#brought out my capital letters for this. this is serious business

[zabiume]

Could Orihime Reject Someone Out of Existence?

This is one of those statements that gets thrown around by Orihime fans a lot as a way to defend her strength, because Orihime's weakness has been a defining part of criticism surrounding her character throughout the early-mid 2000s (and even today tbh). And it's not limited to Orihime's fans either. I've seen a lot of people use this as criticism too ["Orihime could probably reject someone out of existence"...(hence it's bad that she didn't get the opportunity to do so)]. Nevermind the fact that there hasn't been a single instance where she felt a villain has even warranted that, or the fact that Soul Society goes absolutely ballistic on Quincies, who do wipe souls out of existence, I still find this to be an interesting discussion because it neglects to consider....anything we've been told about Orihime's powers. Granted, it's pretty scummy that Kubo elaborates on the structure/logistics of her powers only in extra-canon material like CFYOW (read by only a few dedicated fans) or Klub Outside (paid Q&A forum with restricted fan access), so I don't expect that everyone has done their required reading on this, but I still think it's a good excuse to actually talk about what she can and can't do.

What Orihime Can Actually Do (Basic Powers, Achievements/Growth)

At the start of Bleach, Orihime has three basic shields - 1) Soten Kisshun - the one that rejects damage within a particular area, 2) Santen Kisshun - the one that rejects any attack aimed at Orihime & her allies (AKA, a traditional shield), 3) Koten Zanshun - the shield that forms within an external object and basically blows it up. I've seen people say Koten Zanshun is a akin to a small knife or shuriken, but in classic Kuboscience fashion, we see that it actually creates a shield that disrupts the union of matter. Ostensibly, Orihime could blow someone up if she's angry enough, and it is fun to think about Orihime blowing people up, so I understand any disappointment on that front, but. Moving on.

In Chapter 43, the Shun Shun Rikka clarify that they're not really "fairies," but a manifestation of Orihime herself. They are a part of her. I assume this works similarly to zanpakuto spirit manifestation. And IIRC, she is the only Fullbringer that has this type of manifestation (object affinity + spirit), when most Fullbringers only have an object affinity. They also mention that she needs two things to activate her powers: 1) her Heart, and 2) chanting the kotodama. I think point #1 should already make clear to us that Orihime won't be abusing her powers to hurt anyone any time soon, not unless she loses her 'Heart' like Ichigo did as a Vasto Lorde in Las Noches. Bleach signifies this as an Objectively Bad Thing. Whether we agree with that or we don't, it is the underlying mythos that sets apart our hero characters (Ichigo & his friends) from our villains.

So what can Orihime do, at this point in canon? She can regrow limbs and shield people from attacks, which she does extensively throughout the Soul Society and Hueco Mundo arcs. Here she is a) using two of her shields at the same time, and b) trapping Ichigo (the strongest guy in canon at any point in time) within her shield.

Over time, she develops Shiten Kosshun, a way to incorporate Tsubaki into an offensive technique without actually compromising on her distaste for excessive violence. Here's why that's a big deal. She can also use her Shun Shun Rikka long-range, which you can see when she's a) healing Chad post-Yammy (sorry for the random color screenshot, I got it off Twitter because I couldn't remember the exact chapter), and b) in 686, when we learn she uses them to keep an eye on Kazui. She also uses Santen Kesshun as a transport service throughout TYBW, which is not something she could do during the Lust arc, since she needed Uryu's help to get there. She also does not need to say her kotodama to activate her powers anymore, which is the result of constant and continuous training with Rukia pre-HM arc and Chad post-HM arc.

Since Orihime isn't a shinigami, it might get a little difficult to measure her "growth" the same way we do with characters who attain bankai (the Bleach standard for strength). But in less than three years, Orihime developed a new shield, got faster at healing, and found new and inventive ways to use her powers every arc. She was already at lieutenant-levels of strength in terms of healing way back in the Soul Society arc, if Ieumura's testimony is anything to go by:

So...what can't Orihime do? This is what I think I've seen a majority of people scratch their heads about, thereby making her seem ridiculously overpowered but severely underused.

Like any Bleach character of significance, Orihime is ridiculously overpowered, but I don't think this translates into "Orihime can do everything" and its implied "but she chooses to do nothing." We'll get into Orihime's choices and my opinions later, but I think now is a good time to talk about Orihime's natural limitations.

What Orihime Cannot Do

Two of Orihime's major limitations that I wanted to highlight are from Klub and CFYOW, like I mentioned earlier. You can read about them below.

To summarize: 1) Orihime can't recover spiritual pressure/is very slow at recovering spiritual pressure because of the tremendous strain it puts on her body and the fact that she can only heal what she can see, 2) Orihime can't heal someone with fatal injuries if "enough time has passed" (AKA if she gets to them too late after they've been injured). 3) Orihime can't actually revive someone if they've been evaporated. She needs a physical body.

These limitations are important, because they imply that she can't actually wipe someone out of existence. Interacting with reiryoku puts a strain on her. I once wrote that she could probably "reject" an egg that's just been fertilized by a sperm (we love a pro-choice queen!), but I doubt she could zoink a 20-year-old out of existence, because again: there is a time limit within which she has to act, or her powers won't be able to work. The only rejections she could do with people are abortions, and even then, I don't think she could do late-terms. And even then, if you can't see a cell with your naked eye, I doubt she could do those either. I've seen people wonder if she could cure cancers and my honest answer is: probably not until the symptoms were obviously visible.

The Shun Shun Rikka can't actually undo something if a certain amount of time has passed, so I highly doubt she could undo one's physical body, one's spiritual pressure...one's entire being. Even if she could, I doubt that would cleanse the spirit and send it to Soul Society. Instead, they would disappear/evaporate, which destabilizes the balance of souls (the way Quincies do it).

The reason I obsess about this is because limitations are a good thing when you're exploring a power system. There's always been this misconception that Orihime can basically "do anything," but that doesn't...mean anything. Orihime can't do everything, which means she is, like every other Bleach character, limited. Even Aizen's zanpakuto had a shortcoming, so I don't think Kubo necessarily nerfed her, and I think it does help contextualize what she can actually do vs what people expect her to do for no good reason.

Even if Orihime Could, Should She?

I enjoy powerscaling as much as the next guy, but I think the thing I like the least about it is its complete lack of literacy. Specifically literacy of the narrative.

In stories like this, heroes don't win over villains because they're objectively stronger. They win because they push an ideal that, in some way, represents the core values of the series. You were stronger, but I had the power of friendship on my side. You turned your pain into violence, but I turned mine into compassion. The entire point of Ulquiorra's arrogance was that he believed in what he could see – Aizen's strength. But he lost because of what he couldn't see – Ichigo & Orihime's hearts.

A part of the Arrancar saga is the long philosophical battle between Ulquiorra and Orihime, where Ulquiorra has faith in Aizen's watertight plans, his formidable army, his impenetrable kingdom. Meanwhile, Orihime has faith in her five scrappy best friends who invaded said kingdom overnight and have,,,,,only the slightest idea about what they're doing. Aizen's entire force operates under the belief that because they can do something, they should. Because they have power, they should use it, and if they can, seek more of it. Ichigo and Orihime, as a contrast, use their discretion and seem really upset about having to fight anyone at all. People point this lack of killing intent out as an exclusively Orihime thing, but it is very much an Ichigo thing too. Ichigo looking down at Grimmjow with pity-filled eyes is an exact parallel to Orihime looking at Ulquiorra with the same expression. People wanted Orihime to be vengeful against the Arrancars because they're her abusers. But Orihime sees them as victims. She pities the fact that they know nothing but brute violence — and that this is their reality. She sees them as someone to be saved.

But lest we think she's an irrefutable saint who gets off way too easy, it's clear she has some regrets about her place in the friend group and her dependency on Ichigo in particular. But, post-HM, she doesn't ask him to save her at all. Rather, the first time we see Shiten Kosshun, she's the one protecting him. I don't think Orihime has ever needed to kill someone to prove that she's a dimensional character in a series where even Ichigo hesitates to murder the guy who killed his mother. I think it's interesting that Orihime and Ichigo are largely sympathetic towards their villains unless they really, really fuck up, in which case Orihime has lashed out in appropriate doses (see: Ginjou, Yhwach.). I don't understand what vengeance would add to her character that compassion hasn't tenfold.

