. And, uh, on the way out I grabbed this. Now we’re here.”

There was silence for a moment as everyone digested the situation. Yoongi picked at the rubber band circling one of the cash bundles, evaluating the figures in front of him. Y/N sat still as a shadow, eyes on him. Jeongguk fidgeted with his bangs.

Yoongi took a deep breath.

“Why’d you come here?” he asked.

“... I’m in over my head, hyung.” Barely a whisper. Jeongguk wouldn’t meet his eyes, face flushed in shame. This isn’t going to work. I’m going to lose a friend today. “You’re the only person in Seoul I trust that can help us.”

Yoongi looked at him thoughtfully, poker face on in force. Jeongguk felt like he was being watched by a cat.

Finally, he let up with a sigh.

“Clean this up.”

Jeongguk’s heart sank.

Silently, and with a burning face, he scooped the cash back into the bag. Some of Yoongi’s sketches got pushed off with it and he scrambled to pick them up. “Ah - “ he put them back, disorganized, on the desk, “ - I, uh, sorry hyung. We’ll just… get going.” He zipped the last of it up.

“Alright,” Yoongi murmured. “Gimme that before you go.”

Unbidden, a small, suspicious growl crawled its way up from Y/N’s chest. Jeongguk, confused, asked, “Hyung?”

Yoongi sighed and took it from his hands, ignoring the snarl shot at him.

“I can tell you have no clue how to launder money, so I’m gonna do it for you. Can’t leave loose ends in business like this. Sloppiness’ll get you killed.”

She stopped snarling abruptly, and Jeongguk froze in surprise. “Hyung?”

Yoongi smirked, soft and a little bitter like he wanted to swat a younger sibling over the head for doing something troublesome. “I’m older than you, so it’s my job to take care of you. Pull some stupid shit like this again, though, and I’m tossing you in a closet or something.”

Wow. I honestly thought we were gonna get booted to the curb, Jeongguk thought. He was too speechless to say thank you, but Yoongi could see it in the way his eyes twinkled, watery at the edges.

Taking the bag, he made some space in his liquor cabinet and stashed it away. He’d deal with it after hours.

Still turned away, he said, “Go on, git. Don’t you have work, punk?”

“No. Off day.” Jeongguk paused, overcome with this immense sense of gratitude - he was so goddamn lucky to have the people in his life that he did. “Can… can I come in early?”

“Sure,” Yoongi grunted, with a soft smile. I hope this shit doesn’t get him killed. 

“Now git.”

They gitted.

🐯

The police station was having a quiet day, which was honestly the worst in Hoseok’s opinion. It made him jumpy and restless. He sat at his desk, tapping his pen across a notepad and bouncing his knee. And - with a glance at the clock - he realized it wasn’t even lunch time yet. He had a whole two hours until he could - what, eat more and get more energy? Run a lap around the station? Offer the chief a lap dance, just for the exercise?

Hoseok tossed the pen away, buried his head in his hands and moaned, blowing a long sherbert into his palms. The office remained not-busy - probably out of spite.

“You know, Jung - “ his partner commented idly from where he sat across from him, feet propped up on the desk with his nose buried in a racy hentai - some shameless tentacle number; “ - usually, it’s a good thing when we’re not busy.”

Hoseok moaned into his hands again.

Officer Ri Doyeon’s thin eyes flicked up at him over the rim of the book in his hands, and Hoseok started to make little tooting noises. A piece of Doyeon’s soul leaked out and slithered away when he recognized the tune as Darude’s “Sandstorm.”

“Dude,” he whispered in exasperation.

The tooting morphed into what sounded like “Fur Elise,” reaching a grand, existential crisis-inducing crescendo before fading off into one positively grand finale of a sherbert.

Doyeon was overcome by the impulse to choke out his partner with the tie around his neck. “Are you done?” he asked.

Hoseok didn’t answer, head still in his hands. Doyeon returned to his manga.

“Ri-sunbae?” Hoseok murmured after a moment. Doyeon hummed.

“Do you think kazoos like getting blown?”

“Out,” Doyeon hissed. The book in his hands clapped shut with the finality of a man driven to the edge of sanity. “Get - get out. Go take a smoke or a run or jack off in the bathrooms - whatever the fuck men in their twenties do - I don’t fucking care just burn some of this goddamn energy you fucking middle-schooler.”

“So that’s a no?”

Doyeon belted the book at poor, bored little Hoseok who broke the silence of the office with a yelp, scrabbling out of his chair. “A smoke, Hoseok!” Doyeon barked.

“Got it, got it,” he placated, retreating from the office. His grumpy partner huffed and circled the desk to snatch his manga back up from the floor, returning to his earlier position.

Hoseok wandered through the station, looking for something to do. Lately, this is all work had been for him. Boring. Unsatisfying. Unrushed.

The KNP's (Korean National Police’s) Sex Crimes Division was not a good place to work for someone like Hoseok because it was - due to multiple factors, none of them good - not very busy. The situation was not nearly as optimistic as Doyeon made it sound. There are still plenty of sex crimes in South Korea. So many it’s downright shameful. But this is a culture where we don’t talk about those things. No one reports anything, he thought sadly.

His mind wandered back to a case he’d been forced to drop last week. A woman, at a company dinner on her second day at a new job, had been lured away by a supervisor, raped, and then subjected to revenge lawsuits on the charges of defamation when she’d spoken up, yelled and worn into dropping all charges. Yesterday, he’d learned that she’d lost that job. Life ruined in a week. And he couldn’t help. I don’t blame them, I guess. The law doesn’t exactly do much to help. The thought was a bitter one.

His wandering lead him to the roof, and he stepped out with a sigh. I thought I’d be able to help more with this job.

I feel more useless than ever.

He gazed over the balcony, propping his elbows up on the railing. Maybe a bit lonely, too.

All his friends were busy and his family was based back in Gwangju, so he didn’t really get to socialize much anymore. Most of his time was spent with grumpy, middle-aged Doyeon, who was so inclined to social reclusion and coping with all of his failed marriages through nasty hentais that he wasn’t that fun to hang out with.

When was the last time Jeongguk and I hung out? As thoughts turned to his best friend from college, he flushed a little in guilt. Five weeks ago, Jeongguk had broken up with his girlfriend of a year and called him at midnight to cry and babble for a bit, only to hang up a few minutes later because he “... Gotta go, wan’ ramen…” (Sniff.) “Gunna get ramen… bye Hobi-hyung.” Those had been the last words he’d heard from him since - not counting the odd text here and there. I should be a better friend, sheesh.

“Let’s call him,” he murmured to himself, and pulled out his phone.

Jeongguk picked up after three rings. “Hyung?”