A last point I want to note is about weakness and our reaction to it. Many of us are shonen-brained to a point where we divide a story into victories and losses, battles won and battles thrown. But Orihime's character arc has never been about her victory over anyone but herself. Orihime can't reject someone out of existence, and even if she could, would she want to? Would Ichigo? Throughout the story, these two have been set to contrast characters who can and did. While their enemies sought to escape their own weaknesses (which Bleach conflates with being human) through transcendence, Ichigo and Orihime chose weakness constantly. They chose to be merciful, to be kind, to be vulnerable. I've seen countless jokes about how Ichigo loses 5 times before he can win for good. I've seen Orihime get her fair share of setbacks. But they come out of it victorious anyway, against all odds. And they aren't stronger because they have the power, they're stronger because they have the heart. I simply couldn't bear losing out on character writing like that.

[notsomassiveblackhole]

Lucifer’s Lemonade

Lucifer’s decided to open a lemonade stand, but they’re tragically not receiving any business. After throwing a petite temper tantrum, however, they inexplicably run into a customer brought to them by pure serendipity—for more reasons than one.

On a sweltering Sunday afternoon, Lucifer sat at their new lemonade stand with the most defeated pout of the century tugging at their lips. They had spent a whopping two hours making other demons assemble, paint, and decorate their stand while they semi-attentively supervised parts of the process, and this was their reward? Not a single customer in five minutes? Absolutely unbelievable!

Lucifer dug their nails into the side of the lemonade stand until it splintered as they waited “patiently” for their first customer. Would there even be a first customer at all? If there wasn’t, Lucifer decided, then they would incinerate every demon involved with the creation of this godforsaken lemonade stand.

Several more minutes passed by, and Lucifer toppled all of their cups over before stacking them again just to make it seem like they were being productive. They picked up the tip jar and set it back down, they stirred the already homogenous lemonade, and they even briefly stood up to inspect the sign.

“Lucifer’s Lemonade!” it screamed in capitalized letters. “One century of service per glass! No discounts available.” Lucifer put their hands on their hips and frowned. Could it be that the refusal of any potential discounts was driving everyone away? They grabbed a permanent marker out of their pocket and furiously crossed out the “no,” making the sign seem as if discounts were practically a promise. What a pathetic way to reel customers in, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

Lucifer plopped back into their seat with a dissatisfied huff and crossed their arms. Mazikeen stepped outside, glancing between Lucifer and their untouched jug of lemonade. “Had any luck yet?” she asked.

“Evidently not.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It isn’t your fault.” Suddenly, Lucifer perked up. “Oh! Would you like a glass of lemonade, by any chance?” Mazikeen grimaced.

“Not particularly.” Lucifer shot up from their chair and scowled as their heart pounded in their chest.

“Why is that, Mazikeen? Is it the price? Is it the lemonade itself? Is it me?”

“No! No, it’s none of those things.”

“Then tell me what it is, or I’m never helping you with your morning crosswords again!” Mazikeen shrugged.

“I’ve just never particularly cared for lemonade.” Lucifer stalked closer to Mazikeen and lowered their voice.

“That’s it,” they hissed. “Get out of my sight.”

“All I said was that I’m not overly fond of it!”

“And I didn’t like what I heard.” Lucifer aggressively pointed towards their palace. “Now, out. No more crossword assistance for you.” Mazikeen hung her head and pitifully trudged away.

“You were never very good at those crosswords, anyway,” she muttered.

“Let’s see how good you are at withstanding the torture I have planned, and then maybe I’ll allow you to make snide comments like that.” Mazikeen said nothing and simply continued her agonizing walk. Lucifer groaned, storming over to the lemonade stand and letting out a gasp.

They had a customer.

It was as if time froze completely at that moment. Lucifer’s peripheral vision became a flurry of sparkles, hearts, and soft lights as they focused in on their hero—and then the magic subsided almost immediately.

“Dream?” Lucifer managed to croak out.

“Hello there, Lightbringer.” Of course. Of course Lucifer’s mystical first customer had to be that insufferable creature with the spiky hair and the strangely close relationships with ravens.

“What are you doing here, Morpheus?” Dream silently gestured to the lemonade stand’s sign. “You can’t be serious. What does the lord of dreams need lemonade for?”

“A refreshing beverage.”

“And you’re willing to give me a century of service?”

“I thought that discounts were available.” Lucifer reread the sign and grinned.

“Ah, yes! You thought correctly.” They enthusiastically poured Dream one glass of lemonade, holding it out to him before abruptly yanking it away. “Wait! I forgot the sugar!”

“Isn’t there sugar in the lemonade already?” Lucifer plastered on a smile.

“No.” They knelt on the ground beside their sugar container and scooped a heap of it into their hand. “You are failure,” they whispered into the sugar like a maniac. “You are disappointment, you are devastation, and you are most certainly not conducive to the existence of dreams.” Lucifer leaned even closer to the sugar. “In fact, you’re the very antithesis of dreams and everything that they mean.”

“I wasn’t aware that adding sugar to my lemonade was such a complex process, Lucifer Morningstar,” Dream said from above. Lucifer dramatically rolled their eyes and hopped back up to their feet with their fortified sugar in hand.

“My sincerest apologies for the wait. Do you not realize how difficult it is for me not to accidentally caramelize the sugar with how downright infuriating you are?”

“Excuse me?”

“Hm? What?” Dream sighed exasperatedly.

“Maybe you could avoid that issue if you didn’t touch the sugar with your bare hands.”

“It’s too late now, isn’t it?”

“Just offering a suggestion.”

“A suggestion that I reject, yes.”

“But your lemonade stand is a major hygiene concern!”

“Don’t worry, Morpheus. I wash my hands regularly.”

Truthfully, Lucifer only cleaned their hands once every thousand years, but they had cleverly neglected to mention that “regularly” did not mean “frequently.” So, with their delightfully grimy hands, they dumped the catalyst for Dream’s downfall into his unsuspecting Solo cup of lemonade. The absolute filthiness of Lucifer’s hands would be the least of Dream’s worries in about thirty seconds.

“Here you are,” Lucifer said sweetly, passing Dream his lemonade.

“Well? What’s the discount?”

“Oh, forget about it. The lemonade’s free.” Dream raised his eyebrows.

“How come?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m quite impressed by the way you bested me the other day, Dream. Hope—what a stroke of genius that was. I still can’t conjure anything up to defeat it with.” At that, Dream did the impossible: he smiled.

“You flatter me, Lightbringer.” He took a sip of his lemonade, and Lucifer fought the urge to squirm around like a giddy child winning at a game of tag. Dream of the Endless wouldn’t be endless for much longer.

Dream gazed off into the distance pensively for a moment before slowly beginning to nod. “You know what, Lucifer Morningstar? This lemonade’s actually pretty—”

Before he could finish his sentence, Dream disintegrated into nothing but a pile of ash with a red Solo cup resting neatly on top of it. Lucifer stared blankly at his remains, cocking their head. “That worked?” Their face lit up, and they started to twirl in circles with their wings fluttering behind them. “It worked! It actually worked!”

“What’s all this ruckus about?” Mazikeen asked as she approached the side of the lemonade stand. Lucifer whipped their head around and beamed.

“Mazikeen!” They leapt over to her and wrapped her in a crushing hug, squeezing their eyes shut. “Mazikeen, I finally got my first customer!”

And he had finally gotten his last cup of lemonade.

[ibijau]

Concubine nhs pt6 / on AO3

“What if you lived here,” the emperor says as he peppers with kisses the crook of Nie Huaisang’s neck. “I could arrange to give you quarters of your own. You’d get to spend your time as you please, you’d only see the people you want to see, and it’d be easier to be together.”

Nie Huaisang hums, tracing patterns on the other man’s sweaty back, enjoying the warmth and closeness. He’s never actually complained against Nie Funyu, but the emperor might have picked up on his reluctance whenever it’s time to go home. Or maybe he didn’t notice, and just wishes to have him more at his disposition. They’ve counted themselves lucky when they could see each other once a week in the nearly two months since they’ve become lovers. The emperor is often busy during the day, and worries too much about Nie Huaisang’s reputation to make him stay at night. He doesn’t want the Nies to get the wrong idea, he’s explained, even if in this case the wrong idea would be the right one.

It’s sweet of him. The emperor would probably be horrified to learn that Nie Funyu has given him spring books, ‘for inspiration’, and encouraged him to ask for advice to Meng Yao, whose mother was a courtesan.

There are many things the emperor doesn’t need to know.

At least, the war against the Wens seems to be going well. Nie Mingjue has captured a strategic city already… though the Wens apparently have shown signs that they might attack the lands under Jiang Fengmian’s protection, and if they succeed that could be a serious threat to commerce. Nie Huaisang has spent a couple of sleepless nights peering over maps, trying to guess what his brother’s strategy might be. They might need to rely on the armies that are under Jin Guangshan’s command, which won’t be pleasant because he’s a prick and difficult to work with, but his son is engaged to the young lady Jiang, so maybe…

“Huaisang, what do you think then?” the emperor asks, rising on one elbow to look at his lover’s face. “About living here?”