“Hey Ggukie!”

“Oh, hey! Haven’t heard from you in awhile.”

“Yeah, sorry for checking out as long as I did. Thought I’d check up on you.”

“Ah hyung, no worries. Seoul’s a busy place to live. Where are you?”

“The station, as usual. You?”

“The station.”

Hoseok perked up. “Wait - really?”

“Yeah, the train one.”

“Oh, you little pest. I got excited there for a second.”

“Aw,” Jeongguk bit out cheekily, and Hoseok could picture so clearly that competitive and endearing little smirk. “Has hyung missed Jeonggukie? Lil’ ol’ me, tiny little Ggukie? Bunny-boy Guk?”

“Oh shut it - I miss kicking your ass in Smash Bros, that’s all.”

“Aish! Shut up hyung - you literally only ever play as Waluigi or Kirby and I always win.”

“I love Waluigi and Kirby more than I love you.”

“Well then I’m a slut for Link. Glad everything’s in the open.” A giggle. “Love me a man in a tunic.”

Hoseok laughed, and they both relaxed into a comfortable pause - softly tuning into private thoughts and the sounds of each others’ environment.

“We should have a tournament again, me an’ you. Waluigi and Kirby vs. Link,” Hoseok joked. Opposite to what he expected, Jeongguk sighed in response. “Hey,” Hoseok murmured, brows knitting. “What’s up?”

“I had to pawn off my PlayStation last month for rent.”

There was a pause again, not as comfortable as the last. Hoseok frowned watched the street down below. He was realizing how far they’d grown apart in this last year, as he’d invested his time in becoming a policeman and Jeongguk had dropped out of college to escape the relentless, malicious rumors targeting him. Touchy subject, that last one.

The world is full of injustices.

By the day, Hoseok’s starting to feel more and more powerless to fix any of it.

“Hobi-hyung…” Jeongguk started, soft voice drawing them both out of their melancholy daze before they sank any further. “We can grab drinks later? If you like?”

He’s such a sweetheart, Hoseok thought.

“Sounds great, Guk,” he hummed. “Usual place?”

“Usual place.”

“When are you free?”

“Tomorrow night?”

“Works for me; text me when. I’ll see ya, Guk.”

“See ya then, hyung.”

They hung up, and Hoseok put his phone away to gaze at the skyline for awhile.

A/N: i have three-ish weeks until i disappear into the wilderness of alaska, so either i finish it in that time or organize an adminship with someone to post my updates. we’ll see

also, thanks for all the support!! yall’re lovely 💞

Taglist: @feed-my-geek-soul @starryannaaa @not-novoa @astronomyturtle @anoushe01 @seokchella @dinorahrodriguez @mischiefmakerliesmith5

Taglist Glitches: @infiresssnct 

[guylty]

Hello everybody. First of all many thanks for sharing your tips regarding hand care. It really helped me to find a solution for my current skin problem. Keeping your advice in mind, I dug out a mega tub of medicinal skin cream my hubster had been prescribed last year for a persistent dry patch on his shins. I lathered it on last night before going to bed, and by morning it already felt better. I have decanted the cream into lots of small empty lotion jars and left them dotted around the house, so whether it is after washing my hands in the kitchen, in the top bathroom, in the stairs loo, or while I am sitting in front of the telly or at my desk, I can always reach for a little jar and slap some cream on. By the end of all this, I will have hands that are 20 years younger than the rest of my old body 😂.

Yesterday I stayed away from Twitter, still kind of sanitising my brain from the barrage of bad news. No matter how many nice people you follow and who are posting fun stuff, there will also be the other news filtering through. So I gave myself a break from SM yesterday and instead did some spontaneous crafting. That made me feel much better.

These are all rather meh and uninteresting news on my blog today, so I thought I’d make this a service Sunday and instead send some love to other bloggers. A little link list, if you want, although chances are that you are already following all the ladies, anyway. But nevertheless.

The Armitage Distraction Challenge continues on a few other blogs

Herba is on her second part of the challenge and answers questions 6 to 10 in German HERE.

Armidreamer has finished the challenge on her blog HERE.

Did I already mention that Esther wrote the second half of her challenge? HERE.

Zeesmuse is on daily posts and currently at question 13 HERE.

Other Corona Distraction

Check out SueBC’s latest blog entry. She has not only rewritten the lyrics to one of her favourite songs, but she is actually singing it for us. Topical and very funny. HERE.

Nellindreams has written a funny piece about Marlborough Mills’ reaction to the corona crisis. Sorry, this is in German (although an automatic translation might actually also work on this) but I really loved it! Link HERE.

Virtual Travel

Squirrel reminded me of some of the photos she took of Flat Richie when he was stopping with her. Here are some fun photos of some of the places Flat Richie visited when in London last month.

I still have a cancelled flight with British Airways to London – well, this gives me some ideas what to look forward to when I reschedule the flight.

Other services

Besides my sanity-saving crafting and daily baking now that my son is back in da house, I am most smugly satisfied about a little hack I have learnt from the interwebs. When I ventured out shopping yesterday, I bought the first bottle of bleach of my life. Wait, I lie. I bought a bottle of bleach circa 1986 in order to splatter-bleach a denim jacket. (Thankfully, no photographic evidence has survived.) So far I have never ever cleaned with bleach because I ultimately believe that heavy chemicals like that are bad for the environment – and household vinegar or baking soda prove perfectly good cleaning agents. However, hygiene is pretty important at the moment, and so I decided to give it a go and make my own disinfectant wipes. It was really easy and seems to work pretty well. Also stores in a prettier package than any of those shop-bought wipes.

Recipe, in case you are interested: You need an air-tight container, some kitchen roll and bleach for this. Dilute 3 tablespoons of bleach with one and a half US cups of hot water. Cut the kitchen roll in half with a kitchen knife. Place the half roll in an air-tight container and pour the bleach mix over it. Let it sit for a moment and then pull out the cardboard from the inside of the kitchen roll. Should be fairly easy. Find the first leaf of kitchen roll on the inside and pull it up, and you are ready to go. I recommend you buy some of the pricier, brand-name kitchen roll for this – loo roll and cheaper brands do not work so well because the wet wipes rip when you try to pull them out of the container. The brand I used is called “Plenty” and works pretty well with this. Disclaimer: Bleachy cleaners should only be applied to non-porous surfaces, I think. Not sure about natural stone, so make sure you research that before you start wiping your fancy marble work top! It works well for me for daily disinfecting of door handles, wiping over the sinks in bathroom and kitchen, as well as toilet seats etc. My cleaning needs have never been more satisfied…

Stay well – stay home – stay safe!