“I think your uncle won’t like it.”

“This isn’t about him, and I’ll deal with him if needed. Do you like it?”

A home of his own wouldn’t be unpleasant, Nie Huaisang figures. It would make it harder for people to order him around, and he wouldn’t have to report everything he does when he’s alone with the emperor. On the downside, it means being forced to follow protocol and learn a whole new set of rules to avoid getting in trouble in the imperial palace, where people are ever so attentive to rank and constantly plotting for their own schemes. It also means losing Meng Yao, the only friend he’s managed to make since coming to the capital.

“I don’t want people to think of you badly,” Nie Huaisang says, and means it. He doesn’t like hearing the emperor insulted. “They’ll say you brought in a servant’s son as your whore when you won’t even take a wife.”

“I don’t want a wife, I want you,” the emperor replies with such sincerity that Nie Huaisang can only smile at him and steal a kiss. The emperor allows that kiss, but ends it before it can turn heated, an air of concern on his face. “If you don’t want to live here, just say no.”

“Hm.”

“But if you’re scared of what people might say, then I’ll make this as official as can be. I can’t take you as my wife, but there have been male concubines in the past. You’d have every honour that I can bestow upon you, a monthly allowance, your own quarters, as many servants as you’d like… People would owe you the same respect they’d owe anyone else in my household.”

That’s probably not as much respect as the emperor thinks. Having lived so much of his life as a servant, Nie Huaisang has overheard a lot of gossip and is only too aware of what people say about that sort of situation. He’s heard his father chat  with his guests about the many whore of their good friend Jin Guangshan, or share stories about the old emperor and his tragic romance that elicited more laughter than compassion. 

And that’s just what nobles share among themselves. Servants are just as ruthless when talking about their masters. Nie Huaisang knows what people said about his father for taking a pretty servant girl into his bed a whole winter, even talking about marrying when she became pregnant, before eventually sending her back to her old job after deciding he didn’t want to divide Nie Mingjue’s inheritance. If Nie Mingjue himself hadn’t become fond of his bastard brother and insisted on seeing him legitimised... and people gossip about that, too.

People are mean.

“What if you change your mind about me?” Nie Huaisang asks.

The emperor looks sad and brings a hand to Nie Huaisang cheek, caressing his face with unbearable tenderness.

“I won’t. I’m sure about the way I feel.”

Nie Huaisang says nothing. People are always sure at first, always ready to say whatever it takes to get a pretty little thing in their bed, until someone prettier comes around and catches their attention…

But the emperor isn’t people. He’s someone who means what he says, and his every action make it clear that this isn’t just about sex. He’s so genuinely happy when they’re chatting, when they’re playing a game, when he gets to make Nie Huaisang try some new food. Even today the emperor was more interested in painting together, and they probably wouldn’t have made love if Nie Huaisang hadn’t seduced him.

Nie Funyu scolded him after the one visit that didn’t end up in bed, accusing him of not putting in the effort, of being selfish, of risking his brother’s life by not giving in to the emperor’s every whims. So now, Nie Huaisang is careful, even though he’s half sure he doesn’t need to be.

The emperor is not like other men.

It’d be easier if he were. It’d be just a transaction, which Meng Yao says is the best way to deal with those situations. When feelings get involved, things become messy, he said, and made Nie Huaisang promise not to do something stupid like falling in love.

It might be too late for that, but Nie Huaisang promised anyway.

“If you don’t want to live here, it’s fine,” the emperor says when Nie Huaisang has been silent for too long. “Just know that I’m willing to give this to you. Anything you want, I’ll give it to you.”

“I want to run away with you,” Nie Huaisang replies too fast. “Far away from here, and hide from everyone we’ve ever known.”

The emperor sits up, a sad smile on his lips. It’s unfair that he’s beautiful even when he’s sad.

It unfair that Nie Huaisang can’t have the only thing he really wants.

“What about your brother?”

Nie Huaisang stretches, and wrinkles his nose. It’s getting late, he realises, looking through the window. He needs to wash and get dressed so he can leave. He doesn’t want to.

“I guess Mingming is allowed to visit us sometimes. But only if he’ll keep the secret.”

With a short laugh, the emperor takes Nie Huaisang’s hand and helps him sit up as well, before stealing a kiss.

“And my brother?”

“I don’t know. Would you miss him?”

“Very much so.”

“Then he can visit as well,” Nie Huaisang generously allows. “In fact, he can even live with us, but he’ll have to do his share of work. Can he hunt?”

“Wangji is a strict vegetarian.”

“So what? Plenty of people eat meat who can’t hunt. He could hunt and not eat meat. I’ve heard people say he’s amazing with a bow. If he lives with us, he can go hunt for rare furs, that will make us some nice money. I can sell my services as an accountant or something of the sort. And you… well, you can just stay home and write poetry, you’re good at that.”

“A kind way to say I don’t have any useful skill!” the emperor complains, pulling him close for a kiss that’s more laughter than anything else. 

For a moment, Nie Huaisang thinks that the kiss will lead to more, but the emperor is too serious and reasonable for that. Instead he gets a soft towel to clean Nie Huaisang’s body until the only traces of their lovemaking are a few red bites. They both have other things to do. The emperor must lead his people, and Nie Huaisang must humiliate himself by sharing more than he’d like about his intimate life with his father's cousin.

As they both get dressed, the emperor chats quietly, trying to figure out when they might be together again. There are some important celebrations coming up, and he needs to hear the grievances of a great number of officials and supplicants because of the trouble caused by the Wens. It probably will be two weeks before he can make time again, if not more.

Two weeks feels like a very long time. Not only will Nie Huaisang miss the emperor, but he’ll have to deal with his cousin’s temper, who is sure to be upset by this long pause in their acquaintance.

“Xichen, I’ve decided what I want,” Nie Huaisang says as he finishes tying his robes. The emperor looks at him with a puzzled air, as if he’s already forgotten what they were talking about. Then, as he remembers, his expression turns hopeful, so much that Nie Huaisang can only smile. “I want to live here, with you. As your concubine, your servant, your whore, I don’t care, I just want…”

He can’t finish, because the emperor crosses the distance between them and kisses him as if his life depends on it. 

They do end up making love again after all. The entire time, the emperor swears he’ll take care of Nie Huaisang, that he’ll protect him, that he loves him,  that they’ll be happy. Life isn’t that simple, but Nie Huaisang can pretend that it is. It’d be nice to be happy.

In his next letter, Father says that the emperor has written to him about taking Nie Huaisang as his concubine, and sent a contract draft regarding that offer. Father then congratulates Nie Huaisang for tricking the emperor so well, and forcing him to make his support of their family as official as if he’d married one of their daughters. That praise leaves him feeling dirty. The emperor is a good man, who doesn’t have to be tricked into doing what he thinks is right, and Nie Huaisang hates that this is how others see their relationship.

The best thing about going to live in the imperial palace, Nie Huaisang decides, is that Father won’t be able to write such cruel things anymore for fear the emperor might see it.

[muertawrites]

Two Halves - Chapter One (Zuko x Reader)

Word Count: 3,700

Author’s Note: I decided to set this a few years after the war, when Zuko is Firelord. I didn’t want to stray too far from what was canon in the series - what with Katara being the only bender left in the Southern Tribe and also trying not to add extra family members because that always feels weird to me - so the reader in this story is a girl from the village who lost her parents to a raid and was essentially adopted into Sokka and Katara’s family; she stayed behind to watch after the tribe when they left to help Aang, and now, as the chief’s surrogate daughter, is arranged to marry the Firelord to help bring the two nations together. Chaos and sweet, tender romance ensues. This is also going to be a mini series! I have no real plot and no idea how long it’s going to be, but that just adds to the fun of it all. Stay tuned.

~ Muerta 

“You can’t be serious.” 

Sokka, seated beside you, instinctively offers you his hand, which you willingly, eagerly take, gripping it tightly in your lap. You can’t decide if you feel anger or fear; the two mix sourly in your stomach. 

“I am,” Chief Hakoda says. His tone is even, and infuriatingly understanding. It makes you want to scream. “Your presence in the Fire Nation will be key to unite the nations in peace once again. They’ve been closed off from the rest of the world for too long - you’ll be an ambassador for our people.” 

“Then make me an ambassador,” you snap. “Marrying me off to the Firelord is no better than letting him come here and colonize us.” 

Hakoda glowers sternly at you. You shrink back, Sokka giving your hand an assuring squeeze.

“Firelord Zuko has made great strides to restore what his ancestors destroyed in the years since the war,” Hakoda scolds. “He’s an honorable, respectable man. I expect you to treat him as such.” 

You look back up at him, letting out a heavy, defeated sigh. 

“I don’t have a choice in this, do I?” you ask softly. Your voice quivers, revealing the terror behind your rage. 