Service Sunday Hello everybody. First of all many thanks for sharing your tips regarding hand care. It really helped me to find a solution for my current skin problem.

[highqueenjude]

THE FIRST TWO CHAPTERS + PROLOGUE OF TQON

Buckle up buttercups. Everything is under the cut, but you can read it here. 

PROLOGUE

The Royal Astrologer, Baphen, squinted at the star chart and tried not to flinch when it seemed sure the youngest prince of Elfhame was about to be dropped on his royal head.

A week after Prince Cardan’s birth and he was finally being presented to the High King. The previous five heirs had been seen immediately, still squalling in ruddy newness, but Lady Asha had barred the High King from visiting before she felt herself suitably restored from childbed.

The baby was thin and wizened, silent, staring at Eldred with black eyes. He lashed his little whiplike tail with such force that his swaddle threatened to come apart. Lady Asha seemed unsure how to cradle him. Indeed, she held him as though she hoped someone might take the burden from her very soon.

“Tell us of his future,” the High King prompted. Only a few Folk were gathered to witness the presentation of the new prince—the mortal Val Moren, who was both Court Poet and Seneschal, and two members of the Living Council: Randalin, the Minister of Keys, and Baphen. In the empty hall, the High King’s words echoed.

Baphen hesitated, but he could do nothing save answer. Eldred had been favored with five children before Prince Cardan, shocking fecundity among the Folk, with their thin blood and few births. The stars had spoken of each little prince’s and princess’s fated accomplishments in poetry and song, in politics, in virtue, and even in vice. But this time what he’d seen in the stars had been entirely different. “Prince Cardan will be your last born child,” the Royal Astrologer said. “He will be the destruction of the crown and the ruination of the throne.”

Lady Asha sucked in a sharp breath. For the first time, she drew the child protectively closer. He squirmed in her arms. “I wonder who has influenced your interpretation of the signs. Perhaps Princess Elowyn had a hand in it. Or Prince Dain.”

Maybe it would be better if she dropped him, Baphen thought unkindly.

High King Eldred ran a hand over his chin. “Can nothing be done to stop this?”

It was a mixed blessing to have the stars supply Baphen with so many riddles and so few answers. He often wished he saw things more clearly, but not this time. He bowed his head, so he had an excuse not to meet the High King’s gaze. “Only out of his spilled blood can a great ruler rise, but not before what I have told you comes to pass.”

Eldred turned to Lady Asha and her child, the harbinger of ill luck. The baby was as silent as a stone, not crying or cooing, tail still lashing.

“Take the boy away,” the High King said. “Rear him as you see fit.”

Lady Asha did not flinch. “I will rear him as befits his station. He is a prince, after all, and your son.”

There was a brittleness in her tone, and Baphen was uncomfortably reminded that some prophecies are fulfilled by the very actions meant to prevent them.

For a moment, everyone stood silent. Then Eldred nodded to Val Moren, who left the dais and returned holding a slim wooden box with a pattern of roots traced over the lid.

“A gift,” said the High King, “in recognition of your contribution to the Greenbriar line.”

Val Moren opened the box, revealing an exquisite necklace of heavy emeralds. Eldred lifted them and placed them over Lady Asha’s head. He touched her cheek with the back of one hand.

“Your generosity is great, my lord,” she said, somewhat mollified. The baby clutched a stone in his little fist, staring up at his father with fathomless eyes.

“Go now and rest,” said Eldred, his voice softer. This time, she yielded.

Lady Asha departed with her head high, her grip on the child tighter. Baphen felt a shiver of some premonition that had nothing to do with stars.

High King Eldred did not visit Lady Asha again, nor did he call her to him. Perhaps he ought to have put his dissatisfaction aside and cultivated his son. But looking upon Prince Cardan was like looking into an uncertain future, and so he avoided it.

Lady Asha, as the mother of a prince, found herself much in demand with the Court, if not the High King. Given to whimsy and frivolity, she wished to return to the merry life of a courtier. She couldn’t attend balls with an infant in tow, so she found a cat whose kittens were stillborn to act as his wet nurse.

That arrangement lasted until Prince Cardan was able to crawl. By then, the cat was heavy with a new litter and he’d begun to pull at her tail. She fled to the stables, abandoning him, too.

And so he grew up in the palace, cherished by no one and checked by no one. Who would dare stop a prince from stealing food from the grand tables and eating beneath them, devouring what he’d taken in savage bites? His sisters and brothers only laughed, playing with him as they would with a puppy.

He wore clothes only occasionally, donning garlands of flowers instead and throwing stones when the guard tried to come near him. None but his mother exerted any hold over him, and she seldom tried to curb his excesses. Just the opposite.

“You’re a prince,” she told him firmly when he would shy away from a conflict or fail to make a demand. “Everything is yours. You have only to take it.” And sometimes: “I want that. Get it for me.”

It is said that faerie children are not like mortal children. They need little in the way of love. They need not be tucked in at night, but may sleep just as happily in a cold corner of a ballroom, curled up in a tablecloth. They need not be fed; they are just as happy lapping up dew and skimming bread and cream from the kitchens. They need not be comforted, since they seldom weep.

But if faerie children need little love, faerie princes require some counsel.

Without it, when Cardan’s elder brother suggested shooting a walnut off the head of a mortal, Cardan had not the wisdom to demur. His habits were impulsive; his manner, imperious.

“Keen marksmanship so impresses our father,” Prince Dain said with a small, teasing smile. “But perhaps it is too difficult. Better not to make the attempt than to fail.”

For Cardan, who could not attract his father’s good notice and desperately wanted it, the prospect was tempting. He didn’t ask himself who the mortal was or how he had come to be at the Court. Cardan certainly never suspected that the man was beloved of Val Moren and that the seneschal would go mad with grief if the man died.

Leaving Dain free to assume a more prominent position at the High King’s right hand.

“Too difficult? Better not to make the attempt? Those are the words of a coward,” Cardan said, full of childish bravado. In truth, his brother intimidated him, but that only made him more scornful.

Prince Dain smiled. “Let us exchange arrows at least. Then if you miss, you can say that it was my arrow that went awry.”

Prince Cardan ought to have been suspicious of this kindness, but he’d had little enough of the real thing to tell true from false.

Instead, he notched Dain’s arrow and pulled back the bowstring, aiming for the walnut. A sinking feeling came over him. He might not shoot true. He might hurt the man. But on the heels of that, angry glee sparked at the idea of doing something so horrifying that his father could no longer ignore him. If he could not get the High King’s attention for something good, then perhaps he could get it for something really, really bad.

Cardan’s hand wobbled.

The mortal’s liquid eyes watched him in frozen fear. Enchanted, of course. No one would stand like that willingly. That was what decided him.

Cardan forced a laugh as he relaxed the bowstring, letting the arrow fall out of the notch. “I simply will not shoot under these conditions,” he said, feeling ridiculous at having backed down. “The wind is coming from the north and mussing my hair. It’s getting all in my eyes.”

But Prince Dain raised his bow and loosed the arrow Cardan had exchanged with him. It struck the mortal through the throat. He dropped with almost no sound, eyes still open, now staring at nothing.

It happened so fast that Cardan didn’t cry out, didn’t react. He just stared at his brother, slow, terrible understanding crashing over him.

“Ah,” said Prince Dain with a satisfied smile. “A shame. It seems your arrow went awry. Perhaps you can complain to our father about that hair in your eyes.”

After, though he protested, no one would hear Prince Cardan’s side. Dain saw to that. He told the story of the youngest prince’s recklessness, his arrogance, his arrow. The High King would not even allow Cardan an audience.

Despite Val Moren’s pleas for execution, Cardan was punished for the mortal’s death in the way that princes are punished. The High King had Lady Asha locked away in the Tower of Forgetting in Cardan’s stead—something Eldred was relieved to have a reason to do, since he found her both tiresome and troublesome. Care of Prince Cardan was given over to Balekin, the eldest of the siblings, the cruelest, and the only one willing to take him.

And so was Prince Cardan’s reputation made. He had little to do but further it.

CHAPTER ONE

I, Jude Duarte, High Queen of Elfhame in exile, spend most mornings dozing in front of daytime television, watching cooking competitions and cartoons and reruns of a show where people have to complete a gauntlet by stabbing boxes and bottles and cutting through a whole fish. In the afternoons, if he lets me, I train my brother, Oak. Nights, I run errands for the local faeries.

I keep my head down, as I probably should have done in the first place. And if I curse Cardan, then I have to curse myself, too, for being the fool who walked right into the trap he set for me.

As a child, I imagined returning to the mortal world. Taryn and Vivi and I would rehash what it was like there, recalling the scents of fresh-cut grass and gasoline, reminiscing over playing tag through neighborhood backyards and bobbing in the bleachy chlorine of summer pools. I dreamed of iced tea, reconstituted from powder, and orange juice Popsicles. I longed for mundane things: the smell of hot asphalt, the swag of wires between streetlights, the jingles of commercials.

Now, stuck in the mortal world for good, I miss Faerieland with a raw intensity. It’s magic I long for, magic I miss. Maybe I even miss being afraid. I feel as though I am dreaming away my days, restless, never fully awake.

I drum my fingers on the painted wood of a picnic table. It’s early autumn, already cool in Maine. Late-afternoon sun dapples the grass outside the apartment complex as I watch Oak play with other children in the strip of woods between here and the highway. They are kids from the building, some younger and some older than his eight years, all dropped off by the same yellow school bus. They play a totally disorganized game of war, chasing one another with sticks. They hit as children do, aiming for the weapon instead of the opponent, screaming with laughter when a stick breaks. I can’t help noticing they are learning all the wrong lessons about swordsmanship.

Still, I watch. And so I notice when Oak uses glamour.

He does it unconsciously, I think. He’s sneaking toward the other kids, but then there’s a stretch with no easy cover. He keeps on toward them, and even though he’s in plain sight, they don’t seem to notice.

Closer and closer, with the kids still not looking his way. And when he jumps at them, stick swinging, they shriek with wholly authentic surprise.

He was invisible. He was using glamour. And I, geased against being deceived by it, didn’t notice until it was done. The other children just think he was clever or lucky. Only I know how careless it was.

I wait until the children head to their apartments. They peel off, one by one, until only my brother remains. I don’t need magic, even with leaves underfoot, to steal up on him. With a swift motion, I wrap my arm around Oak’s neck, pressing it against his throat hard enough to give him a good scare. He bucks back, nearly hitting me in the chin with his horns. Not bad. He attempts to break my hold, but it’s half-hearted. He can tell it’s me, and I don’t frighten him.

I tighten my hold. If I press my arm against his throat long enough, he’ll black out.

He tries to speak, and then he must start to feel the effects of not getting enough air. He forgets all his training and goes wild, lashing out, scratching my arms and kicking against my legs. Making me feel awful. I wanted him to be a little afraid, scared enough to fight back, not terrified.

I let go, and he stumbles away, panting, eyes wet with tears. “What was that for?” he wants to know. He’s glaring at me accusingly.

“To remind you that fighting isn’t a game,” I say, feeling as though I am speaking with Madoc’s voice instead of my own. I don’t want Oak to grow up as I did, angry and afraid. But I want him to survive, and Madoc did teach me how to do that.

How am I supposed to figure out how to give him the right stuff when all I know is my own messed-up childhood? Maybe the parts of it I value are the wrong parts. “What are you going to do against an opponent who wants to actually hurt you?”

“I don’t care,” Oak says. “I don’t care about that stuff. I don’t want to be king. I never want to be king.”

For a moment, I just stare at him. I want to believe he’s lying, but, of course, he can’t lie.

“We don’t always have a choice in our fate,” I say.

“You rule if you care so much!” he says. “I won’t do it. Never.”

I have to grind my teeth together to keep from screaming. “I can’t, as you know, because I’m in exile,” I remind him.

He stamps a hoofed foot. “So am I! And the only reason I’m in the human world is because Dad wants the stupid crown and you want it and everyone wants it. Well, I don’t. It’s cursed.”

“All power is cursed,” I say. “The most terrible among us will do anything to get it, and those who’d wield power best don’t want it thrust upon them. But that doesn’t mean they can avoid their responsibilities forever.”

“You can’t make me be High King,” he says, and wheeling away from me, breaks into a run in the direction of the apartment building.

I sit down on the cold ground, knowing that I screwed up the conversation completely. Knowing that Madoc trained Taryn and me better than I am training Oak. Knowing that I was arrogant and foolish to think I could control Cardan.

Knowing that in the great game of princes and queens, I have been swept off the board.

Inside the apartment, Oak’s door is shut firmly against me. Vivienne, my faerie sister, stands at the kitchen counter, grinning into her phone.

When she notices me, she grabs my hands and spins me around and around until I’m dizzy.

“Heather loves me again,” she says, wild laughter in her voice.

Heather was Vivi’s human girlfriend. She’d put up with Vivi’s evasions about her past. She even put up with Oak’s coming to live with them in this apartment. But when she found out that Vivi wasn’t human and that Vivi had used magic on her, she dumped her and moved out. I hate to say this, because I want my sister to be happy—and Heather did make her happy—but it was a richly deserved dumping.