Hakoda’s expression softens as he stands. He helps you onto your feet, holding you gently at the elbows and looking apologetically into your eyes, one of his hands reaching to brush your hair behind your ear. 

“Just because the war is over, it doesn’t mean the need for sacrifice is,” he tenderly says. “You’ll do great things as the queen of the Fire Nation. I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t trust Zuko to treat you well.” 

In Hakoda’s eyes, you see the man you knew as a child, the man who brought you into his family when you lost your own to a Fire Nation raid. You love him as much as you loved your own father, and know he loves you as much as his flesh and blood children; you trust that he would never put you in harm’s way. 

Hakoda leans forward and kisses your forehead, holding you close for a long moment before letting go, breaking contact with you completely. The pain on his face tears a gaping hole in your heart. 

“You leave in three days,” he tells you. “You’ll be in good hands - I promise.” 

Though you know it isn’t for the last time, leaving the Southern Water Tribe hurts so much you think it might kill you. 

You cruise across a calm ocean in a Fire Navy ship; luckily Sokka was allowed to come with you as emotional support, as well as to represent the tribe at your wedding. The presence of Zuko’s uncle is also calming to you, despite how little you know him, and how not long ago you would have considered him an enemy. There’s just something about Iroh that makes you feel safe, and you only hope the same holds true when you meet your husband to be. 

“Zuko sent me to ensure your safe passage,” Iroh told you when you first boarded the ship. “Think of me as your guardian spirit.” 

You stand on the deck, basking in the newly warm weather and taking deep breaths of fresh ocean breeze. The peace of the moment helps you lose yourself, forgetting your fate entirely, if only for a moment. 

“How ya feeling?” 

Sokka sidles up next to you, placing an assuring hand on your shoulder. You reach up and curl your fingers around his, sighing.  

“Awful, now that you’re here,” you tease. 

Sokka chuckles. 

“I could still make good on that promise I made when we were kids,” he offers, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you into the side of his sturdy, familiar body. “I don’t think Suki or Dad would be really happy about it, though.” 

You let out a huff of laughter, remembering all the times you used to play together before the war brought you closer; you used to have intense crushes on each other, and Sokka always promised that he would marry you when you both got older - plans that changed when you effectively became siblings. You lean your head into his shoulder, finding comfort in his presence.  

“I’m just scared,” you tell him. “I always planned for great adventure in my life, and to help people, but… this doesn’t seem like the right way. It feels like I’m being taken prisoner.” 

“They say that having too many plans for one’s life keeps one from finding their true potential.” 

You turn, meeting Iroh’s gaze as he crosses the deck to where you stand. You part with Sokka and bow respectfully, trying to hide the embarrassment that heats your skin. 

“I apologize, General Iroh,” you greet him. “I didn’t mean any offense.” 

Iroh tuts at you, placing a hand on your shoulder to gently straighten you up. He meets you with a kind gaze and a soft smile. 

“Fear is to be expected, my dear,” he says. “You can’t have a great adventure without also facing a great fear.” 

He turns and peers out across the water, inhaling and releasing a deep, contented sigh. 

“The weather is lovely today,” he notes. “Why don’t we all enjoy it together, with a pot of tea?” 

And so a tea set is brought, along with a table and cushions, and you and Sokka join Iroh as he demonstrates how to brew the perfect pot of jasmine green, generously serving each cup. He toasts to your being together, and you drink heartily, savoring the exquisite taste of his famous tea. 

“I understand how you must feel,” Iroh addresses you once you’ve all settled. “Coming to a strange country, among people responsible for so much of the pain you’ve experienced; you’re exceptionally brave for doing what is best for your people.”

Iroh takes your hand, cradling it between both of his. 

“I am sorry for how my nation - my family - has hurt you,” he says. “My nephew and I only want happiness for you with us, and we will do all we can to ensure it; I give you this vow among his.” 

He squeezes your hand tightly, and you grip back, accepting his promise. You bow again, lowering yourself so that your face is almost level with the deck of the ship. 

“Thank you, General Iroh,” you reply. “Your generosity means everything to me.”

When you sit up, Sokka places a hand at your back, giving you a comforting smile. 

“Zuko’s a good guy,” he assures you. “I really think you’ll learn to like him.” 

Your arrival in the Fire Nation, much to your surprise, is met with celebration. As your ship pulls into port, army and navy officers in full ceremonial regalia perform displays of their bending, a traditional band playing cheerful, joyous music to welcome you to shore. A procession of military vehicles escorts you through the streets of the capital to the palace, citizens emerging from their homes and businesses to catch a glimpse as your carriage rolls by. The people who manage to see you are elated, if not curious, staring at you with wide eyes and rapt attention; Iroh explains that many of them have never seen a foreigner, as travel to the nation is only just starting to become somewhat commonplace. You’re confronted by the beauty and grandeur of the city - the tall, elegant buildings with their ornate details are far from anything you’ve ever seen in person, even with the rapid development of the Southern Tribe. 

In the palace, you’re immediately whisked away to your own wing, your quarters designated to a set of quaint buildings circling a scenic courtyard. Tradition dictates that, from the time of your engagement, you aren’t allowed to see the man you’re meant to marry until you’re both at the alter; the first few days of your time in the Fire Nation are spent in seclusion, resting off the fatigue of travel and acquainting yourself with the new culture you must now call your own. Though you have to keep your distance, you’re relieved when, on your first morning in the palace, you find a letter on your doorstep, scrawled in a refined, graceful hand and addressed from the Firelord himself. 

Hello, it says, Zuko here.

I wish I could introduce myself in person, but unfortunately, this will have to do for now. Sokka has told me much about you in the years we’ve known each other, and he always speaks of you highly. My uncle is also already enamored with you, and tells me he already considers you family, so I hope this brings as much comfort to you as it does to me. I don’t think I could have chosen a better woman to rule at my side. 

I have to admit that I’m nervous about getting married. I still feel like I’m too young, and still just figuring things out. But I guess if I can lead a country and make peace after a hundred years of war, I can have a wife and make her happy. I hope I do make you happy - I hope we can be close friends and lead the nation strongly together, for the better of both our homes. 

Please write to me if you need anything. Sincerely yours, Firelord Zuko. 

The candidity and awkwardness of his writing makes you smile, your mind at ease being able to put a voice to his name. You decide to write him back immediately. 

Hello, Zuko, you write. 

Your letter has already made me feel much better. Your uncle is a very sweet, very wise man, and I’m thankful that you sent him to watch over me - he makes me feel like I already have a little piece of a home and a family here. Meeting the man who raised you, I have faith that you’ll be a good husband to me. 

I’m very scared because, unlike you, I’ve never led a country or had to negotiate peace - getting married is the biggest responsibility I’ve ever had. I want to help people, though, and if I can help people by leading them out of the darkness of war, I’m very happy to do it. It isn’t as terrifying knowing you’re also nervous; I’m glad we can be nervous together. 

Please write to me as much as possible until the wedding. It would be nice to get to know my husband before I marry him. Sincerely yours, the bride.”

For the following days, you and Zuko exchange multiple letters; you have one waiting for you every morning, receive a reply by midday, and end each night wishing him pleasant dreams. You learn that he’s very intelligent and, though quite subdued, has a sense of humor much like your own. He has a passion for weaponry and the art of combat, as well as for storytelling and music (he tells you that dancing has recently been unbanned in the Fire Nation, and wonders if you’ll be able to teach him any Water Tribe dances; you promise to help as much as you can). The more you write to him, the less daunting the idea of your marriage seems, and you find yourself feeling excited by the idea of finally meeting him. 

The day of your wedding starts early. You’re woken at dawn, fed a breakfast of tea and jook (both prepared by Iroh, and sent on a tray beside a polished wooden box - inside is a traditional hair comb and a note from the old man, explaining that the comb was given to his mother by his father on their wedding day; the gesture sends you to tears), then sent to the palace baths to be buffed  and primed for your wedding attire. 

You’re stripped down and steeped in multiple perfumed liquids, scrubbed with an array of soaps and exfoliants, and washed so thoroughly you think your handlers might have exposed an entirely new layer of skin. They wax every single hair from your body as well; you only attempt to draw the line when they reach your nether area. 

“Please don’t,” you request, firm but not commanding. “I don’t think I’ll need it.” 

The beautician scoffs at you, pushing you back onto the waxing table and forcefully spreading your legs apart. 

“Foolish girl,” she huffs. “Of course you will. Royal marriages must always be consummated on the wedding night - the Firelord will want as many heirs as you can give him, as soon as possible.” 

Her brute words make you sick to your stomach, and as she rips away the hair between your thighs, tears roll down your cheeks from both pain and horror. You want to believe the man who’s been writing to you for the past five days would never force himself onto you in the name of tradition, but it dawns on you once again that you don’t truly know him, and can’t anticipate his actions. 