I pull away to blink at her in confusion. “What?”

Vivi waves her phone at me. “She texted me. She wants to come back. Everything is going to be like it was before.”

Leaves don’t grow back onto a vine, cracked walnuts don’t fit back into their shells, and girlfriends who’ve been enchanted don’t just wake up and decide to let things slide with their terrifying exes.

“Let me see that,” I say, reaching for Vivi’s phone. She allows me to take it.

I scroll back through the texts, most of them coming from Vivi and full of apologies, ill-considered promises, and increasingly desperate pleas. On Heather’s end, there was a lot of silence and a few messages that read “I need more time to think.”

Then this:

I want to forget Faerie. I want to forget that you and Oak aren’t human. I don’t want to feel like this anymore. If I asked you to make me forget, would you?

I stare at the words for a long moment, drawing in a breath.

I can see why Vivi has read the message the way she has, but I think she’s read it wrong. If I’d written that, the last thing I would want was for Vivi to agree. I’d want her to help me see that even if Vivi and Oak weren’t human, they still loved me. I would want Vivi to insist that pretending away Faerie wouldn’t help. I would want Vivi to tell me that she’d made a mistake and that she’d never ever make that mistake again, no matter what.

If I’d sent that text, it would be a test.

I hand the phone back to Vivi. “What are you going to tell her?”

“That I’ll do whatever she wants,” my sister says, an extravagant vow for a mortal and a downright terrifying vow from someone who would be bound to that promise.

“Maybe she doesn’t know what she wants,” I say. I am disloyal no matter what I do. Vivi is my sister, but Heather is human. I owe them both something.

And right now, Vivi isn’t interested in supposing anything but that all will be well. She gives me a big, relaxed smile and picks up an apple from the fruit bowl, tossing it in the air. “What’s wrong with Oak? He stomped in here and slammed his door. Is he going to be this dramatic when he’s a teenager?”

“He doesn’t want to be High King,” I tell her.

“Oh. That.” Vivi glances toward his bedroom. “I thought it was something important.”

CHAPTER TWO

Tonight, it’s a relief to head to work.

Faeries in the mortal world have a different set of needs than those in Elfhame. The solitary fey, surviving at the edges of Faerie, do not concern themselves with revels and courtly machinations.

And it turns out they have plenty of odd jobs for someone like me, a mortal who knows their ways and isn’t worried about getting into the occasional fight. I met Bryern a week after I left Elfhame. He turned up outside the apartment complex, a black-furred, goat-headed, and goat-hooved faerie with bowler hat in hand, saying he was an old friend of the Roach.

“I understand you’re in a unique position,” he said, looking at me with those strange golden goat eyes, their black pupils a horizontal rectangle. “Presumed dead, is that correct? No Social Security number. No mortal schooling.”

“And looking for work,” I told him, figuring out where this was going. “Off the books.”

“You cannot get any further off the books than with me,” he assured me, placing one clawed hand over his heart. “Allow me to introduce myself. Bryern. A phooka, if you hadn’t already guessed.”

He didn’t ask for oaths of loyalty or any promises whatsoever. I could work as much as I wanted, and the pay was commensurate with my daring.

Tonight, I meet him by the water. I glide up on the secondhand bike I acquired. The back tire deflates quickly, but I got it cheap. It works pretty well to get me around. Bryern is dressed with typical fussiness: His hat has a band decorated with a few brightly colored duck feathers, and he’s paired that with a tweed jacket. As I come closer, he withdraws a watch from one pocket and peers at it with an exaggerated frown.

“Oh, am I late?” I ask. “Sorry. I’m used to telling time by the slant of moonlight.”

He gives me an annoyed look. “Just because you’ve lived in the High Court, you need not put on airs. You’re no one special now.”

I am the High Queen of Elfhame. The thought comes to me unbidden, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from saying those ridiculous words. He’s right: I am no one special now.

“What’s the job?” I ask instead, as blandly as I can.

“One of the Folk in Old Port has been eating locals. I have a contract for someone willing to extract a promise from her to cease.”

I find it hard to believe that he cares what happens to humans—or cares enough to pay for me to do something about it. “Local mortals?”

He shakes his head. “No. No. Us Folk.” Then he seems to remember to whom he’s speaking and looks a little flustered. I try not to take his slip as a compliment.

Killing and eating the Folk? Nothing about that signals an easy job. “Who’s hiring?”

He gives a nervous laugh. “No one who wants their name associated with the deed. But they’re willing to remunerate you for making it happen.”

One of the reasons Bryern likes hiring me is that I can get close to the Folk. They don’t expect a mortal to be the one to pickpocket them or to stick a knife in their side. They don’t expect a mortal to be unaffected by glamour or to know their customs or to see through their terrible bargains.

Another reason is, I need the money enough that I’m willing to take jobs like this—ones that I know right from the start are going to suck.

“Address?” I ask, and he slips me a folded paper.

I open it and glance down. “This better pay well.”

“Five hundred American dollars,” he says, as though this is an extravagant sum.

Our rent is twelve hundred a month, not to mention groceries and utilities. With Heather gone, my half is about eight hundred. And I’d like to get a new tire for my bike. Five hundred isn’t nearly enough, not for something like this.

“Fifteen hundred,” I counter, raising my eyebrows. “In cash, verifiable by iron. Half up front, and if I don’t come back, you pay Vivienne the other half as a gift to my bereaved family.”

Bryern presses his lips together, but I know he’s got the money. He just doesn’t want to pay me enough that I can get choosy about jobs.

“A thousand,” he compromises, reaching into a pocket inside his tweed jacket and withdrawing a stack of bills banded by a silver clip. “And look, I have half on me right now. You can take it.”

“Fine,” I agree. It’s a decent paycheck for what could be a single night’s work if I’m lucky.

He hands over the cash with a sniff. “Let me know when you’ve completed the task.”

There’s an iron fob on my key chain. I run it ostentatiously over the edges of the money to make sure it’s real. It never hurts to remind Bryern that I’m careful.

“Plus fifty bucks for expenses,” I say on impulse.

He frowns. After a moment, he reaches into a different part of his jacket and hands over the extra cash. “Just take care of this,” he says. The lack of quibbling is a bad sign. Maybe I should have asked more questions before I agreed to this job. I definitely should have negotiated harder.

Too late now.

I get back on my bike and, with a farewell wave to Bryern, kick off toward downtown. Once upon a time, I imagined myself as a knight astride a steed, glorying in contests of skill and honor. Too bad my talents turned out to lie in another direction entirely.

I suppose I am a skilled enough murderer of Folk, but what I really excel at is getting under their skin. Hopefully that will serve me well in persuading a cannibal faerie to do what I want.