Once you’ve been wrung out from your time at the bath house, you’re sent back to your sleeping chambers, where you’re pleased to find not only lunch waiting for you, but visitors as well. 

“Katara!” you cry, flying across the room and into her arms. She laughs, hugging you so tightly you can hardly breathe. 

“Oh, I’ve missed you!” Katara cries, whirling you around a few times before setting you back onto your feet. “You already look so beautiful! How do you feel?” 

“I’m terrified,” you tell her, “but so much happier now that you’re here.” 

“Don’t forget me!” 

Aang waves from behind Katara and you shout with glee, greeting him in the same manner you did her. He also crushes himself against you, and when you pull away, you cup his face between your hands. 

“You look older!” you exclaim, squeezing his cheeks. “You grow every time I see you!” 

Aang laughs, pushing your hands away with a pink blush creeping over his nose and ears. 

“I’m a grown man, and the avatar,” he says, teasingly poking your shoulder. “You can’t keep treating me like I’m still twelve.” 

“I can and I will,” you jest, lightly punching him in the stomach. He cackles and puts you in a (gentle) headlock, rubbing his knuckles into your skull to tangle your freshly washed hair. 

“Hey, kids, that’s enough,” Sokka scolds playfully as he enters the room. “Let’s eat, otherwise I’ll be way too tempted by the spread at the reception tonight.” 

Lunch with your siblings is the last moment of relative calm you have before the wedding and its reality truly start to set in. After the meal, Sokka and Aang leave to help Zuko with his own preparations, Katara staying to help you with yours. Your handlers navigate you into your dress, a traditional gown and robes made of many layers of fine silk and embroidered with dragons and native Fire Nation flowers; the train and sleeves fall so far behind you, you worry about tripping or scuffing the fabric. Once you’re dressed, your face is painted white, your features then outlined as if they were being drawn anew into your skin. You hardly recognize yourself once the handlers are finished with you, the anxiety you felt upon learning of your engagement returning with newfound ferocity. 

Katara is the one to style your hair. Keeping with custom, she knots a portion of it atop your head in a tight bun, using the comb Iroh gave you to hold it in place. She then takes the remainder of your hair and braids it into two sections on each side of your face, the way it would be worn in the Water Tribe; she laces each braid with a string of beads from home, crystalline blue totems to ensure happiness and long life hanging at the end of each, contrasting beautifully with your gown. She cries when she steps back to look at you, carefully dabbing at her tears so as not to ruin her own makeup and dress. 

“You’re so gorgeous,” she tells you. “I’m so glad Sokka never married you like he said he would, he would look awful at the alter next to you.” 

You laugh, opening your arms and hugging her tightly, forcing your own tears back for the sake of the effort that’s been put into your costume. 

For the last few minutes before the wedding, you’re alone; you stand outside the doors of the palace’s grand courtyard, flanked on both sides by guards, listening nervously as Iroh (who’s officiating, per his nephew’s request) praises you and recites a poem in your honor. His sentiments are exceedingly affectionate and should move you, but all you can think of is Zuko; what will he think of you? Will he like you as much in person as he did in writing? Was he just pretending to like you for the sake of your union? What if he didn’t think you were pretty? What if, like the beautician said, he forced you to sleep with him tonight, simply because it’s what’s meant to be done? You chew at your nails, biting them so hard that some of them start to bleed. 

Music swells from inside the courtyard, and suddenly the doors before you swing open. You hold your head as high as you can, stepping forward with as much grace as you can manage and beginning to traverse the impossibly long aisle to the wedding altar. You breathe deeply, scanning the group of people standing before it - you see Katara first, and she nods encouragingly, looking like she’s about to cry all over again. Your eyes sweep over to Sokka, standing beside her, and he seems somewhat shocked by your appearance - not that you blame him, seeing as you look like a complete stranger, even to yourself. Iroh gazes at you from the center of the altar, wearing the expression of a proud father that makes you wish Hakoda were there. Aang stands beside Zuko, and you can tell from his face that he was bored by this whole display until you emerged from hiding; you stifle your laughter at his predictable, endearing disposition. 

Finally, your eyes fall on the groom. The first thing you notice is his stare, cutting into you as he watches you approach; his chiseled, angular features have fallen into an awed expression, one that causes a giddy tickle in your chest. He’s tall, slim, with broad shoulders that carry his wedding robes proudly - his clothing matches yours, the only difference being the armored sheath across his chest that signals his status as ruler of the Fire Nation. You’re reminded that his father wore it before him, and a shudder runs through you as you recall all you suffered at his hands; you push it from your mind, climbing the altar steps to stand beside your betrothed. He gently takes your arm, a warm, timid smile breaking across his lips. 

“Spirits,” Iroh addresses the crowd, “we gather before you to join this man, this woman, and our two great nations in a union of peace and prosperity. With your blessing and guidance, their souls will form two halves of a great whole, coming together to foster a new era of love and commitment not just for their people, but for each other. The bride and groom will now recite their vows.” 

Iroh nods towards you, and you lower yourself onto your knees, bowing before the Firelord. You clear your throat, hoping that the entire country doesn’t hear the quiver in your voice. 

“My lord,” you begin, “I give myself to you as completely as I give myself to my tribe. I swear, from this day forward, to walk confidently by your side in all your endeavors, to uphold the honor of our nations and families, and to be a guiding light into the future for every citizen of the Fire Nation. I will be your support, your comfort, and your ally in all aspects of our life together, and will serve you as loyally and dutifully as you serve me.” 

You stand, taking one of the rings that sits upon the altar and slipping it onto Zuko’s finger; his skin is warm, his palms rough, and he shakes as violently as you do. 

“I give you this ring as a symbol of our union, to represent the bond that holds us for all our days.” 

Once you finish, thankful you didn’t stumble over your words or forget them completely, Zuko kneels, mirroring the way you bowed to him. 

“My lady,” he recites, “by my word, I will serve you honorably and affectionately for all our time together. If you should ask for my compassion, I will give it; if you should seek after my heart, I will offer it willingly; and if I should stray from my path, I will follow you back onto it. I vow to you my devotion, and to bring you happiness and freedom. I trust in you the power to lead and govern my people as justly as I do.”

He stands and takes the other ring, delicately placing it as you did his. 

“I give you this ring as a symbol of our union, to represent the bond that holds us for all our days.” 

In most weddings, this would be the moment when the bride and groom embrace each other in a devoted, passionate kiss; instead, Zuko takes your arm and you face the court of respected leaders and diplomats from across the four nations, gripping each other tightly - you hold each other as if you’re the only support the other has to keep standing. Iroh’s typically soft, pleasant voice booms from behind you:

“I present the lord and lady of the great Fire Nation.” 

Everyone in attendance folds onto their hands and knees, bowing as the band once again begins to play. You descend from the altar, your head feeling like it’s floating miles above your body, and exit through the doors you’d been shivering behind only minutes before - this time, with your husband beside you.

[tenderlyrenjun]

[9:15 am]

(feat. Mark)

You barge into Renjun’s private study, pushing the classificatory Azure Dragon emblem on the push plate so violently that the doors clammor deafeningly against the walls they hit. The force, even quicker, drives the doors to shut before the head guard, Mark, can follow you in, even with his vampiric speed. Surprisingly, the doors remain intact, likely due to the fiberglass material. But Mark still enters, half a second after you, bowing apologetically to Renjun who reads a sales and revenue report.

“What the hell is this?” you demand, waving a letter with Jaemin’s government seal stamped prominently contrasted against the black-inked characters and tinted white parchment.

Renjun gives you a momentary look until returning to his deep red wine and business report. And neither of you spare a glance at Mark, who immediately assesses the entire room, looking underneath the desk, leaning against the wall to scan the garden outside through the curtains, taking out his ear piece to listen for the slightest of movements, etc. etc. 

“I don’t know,” Renjun answers, eyes glossing over the drop in profit, trying to figure out where it comes from.

Every couple of decades, the two of you obtain successive internships at your various companies, under the guise of nepotism, usually to oversee any errors or the general income. And with Renjun having suggested attending college a few months back, this internship with your tech company seemed to just fit the whole college students persona, particularly your A accompanying that computer class Renjun asked you to take. Plus, he wanted to review why the stocks have been going down, especially since your companies are privately owned and you two, the owners, are well-hidden from the public. The only people, prior to your new reemergence into the 21st century, who saw you were other ancient vampires and the members of your coven - Kun, Aurora, Mark, Jiu, Woosung, in addition to the security detail turned and operated by Mark.

“It’s Jaemin’s signature,” you state obviously, crinkling the parchment louder in the air before pulling it in front of you again to reread the message.

“Mhmm,” Renjun hums, already having gathered that, simultaneous with Mark’s reaction: a whispered Oh.

Both you and Renjun turn to Mark, who finished surveying the area. Your vampire hearings amplified the exclamation, so you two raise matching eyebrows. 

“Sorry,” Mark excuses himself formally, then resumes the composure of a head guard again: shoulders squared, head up, position alert. He stares blankly at the wall but receives challenging stares ordering a real answer. “I just,” he concedes to his founders, “thought it was something more zealous, or, even, outrageous, like an ex-lover or something.”

You eyebrow raises further, and Renjun closes his file, setting his feet firmly on the ground. It is ... entertaining when vampires make passing comments about your intense relationship - even Jaemin mentioned that he had not seen either of you separated in all 700 years that you three have been friends. Scarcely anyone knows about Renjun’s earlier indiscretion, and you would like to keep it this way, especially if the future unfolds as Doyoung’s right hand predicts it to. The thought paints an intense stare on your face that almost scares Mark.

“We’re both two and a half millennia old,” Renjun reveals, something he rarely admits to people and something that Mark largely underestimated, given by the way his eyes widen and body stiffens. Renjun turns to you, smirking. “Do people always assume that we are first loves?” You glare at him, not wanting to answer, especially after the incident Mark unintentionally brought up. Renjun drops the corners of his lips, right, then reclines in his chaise longue, resuming his casual position crossing his ankle over his knee. “Not that it matters, of course, because you are my only love.”

“And you are my last,” you respond equally. 

“What did Jaemin sign?” Mark interjects, not wanting to be caught in yet another lover’s ... to be honest, he cannot describe the intensity; he just knows that he does not want to be in the middle of it again.

“A declaration of war,” you announce, tossing the opened envelope into Renjun’s lap. 

Renjun slowly sits up again, then closes his file and chugs the last of his blood, in case of a surprise attack. Younger vampires ... they tend to be more dramatic, and he would not hold it against them if they waited for this exact moment to make a move and jump all three of you at once. So, he needs the last of the blood to have more than enough strength to fight them off.

“Against who though?” Mark asks, making sure to emphasize his presence. Sometimes, you and Renjun slip into that fabled telepathy supposedly shared by Mates (it is fake; you two just know each other well), and as head guard, he needs the information to make a protection plan for the entire coven.

But to his surprise, you answer, “I don’t know,” and rub your forehead. You walk toward Renjun, rereading the message over his shoulder. “Some faction in North America, I assume, based on all the tensions both politically and economically - what with one Lee clans slaughtering an entire town to occupy it.” You sigh, then realize how callous the sentence sounded and look up at Mark, who shared that surname in his mortal life. “Sorry, Mark.”

“Not a problem,” he amends, “Likely no relation.” He triangulates in front of Renjun to watch your back in case a vampire appears from the large mirror at your blind spot. “Was it one of the newer factions?”

Still standing, you exhale loudly through your entire chest (to give yourself a pause to think, to remember), then step a bit further from Renjun, mimicking Mark’s protocol: creating a triangle position amongst the three of you. You would honestly love to sit with Renjun, like all those nights lounging on a couch, studying or watching TV, but the both of you need to be as alert as Mark always is, if not more; the responsibility of protecting your newly rebuilt coven weighing heavily. It took centuries after the last war just to be able to trust other vampires into your hours, and even more decades to do extremely thorough background checks on those who live with you now. At the beginning of the war, assassins infiltrated your manor at your weakest point and Renjun had to rescue you from Yeon’s kidnapping and extortion attempt (possibly even murder, if Renjun had been too late). That was when you lost Xiaojun, Mark’s predecessor who was sire bonded to you. Then, more spies, from all sides, from all covens, absolutely decimated your numbers until only you and Renjun remained. Renjun, too, barely managed during the war, to keep you safe. Luckily, his special compulsion ability was able to order vampires away, undermining their sire bonds to defy their traitorous leaders. He currently keeps this gift secret, only using it when necessary (or as a party trick with his closest friends), though it does still come out subconsciously, hence why his first impressions are always so great.

You sigh again. “Newer vampires don’t know just how many of us there are, or how long we have been around. Aurora is barely 35, and prior to joining us, she was not aware of Jaemin or the Laws. So, of course they have to be a new faction. An arrogant new faction, likely affiliated with one of the Italian clans who want ultimate power again and for the capital to return to Volterra [Italy] again.”

“Rumor has it that Jaemin’s Mate even returned to Korea after drifting through North America,” Renjun gossips. You are always surprised to hear about Jaemin’s Mate, because while he has not been off the compound in 90 years, his Mate is scarcely ever with him. It reminds you how horrible that century without Renjun was; you cannot fathom wanting to be separated for more than a few days. “Perhaps there is some benefit to his Mate having been gone; Jaemin might have more to say than what he send.”

“What did Jaemin want?” Mark asks, as the only person in the room who has not read the letter.

“For us to pledge allegiance,” Renjun answers before you do, also recalling that darkest time when you perfected your poison techniques on treasonists. He deadpans and crumples the letter into a ball, feeling your anger rise with Jaemin’s words. You give Renjun a look, Jaemin cannnot be serious, right? But Renjun shakes his head, unsure; Jaemin is a fan of loyalty, even more than you, so neither of you know what this invitation means - you will have to schedule another meeting with him.

“Does he not remember our commitment to neutrality?” you seethe, balling your hands into fists like the ball, shaking your head with Renjun but in disbelief. 

“Does he want to absorb us as well?” Mark asks more realitistcally than you. “Our vampires are highly trained and over half possess special abilities, so -”

“Jaemin is not Doyoung,” you seethe again, interrupting Mark before he can accuse Jaemin of one of the highest crimes (passed into law by Jaemin himself): stalking vampires into a coven. It rose into law after one New Year in the early 19th century when too many newly turned 20-year olds emerged as vampires. Covens grew; entire high school classrooms slaughtered; police stations were at an all time high for corruption as leaders bribed them to turn the other way. The law had been coming for a long time, especially since this is how Doyoung acquired all of his member. Doyoung only recruited leaders with special abilities; hence his left hand atrium, a vampire with subjective precognition born under a chancellor following the Dark Ages, and his right hand (Jeno) atrium, a prince, a former East Palace in the years preceding the Dark Ages, with the ability to recognize any relationship and induce one, though only if he is present. But that holiday was the final deciding factor.

“No,” Renjun agrees, his voice rising to command the room. “But do not forget, love. We wanted Doyoung to rule as well.” You share a lot of qualities with Doyoung, hence why you are old friends, but Jaemin is the current leader and a good one at that too.

“Not at the cost of war.”

“So what do we do?” Mark asks, looking between the two of you for a direction before he creates a plan. “How do we avoid the war?”

Renjun glances at the letter. Jaemin was very firm and strict. So he sighs, resigning in doubt.

“We don’t.”

[drarryruinedme7]

For Harry’s birthday prompt :) Him forgetting his own birthday because he’s in a middle of a case at work and coming home super late to find Draco asleep on the couch with a puppy (Harry’s birthday gift) sleeping on his chest. Draco cooked the dinner (under stasis) himself even if he’s pants at it and Harry usually does the cooking. And harry proposes to him right on the spot bc ‘that’s the man i want to spend my whole life with’ I got a bit carried away, do what you want with it

Here you go, darlings, I put together your prompts, I hope that’s alright! @iamactuallya-cat @caroll-in

Drarry | 1.3k | G | pure fluff, established relationship, Harry Potter’s birthday | beta: my beauty, one and only @rockmarina  ❤️

Surprise! (...or is it?)

Walking into the Ministry, Harry counted the people who shot him weird glances. Five. In the span of ten minutes. 

There was something wrong. 

The walk towards the lifts earned him another set of giggling glances and fingers pointed to him. In the lift, someone actually smiled at him, waving a hand. 

Harry brought a self-conscious hand to his face, trying subtly to touch his beard, his cheekbones, the angles of his lips. Did he forget to cast a cleaning charm that morning? Did he fail at casting the shaving charm and ended up with only half his face shaved and tidy? Harry wasn’t proud to admit it, but that had happened before.

The moment he stepped through the doors of the Auror Department, however, everything became clear. A banner with capital letters was hanging from the ceiling: “Happy 31st Birthday, Head Auror Potter!” 

Shit. 

Right.

It was his birthday. 

Harry stopped, trying to plaster a smile on his face. It wasn’t that he didn’t like his birthday, he simply didn’t give it any importance.

After all, he had more important things to think about, like their last case of illegal potions ring which had kept him awake at nights during the last month. That was probably the main reason he completely blacked out and forgot about his birthday that year.