Before I go to confront her, I decide to ask around.

First, I see a hob named Magpie, who lives in a tree in Deering Oaks Park. He says he’s heard she’s a redcap, which isn’t great news, but at least since I grew up with one, I am well informed about their nature. Redcaps crave violence and blood and murder—in fact, they get a little twitchy when there’s none to be had for stretches of time. And if they’re traditionalists, they have a cap they dip in the blood of their vanquished enemies, supposedly to grant them some stolen vitality of the slain.

I ask for a name, but Magpie doesn’t know. He sends me to Ladhar, a clurichaun who slinks around the back of bars, sucking froth from the tops of beers when no one is looking and swindling mortals in games of chance.

“You didn’t know?” Ladhar says, lowering his voice. “Grima Mog.”

I almost accuse him of lying, despite knowing better. Then I have a brief, intense fantasy of tracking down Bryern and making him choke on every dollar he gave me. “What the hell is she doing here?”

Grima Mog is the fearsome general of the Court of Teeth in the North. The same Court that the Roach and the Bomb escaped from. When I was little, Madoc read to me at bedtime from the memoirs of her battle strategies. Just thinking about facing her, I break out in a cold sweat.

I can’t fight her. And I don’t think I have a good chance of tricking her, either.

“Given the boot, I hear,” Ladhar says. “Maybe she ate someone Lady Nore liked.”

I don’t have to do this job, I remind myself. I am no longer part of Dain’s Court of Shadows. I am no longer trying to rule from behind High King Cardan’s throne. I don’t need to take big risks.

But I am curious.

Combine that with an abundance of wounded pride and you find yourself on the front steps of Grima Mog’s warehouse around dawn. I know better than to go empty-handed. I’ve got raw meat from a butcher shop chilling in a Styrofoam cooler, a few sloppily made honey sandwiches wrapped in foil, and a bottle of decent sour beer.

I knock three times and hope that if nothing else, maybe the smell of the food will cover up the smell of my fear.

The door opens, and a woman in a housecoat peers out. She’s bent over, leaning on a polished cane of black wood. “What do you want, deary?”

Seeing through her glamour as I do, I note the green tint to her skin and her overlarge teeth. Like my foster father: Madoc. The guy who killed my parents. The guy who read me her battle strategies. Madoc, once the Grand General of the High Court. Now enemy of the throne and not real happy with me, either.

Hopefully he and High King Cardan will ruin each other’s lives.

“I brought you some gifts,” I say, holding up the cooler. “Can I come in? I want to make a bargain.”

She frowns a little.

“You can’t keep eating random Folk without someone being sent to try to persuade you to stop,” I say.

“Perhaps I will eat you, pretty child,” she counters, brightening. But she steps back to allow me into her lair. I guess she can’t make a meal of me in the hall.

The apartment is loft-style, with high ceilings and brick walls. Nice. Floors polished and glossed up. Big windows letting in light and a decent view of the town. It’s furnished with old things. The tufting on a few of the pieces is torn, and there are marks that could have come from a stray cut of a knife.

The whole place smells like blood. A coppery, metal smell, overlaid with a slightly cloying sweetness. I put my gifts on a heavy wooden table.

“For you,” I say. “In the hopes you’ll overlook my rudeness in calling on you uninvited.”

She sniffs at the meat, turns a honey sandwich over in her hand, and pops off the cap on the beer with her fist. Taking a long draught, she looks me over.

“Someone instructed you in the niceties. I wonder why they bothered, little goat. You’re obviously the sacrifice sent in the hopes my appetite can be sated with mortal flesh.” She smiles, showing her teeth. It’s possible she dropped her glamour in that moment, although, since I saw through it already, I can’t tell.

I blink at her. She blinks back, clearly waiting for a reaction.

By not screaming and running for the door, I have annoyed her. I can tell. I think she was looking forward to chasing me when I ran.

“You’re Grima Mog,” I say. “Leader of armies. Destroyer of your enemies. Is this really how you want to spend your retirement?”

“Retirement?” She echoes the word as though I have dealt her the deadliest insult. “Though I have been cast down, I will find another army to lead. An army bigger than the first.”

Sometimes I tell myself something a lot like that. Hearing it aloud, from someone else’s mouth, is jarring. But it gives me an idea. “Well, the local Folk would prefer not to get eaten while you’re planning your next move. Obviously, being human, I’d rather you didn’t eat mortals—I doubt they’d give you what you’re looking for anyway.”

She waits for me to go on.

“A challenge,” I say, thinking of everything I know about redcaps. “That’s what you crave, right? A good fight. I bet the Folk you killed weren’t all that special. A waste of your talents.”

“Who sent you?” she asks finally. Reevaluating. Trying to figure out my angle.

“What did you do to piss her off?” I ask. “Your queen? It must have been something big to get kicked out of the Court of Teeth.”

“Who sent you?” she roars. I guess I hit a nerve. My best skill.

I try not to smile, but I’ve missed the rush of power that comes with playing a game like this, of strategy and cunning. I hate to admit it, but I’ve missed risking my neck. There’s no room for regrets when you’re busy trying to win. Or at least not to die. “I told you. The local Folk who don’t want to get eaten.”

“Why you?” she asks. “Why would they send a slip of a girl to try to convince me of anything?”

Scanning the room, I take note of a round box on top of the refrigerator. An old-fashioned hatbox. My gaze snags on it. “Probably because it would be no loss to them if I failed.”

At that, Grima Mog laughs, taking another sip of the sour beer. “A fatalist. So how will you persuade me?”

I walk to the table and pick up the food, looking for an excuse to get close to that hatbox. “First, by putting away your groceries.”

Grima Mog looks amused. “I suppose an old lady like myself could use a young thing doing a few errands around the house. But be careful. You might find more than you bargained for in my larder, little goat.”

I open the door of the fridge. The remains of the Folk she’s killed greet me. She’s collected arms and heads, preserved somehow, baked and broiled and put away just like leftovers after a big holiday dinner. My stomach turns.

A wicked smile crawls across her face. “I assume you hoped to challenge me to a duel? Intended to brag about how you’d put up a good fight? Now you see what it means to lose to Grima Mog.”

I take a deep breath. Then with a hop, I knock the hatbox off the top of the fridge and into my arms.

“Don’t touch that!” she shouts, pushing to her feet as I rip off the lid.

And there it is: the cap. Lacquered with blood, layers and layers of it.

She’s halfway across the floor to me, teeth bared. I pull out a lighter from my pocket and flick the flame to life with my thumb. She halts abruptly at the sight of the fire.