As he laughed and shook hands with his colleagues and reached his office, a thought started nibbling at him. Sure, it wasn’t a surprise Harry had forgotten about his birthday: for three years after the War, if it weren’t for Hermione and Ron, Harry would have never even celebrated. 

But in the last two years Harry had never forgotten, and had actually, for the first times in his life, really enjoyed it. Draco —dear lord, would he ever get used to thinking about Malfoy as Draco?— was apparently obsessed with birthdays and took them as a serious matter.

“It’s your day,” Draco would always say. “You should consider it as a day where you can do and ask for whatever you want to: people will care for you and give you all their attention, because it’s your birthday! And if they don’t, then you have the right excuse to ask for it!”

The first time Draco said it, Harry snorted. That was a very Slytherin view of birthdays. But Harry quickly discovered he quite liked it: Draco developed the habit of bringing him breakfast in bed for his birthday, followed by morning sex, and usually dinner out to some fancy place around the world only Draco knew how the hell to reach. Harry still remembered their impromptu trip to Bangladesh and the absurd amount of curry they’d eaten.

Alright, Harry thought by himself. Time to work. The thing was that: Draco forgot about Harry’s birthday that morning too, apparently. He hadn’t woken Harry up with a blow job, nor had he brought breakfast to bed. Hell, he hadn’t even woken up when Harry called from downstairs, “See you later, love!” 

The only sound Draco made was a grunted scoff. 

Harry had only a couple of minutes more to spare thinking about what could have happened to make Draco forget about his birthday; soon enough, work swallowed him and took all his attention. Apparently, that night his teams had found some smugglers who were presumably linked to the major potions master behind the entire business.

“Are you still here? How come Draco didn’t come fetching you yet?” 

Harry raised his head at the sound of Ron’s voice. He stretched his legs under the desk, yawning profusely. Glancing at the clock on the wall, Harry saw it was eleven p.m. already.

“What the…” Harry muttered, now starting to properly panic. He threw a worried look at Ron, who shrugged. 

“He usually drags you out of here for dinner, that’s why I…” Ron coughed, lightly scratching the back of his neck. “Is everything alright?”

Harry’s heart was thumping painfully against his ribcage. “I… I…” He was at a loss for words. Was everything alright? Ron was right, Draco always came looking for him if he was late at work. 

“I don’t know,” he replied sincerely. “I just… yes, of course, why wouldn’t it?” 

Ron threw his hands up. “Right, maybe he’s just busy as well, don’t worry.” He smiled at Harry, properly. “Do you want to come to our place?”

Harry shook his head. “No, thanks, Ron, we’ll see you tomorrow night. I’m sure everything’s just fine, he’s probably waiting for me at home.”

Ron smiled, waving a hand at him.

Right. Harry was being unreasonable: the stress from work was having the best of him. After all, Draco didn’t have to surprise Harry every single birthday for the rest of their lives and—

Harry stood abruptly, his breathing only quickening more. Did he just think of Draco as someone he’d share the rest of his life with? When did it happen?! 

With shaky steps, Harry reached the Apparition point, unable to wait until he got to the Floo channels to be back home. He needed to see Draco, to check everything was alright, to hug him, anything!

“Draco! I’m home!” Harry called as soon as he Apparated in the middle of their living room. They’d bought the house together a year ago, after only a year together— it felt crazy, honestly, but Harry had no words to describe how right it felt to be with Draco. 

Suddenly, a strong scent of lasagne hit Harry and he realised he was keeping his eyes shut, terrified he’d discover Draco had inexplicably left him. At the languor the scent induced him, Harry finally opened his eyes, only to gasp audibly, his hands flying to cover his mouth.

“Oh, Draco…” he whispered as the image in front of his eyes filled his chest with love and lust at the same time, leaving him short of air.

Draco was splayed inelegantly on their sofa, snorting gently, a small black puppy resting on top of his chest.

Harry reached him, kneeling right next to his face, landing a soft kiss on Draco’s lips.

“Wha…” Draco scrunched his face, cranking one eye open. “Fuck!” He jumped on the couch, effectively waking the puppy who jumped down the couch, woofing and wagging his tails happily, and tried to call Harry’s attention munching on the sleeve of his uniform.

“Harry, I’m sorry! Oh no, what time is…” Draco glanced at the alarm on the coffee table, his eyes widening comically. “Eleven thirty! Oh, no, no, no! Harry, love, I wanted to… it was a surprise! I cooked for you, or at least, I tried, and then, the… the puppy, it’s your birthday gift, I thought, you know, I thought… I—”

Harry laughed, cupping Draco’s face with his hands, resting their foreheads together. The puppy finally found its way to Harry’s lap, sitting on it and starting to lap up his collarbones. 

Harry couldn’t remember a happiest moment in his life. He kissed Draco, finally shutting him up. When he pulled off, he looked right in his eyes and felt a warmth he had never experienced before spreading in his belly.

Right this: this man, this house, this life. This was what he had craved for as long as he could remember.

“Marry me,” Harry whispered, still laughing, rubbing circles on Draco’s cheeks with this thumbs.

Draco’s eyebrows shot upwards and he sucked in a breath, freezing under Harry’s hands. Before Harry could worry he’d ruined everything, however, Draco’s lips widened in a bright grin.

“You… I can’t believe you just…” He laughed, lacing his fingers with Harry’s. “Yes, dammit, Potter, you’ll be the ruin of me, but yes, yes, yes!” 

The puppy barked in time with their laughter. Harry looked at it with a crooked grin: he knew he would never forget his birthday again. 

[athina-blaine]

MoMM Chapter 4 - The Storm, Part 1 (Preview #1)

(Note: this is not the finalized draft; anything featured is subject to edits or deletion!)

Chapter 3: The Empty Corridors

“To be honest, I’m not entirely sure I deserve that. Your friendship. After everything I’ve done since…”

“Of course you do. Listen to yourself; it’s not like you wanted to frighten me.” An inch of space sat between their hands. “Is this …? Um. Is this okay …?”

The winds continued to howl, and Martin's hand lay limp on the bed sheets. His face grew hot, and he started pulling back. Stupid idea. But then Jon slid his hand closer until their fingers brushed. Emboldened, Martin wrapped his hand around Jon's, his burn scar grazing the soft skin of Martin's palm.

He squeezed gently.

“No one deserves to be lonely, Jon.”

Jon had no response, staring out to the storm that continued knocking on their windows. He stared, and he let Martin hold his hand.

Chapter 4 - The Storm, Part 1

Martin was an optimist. He had to be. Anything else would have been utterly unbearable.

That being said, he was… relatively confident things would get better. Jon had confided in him the terrible secret of Magnus Manor and the truth of this hellish storm. The Lonely. And understanding a problem meant you were one step closer to solving it, right? It meant one step closer to getting out of the cursed estate you’d found yourself trapped in.

Most importantly, though, the two of them were talking again. Above all else, that gave him hope.

 Jon was waiting for him in the foyer the next morning. His nose was buried in a book, but when Martin approached, he looked up, and Martin liked to think he looked pleased.

“Good morning,” Martin said, hoping he didn’t sound too flustered.

“You as well. Would ... would you be amenable to sharing some morning tea? If ... if you're still offering ...”

“Y-yes, of course.” So yesterday hadn’t been a fluke; Jon wasn’t going to leave him alone again. “That sounds great. Um. English Breakfast, then?”

Jon smiled, nodded, and fetched them both a pot and one cup apiece. The porcelain warmed Martin’s aching fingers, a refreshing respite from the chill that crept so subtly through the halls.

They drank, and they talked about very little. Martin’s tongue burned with questions (–what’s it like living with these entities? How do they manifest? Will we get out of here soon?–), but he restrained himself; the age lining Jon’s face had soothed as he sipped his tea,  and when he asked Martin how he’d slept, there was a shy twist to his mouth.

Right now, Martin wanted to enjoy himself. Enjoy Jon and a warm cup of morning tea. There would be plenty of time to agonise later.

In the meantime, he’d just need to keep busy. Now was as good a time as any to give cleaning the manor another chance. Masochistic, maybe. Impossible, certainly. But at least this time he didn’t have to worry about being reprimanded. Probably.

One of the many study rooms that littered the estate would be a good place to start. Small as it was, its sooty fireplace and dusty couch was enough of a time sink for his purposes.

He was in the middle of battling a particularly stubborn stain when the door opened and Jon peered inside. Despite everything, Martin couldn’t help his trill of anxiety, made all the worse when Jon kissed his teeth.

“Must I iterate that it’s not necessary for you to – ”

“I want to.” It was still such a shock to just see Jon, to have them talking, that the words came out in a breathless, jumbled mess. “I promise. I-I like cleaning, honest. It keeps my mind off … you know, things.”