“I know you’ve spent long, long years building the patina of this cap,” I say, willing my hand not to shake, willing the flame not to go out. “Probably there’s blood on here from your first kill, and your last. Without it, there will be no reminder of your past conquests, no trophies, nothing. Now I need you to make a deal with me. Vow that there will be no more murders. Not the Folk, not humans, for so long as you reside in the mortal world.”

“And if I don’t, you’ll burn my treasure?” Grima Mog finishes for me. “There’s no honor in that.”

“I guess I could offer to fight you,” I say. “But I’d probably lose. This way, I win.”

Grima Mog points the tip of her black cane toward me. “You’re Madoc’s human child, aren’t you? And our new High King’s seneschal in exile. Tossed out like me.”

I nod, discomfited at being recognized.

“What did you do?” she asks, a satisfied little smile on her face. “It must have been something big.”

“I was a fool,” I say, because I might as well admit it. “I gave up the bird in my hand for two in the bush.”

She gives a big, booming laugh. “Well, aren’t we a pair, redcap’s daughter? But murder is in my bones and blood. I don’t plan on giving up killing. If I am to be stuck in the mortal world, then I intend to have some fun.”

I bring the flame closer to the hat. The bottom of it begins to blacken, and a terrible stench fills the air.

“Stop!” she shouts, giving me a look of raw hatred. “Enough. Let me make you an offer, little goat. We spar. If you lose, my cap is returned to me, unburnt. I continue to hunt as I have. And you give me your littlest finger.”

“To eat?” I ask, taking the flame away from the hat.

“If I like,” she returns. “Or to wear like a brooch. What do you care what I do with it? The point is that it will be mine.”

“And why would I agree to that?”

“Because if you win, you will have your promise from me. And I will tell you something of significance regarding your High King.”

“I don’t want to know anything about him,” I snap, too fast and too angrily. I hadn’t been expecting her to invoke Cardan.

Her laugh this time is low and rumbling. “Little liar.”

We stare at each other for a long moment. Grima Mog’s gaze is amiable enough. She knows she has me. I am going to agree to her terms. I know it, too, although it’s ridiculous. She’s a legend. I don’t see how I can win.

But Cardan’s name pounds in my ears.

Does he have a new seneschal? Does he have a new lover? Is he going to Council meetings himself? Does he talk about me? Do he and Locke mock me together? Does Taryn laugh?

“We spar until first blood,” I say, shoving everything else out of my head. It’s a pleasure to have someone to focus my anger on. “I’m not giving you my finger,” I say. “You win, you get your cap. Period. And I walk out of here. The concession I am making is fighting you at all.”

“First blood is dull.” Grima Mog leans forward, her body alert. “Let’s agree to fight until one of us cries off. Let it end somewhere between bloodshed and crawling away to die on the way home.” She sighs, as if thinking a happy thought. “Give me a chance to break every bone in your scrawny body.”

“You’re betting on my pride.” I tuck her cap into one pocket and the lighter into the other.

She doesn’t deny it. “Did I bet right?”

First blood is dull. It’s all dancing around each other, looking for an opening. It’s not real fighting. When I answer her, the word feels as though it rushes out of me. “Yes.”

“Good.” She lifts the tip of the cane toward the ceiling. “Let’s go to the roof.”

“Well, this is very civilized,” I say.

“You better have brought a weapon, because I’ll loan you nothing.” She heads toward the door with a heavy sigh, as though she really is the old woman she’s glamoured to be.

I follow her out of her apartment, down the dimly lit hall, and into the even darker stairway, my nerves firing. I hope I know what I’m doing. She goes up the steps two at a time, eager now, slamming open a metal door at the top. I hear the clatter of steel as she draws a thin sword out of her cane. A greedy smile pulls her lips too wide, showing off her sharp teeth.

I draw the long knife I have hidden in my boot. It doesn’t have the best reach, but I don’t have the ability to glamour things; I can’t very well ride my bike around with Nightfell on my back.

Still, right now, I really wish I’d figured out a way to do just that.

I step onto the asphalt roof of the building. The sun is starting to rise, tinting the sky pink and gold. A chill breeze blows through the air, bringing with it the scents of concrete and garbage, along with goldenrod from the nearby park.

My heart speeds with some combination of terror and eagerness. When Grima Mog comes at me, I am ready. I parry and move out of the way. I do it again and again, which annoys her.

“You promised me a threat,” she growls, but at least I have a sense of how she moves. I know she’s hungry for blood, hungry for violence. I know she’s used to hunting prey. I just hope she’s overconfident. It’s possible she will make mistakes facing someone who can fight back.

Unlikely, but possible.

When she comes at me again, I spin and kick the back of her knee hard enough to send her crashing to the ground. She roars, scrambling up and coming at me full speed. For a moment, the fury in her face and those fearsome teeth send a horrible, paralyzing jolt through me.

Monster! my mind screams.

I clench my jaw against the urge to keep dodging. Our blades shine, fish-scale bright in the new light of the day. The metal slams together, ringing like a bell. We battle across the roof, my feet clever as we scuff back and forth. Sweat starts on my brow and under my arms. My breath comes hot, clouding in the chill air.

It feels good to be fighting someone other than myself.

Grima Mog’s eyes narrow, watching me, looking for weaknesses. I am conscious of every correction Madoc ever gave me, every bad habit the Ghost tried to train out of me. She begins a series of brutal blows, trying to drive me to the edge of the building. I give ground, attempting to defend myself against the flurry, against the longer reach of her blade. She was holding back before, but she’s not holding back now.

Again and again she pushes me toward a drop through the open air. I fight with grim determination. Perspiration slicks my skin, beads between my shoulder blades.

Then my foot smacks into a metal pipe sticking up through the asphalt. I stumble, and she strikes. It’s all I can do to avoid getting speared, and it costs me my knife, which goes hurtling off the roof. I hear it hit the street below with a dull thud.

I should never have taken this assignment. I should never have agreed to this fight. I should never have taken up Cardan’s offer of marriage and never been exiled to the mortal world.

Anger gives me a burst of energy, and I use it to get out of Grima Mog’s way, letting the momentum of her strike carry her blade down past me. Then I elbow her hard in the arm and grab for the hilt of her sword.

It’s not a very honorable move, but I haven’t been honorable for a long time. Grima Mog is very strong, but she’s also surprised. For a moment, she hesitates, but then she slams her forehead into mine. I go reeling, but I almost had her weapon.

I almost had it.

My head is pounding, and I feel a little dizzy.

“That’s cheating, girl,” she tells me. We’re both breathing hard. I feel like my lungs are made of lead.

“I’m no knight.” As though to emphasize the point, I pick up the only weapon I can see: a metal pole. It’s heavy and has no edge whatsoever, but it’s all there is. At least it’s longer than the knife.

She laughs. “You ought to concede, but I’m delighted you haven’t.”

“I’m an optimist,” I say. Now when she runs at me, she has all the speed, although I have more reach. We spin around each other, her striking and my parrying with something that swings like a baseball bat. I wish for a lot of things, but mostly to make it off this roof.

My energy is flagging. I am not used to the weight of the pipe, and it’s hard to maneuver.

Give up, my whirling brain supplies. Cry off while you’re still standing. Give her the cap, forget the money, and go home. Vivi can magic leaves into extra cash. Just this time, it wouldn’t be so bad. You’re not fighting for a kingdom. That, you already lost.

Grima Mog comes toward me as though she can scent my despair. She puts me through my paces, a few fast, aggressive strikes in the hopes of getting under my guard.

Sweat drips down my forehead, stinging my eyes.

Madoc described fighting as a lot of things, as a game of strategy played at speed, as a dance, but right now it feels like an argument. Like an argument where she’s keeping me too busy defending myself to score any points.

Despite the strain on my muscles, I switch to holding the pipe in one hand and pull her cap from my pocket with the other.

“What are you doing? You promised—” she begins.

I throw the cloth at her face. She grabs for it, distracted. In that moment, I swing the pipe at her side with all the strength in my body.

I catch her in the shoulder, and she falls with a howl of pain. I hit her again, bringing the metal rod down in an arc and catching her outstretched arm, sending her sword spinning across the roof.

I raise the pipe to swing again.

“Enough.” Grima Mog looks up at me from the asphalt, blood on her pointed teeth, astonishment in her face. “I yield.”

“You do?” The pipe sags in my hand.

“Yes, little cheat,” she grits out, pushing herself into a sitting position. “You bested me. Now help me up.”

I drop the pipe and walk closer, half-expecting her to pull out a knife and sink it into my side. But she only lifts a hand and allows me to haul her to her feet. She puts her cap on her head and cradles the arm I struck in the other.

“The Court of Teeth have thrown in their lot with the old Grand General—your father—and a whole host of other traitors. I have it on good authority that your High King is to be dethroned before the next full moon. How do you like those apples?”

“Is that why you left?” I ask her. “Because you’re not a traitor?”

“I left because of another little goat. Now be off with you. This was more fun than I expected, but I think our game is at a close.”

Her words ring in my ears. Your High King. Dethroned. “You still owe me a promise,” I say, my voice coming out like a croak.

And to my surprise, Grima Mog gives me one. She vows to hunt no more in the mortal lands.

“Come fight me again,” she calls after me as I head for the stairs. “I have secrets aplenty. There are so many things you don’t know, daughter of Madoc. And I think you crave a little violence yourself.”

[dear-space-cadet]

NEW OLD OC ALERT

hi I created these guys in 2017 but I want to start doing stuff with them again

they are based entirely on this Franz meme:

the grunge farmers live on a farm by a rocky coast. they host a radio station from a lighthouse on the farm. they all life in a cute little farmhouse together. ok here are the boys

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Ize (Bleachy) Katechevsky - Ize is usually seen as the owner of the Grunge Farm, but doesn’t really do much farming at all. I mean, no one does. It just kind of farms itself at night. Forest elves, or something. Ize listens exclusively to vinyl and is at a concert every night. What kind of farm is so close to a major city? This one. It’s only ten minutes outside of town. Ize inherited the farm from a distant relative on his 20th birthday. He previously worked at a record store with Tealight.

Ize’s fatal flaw is definitely his big ego. He grew up able to follow any dream he put his mind to, and because of it, believes he can do absolutely everything. The other grunge farmers know this isn’t true.

Ize hosts a radio show about new & underground artists that ~no one has ever heard of before.~

Punky - Punky is the one who actually does the farming. All of it. He likes being outside at night.

Punky was in an abusive relationship for three years. His girlfriend, x, essentially conditioned him to be her perfect boyfriend. She cut him off from all of his friends and family, and eventually wouldn't let him leave the house. Punky went for nearly three years without any human contact other than x.

x suddenly dumped Punky and he had to leave that night. He met Ize in a local shop a few days later. Punky was terrified, as he hadn't been out of the house (unless it was with x and under strict conditions) in nearly three years. When Ize asked Punky to join the farm, he was obviously quite cautious about it, but eventually gave in, because he had nowhere else to go.

As a result of his past, Punky is afraid of opening up to people and likes to be alone. Although Punky hated x, he was conditioned to need her in his life. Usually, if Punky is alone and someone comes up to him, he will want to hang out. He just has trouble forming real, human relationships sometimes.

Punky loves birds, and birds love him. He always has seeds ready to give out.

X - Punky’s ex-gf, given the nickname X until she gets a real name.

Tealight - Tealight can usually be found inside, reading or drinking tea. Although he doesn’t go out much, he is always dressed to impress. He has an extensive bowtie collection and always offers the other grunge farmers fashion advice. Especially Catface. Always Catface.

Tealight hosts a radio show about life hacks, tips and tricks, and advice.

Catface (Kittyboy) - Catface acts as the supportive older brother of the Grunge Farm. He is always available for hugs and advice. He loves using emojis. He wishes emojis were in real life, but then he remembers facial expressions and real objects.

Catface is from Australia and came to the farm via a Craigslist ad looking for roommates. When Ize saw the ad and contacted him, he decided to move out to a much colder region of the world. As a result of this, Catface has awful winter depression and flies home for a week or two every winter.

Catface hosts a radio show about the weather and environmental news.

Pastel - Pastel is seen as the baby of the squad, but is actually quite mature and knows what he’s doing. He has a surprisingly edgy sense of humor. He has a past tied to the mafia… When he broadcasts on the radio, they get strange signals.

Pastel often mentions an entity called Cable Boy, who sends in song suggestions in a language Pastel doesn't understand during his radio show where he takes suggestions.

Reno (Softy) - Reno can usually be found alone, listening to vaporwave, or out in the city with Ize. He showers precisely once a month, but never smells bad and always looks soft, hence his nickname, Softy. He played for his hometown football team, the Colton Bagels, in high school.

Reno hosts a radio show about memes and internet culture. He also takes song suggestions.

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this is a chart of the boys’ relationship with one another (made before I changed Ize and Reno’s names, sorry!!)

here are some other photos and edits regarding the grunge farmers

Ize and Pastel

Reno

Punky

Catface & Punky starter packs

so yeah that’s it!!!! PLEASE send them asks and feel free to talk to me about them teehee. I love these farm lads

also I’m interested in changing Punky and Tealight’s names so let me know if you have any ideas or suggestions!!