Jon paused mid-stride. For a moment, Martin thought he was going to be chased off anyway, and then he’d have to actually beg to clean, because the thought of spending another minute with nothing to do but contemplate their situation– 

“I–” Sighing, Jon brought a hand to the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Yes, fine, if you insist. So long as you understand that it is absolutely not an expectation of you.”

Martin’s shoulders sagged with relief. Another hurdle crossed.

He’d just convinced himself to relax and finally let his mind wander, soothed by the familiar, tediousness of cleaning a fireplace, when Jon unclasped his cloak, lying it over the sofa. 

“What are you doing?”

“Assisting you, obviously. Having you clean it in my stead when I’m the one responsible for it falling into disrepair doesn’t bear thinking about.”

Doesn’t bear thinking about. What didn’t bear thinking about was a man of Jon’s stature doing menial work like this in the first place. But Martin was hardly about to refuse his help … or his company, so freely given. “Um. Thank you. You don’t have to be so hard on yourself, though. There’s literally no way you could have kept this place clean all by yourself.”

“I appreciate the reassurance, but the point is moot.”

Well, if Jon wanted to roll up his sleeves and work at a grimy fireplace, Martin wasn’t about to stop him. When Jon literally rolled up his sleeves, he bit back a smile. The skin of his forearms was paler than that of his hands and face, smooth and free of blemishes. When was the last time he’d enjoyed a bit of sunshine without his shirt buttoned up to the chin?

Not that Martin had any business considering a thing like that in the first place. God, his face was burning again.

“I hate cleaning,” Jon murmured as he dunked the spare cloth in the water bucket. “Nothing ever stays clean.”

“Yeah. Gotta do it, though. Oh, you should keep your elbow up. You won’t tire out your arm as quickly.”

“Oh. Yes, I see.” Jon sighed. “Perhaps the fault lies with me. I’ve never been particularly good at domesticity, after all. The rare times my grandmother was home, the only thing we talked about was how untidy my room was.”

Martin’s ears perked. The opportunity to learn more about Jon and his past? It was too enticing to resist. “Your gram wasn’t home much, then?”

“Not often. She was the matriarch of our family, so important business kept her in the capital most days.”

Oh. How … odd. Martin didn’t know anything about how noble families handled representing themselves, but … “I figured your mom or dad would take care of that sort of thing after a while. Did your gram just enjoy the work?”

“Both of my parents passed when I was a child.”

Martin’s stomach plunged to his feet. What a stupid blunder to make. “I’m … I’m so sorry.” 

“It was a long time ago,” Jon said, waving him away. “I was barely more than a baby at the time. I simply don’t remember enough of them to mourn their loss.”

Martin wasn’t sure if that made it worse. For all that Martin mourned the absence of his father, at least he had fleeting memories of warm hands and a deep voice to prove he’d existed at all. That he’d had a father once. “Still, that must have been … a bit lonely.” 

“Not at all. I always had my governess’ supervision. She provided the structure and discipline I required.” Jon laughed, a wistful, breathy thing, and lowered his head. “I was … a rather troublesome child.”

That did even less to make Martin feel better, because he suddenly had this image, unbidden, of a little boy with big eyes and gangly knees, head hanging as his grandmother told him off in clipped tones, before leaving once again to the bustling capital. No hugs, or gentle forehead kisses. Just a scolding about his messy bedroom.

I’m sure you were wonderful, he wanted to say. I’m sure you deserved better than that. 

But he was probably just projecting again.

“I’ve always liked cleaning,” Martin said, instead. “Makes me feel useful. My mum, she’s … she’s been sick most of my life. Nothing too serious,” Martin added quickly as Jon turned his head. “She just gets tired a lot. You know, hard to stay upright most of the time. There wasn’t a lot I could do to make her feel better, but keeping things clean helped.”

“I … I’m sorry to hear your mother is ill.”

“We were really lucky, actually. We lived in the same town as a really good doctor. He was really generous with us, but eventually … I-I couldn’t keep up with the bills running the farm all by myself, especially after our last goat died. We had to sell a few years ago, and I had to find work in the city.” Even after all this time, his throat tangled at the memory of leaving his childhood home. “Managed to land a really good job at the lord’s castle, so I always had money to send home. Every month. Haven’t been late once, yet. Until …”

“… Until now.”

Martin opened his mouth, because, well, he wasn’t late yet. There was still time for Martin to send his letter: about a week or so. That was plenty of time. But he refrained, because saying as much to Jon felt … dangerous. Like he was tempting fate. 

Things were going to work out. They had to. The storm was going to clear, they were going to get out of here, and then … 

“Your devotion to your mother is admirable,” said Jon.

Warmth ballooned in Martin’s stomach, spreading to the tips of his ears. It was an absurd thing to receive praise for (oh, you love your mother, really going above and beyond), but … well, it was still nice to hear, every once in a while. Or at all. “Thank you.”

It took most of the morning, but, with their combined efforts, they managed to restore the fireplace to an off-colour white. Martin stepped back, basking in the glow of a job well done. Jon, however, didn’t appear quite as chuffed as Martin felt. Rolling out his wrists, the man collapsed onto the couch, kicking up a cloud of dust in the process and triggering an intense coughing fit.

“Break time?” Martin asked, taking a much more gentle seat. His only answer was more coughing. Poor thing looked utterly done with the whole enterprise, if the curl of his nose was any indication. “So, what do you do for fun around here?”

“Fun?”

“Yeah. Unless you really intend to help me clean this room all day?”

Jon laughed, turning away sheepishly.  “I … yes, um … Well, this and that, I suppose. Reading, mostly. I’ve always had a penchant for it, and I’ve yet to make my way through the library. Um. Music, although it’s been quite some time since the gramophone worked. I took to baking for a time. I like to think I’d gotten rather good at it.”

“Wait, so you did bake that bread? When I first got here?” Martin thought back on it, how crispy the crust was, the soft and tasty inner dough, how fresh it had been. Martin couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten fresh bread. “That’s seriously amazing.”

“It’s hardly a complex task. But … yes, thank you.” Martin wasn’t sure if it was the haze of the dust, but Jon’s face looked a bit darker, a bit flushed. But then, the good humor in Jon’s eyes fell away. “And then there was the garden, of course. It was … well. A disaster, to put it mildly.”

“What happened?”

“Well, I killed everything, didn’t I?” Jon’s eyes dropped to his lap, shoulders sinking. “Not a single bulb flourished under my care. I … I eventually figured it was more merciful to give up than keep trying.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s not that bad.” Would be better to start with anything but roses, he wanted to suggest. You’re just setting yourself up to fail. But that would certainly come across as annoyingly patronising. “Maybe I can lend a hand?”

“Pardon?”

Wait. No. What business did Martin have making an offer like that? It wasn’t as if he knew any better about keeping things alive. But something about the resigned nature of Jon’s tone tore at him; his mouth had fallen open of its own accord. 

“I-I mean … Well, it might be fun, yeah?” Martin tried. “Personally, I’ve always wanted to learn how to garden.” 

“Is that so?”

Martin nodded, intending on leaving it there, but Jon was watching him, waiting. Oh.

“W-Well, uh, when I was a kid,” Martin said, face warming, “I’d always dreamed of having a, um, like a little cottage? That I owned? With a great big plot of land in the middle of a forest somewhere. Would get married, settle down, grow flowers and all kinds of food together. It’s … it’s a bit silly.”

“Not at all,” Jon said, eyes softening, and Martin’s heart fluttered something fierce. “I think that’s lovely.”

He smiled, hoping it didn’t come out as a grimace, because it had been a long, long time since he’d indulged in that particular fantasy. It just wasn’t feasible, these days, having a little cottage of his own or … or finding someone who’d want to marry him when he’s never even had a serious relationship before.

“Thank you, though, for your offer,” Jon said, cutting through Martin’s thoughts. “I’ll … be sure to consider it.”

The tight knot in Martin’s stomach unwound just a bit. “‘Course.”

By that point, the dust had become utterly unbearable, and they were forced to evacuate.

.

The brass of the door handle glimmered under the lamplight, rusted with age and disuse. How long had Martin been standing here, knees locked and shivering beneath the thick chill? Ages, by now. Griffiths was going to have his skin peeled for shirking his responsibilities like this, and the head butler would be perfectly within his rights.

But every time Martin tried to remind himself, that he still had so much work to do –

“… Hello?”

That voice. Still out there, somewhere behind the old door. Distant, but not beyond Martin’s reach. If Martin had already been here for ages, then that voice …

Wasn’t anyone coming for them?

If he opened the door, he could just take a quick look. Call out, see who needed help –

“And what do you think you’re doing, young man?”

Martin yanked his hand back, hand burnt on the molten brass.

“M-Mum?”

“I always knew you’d leave for good someday. I could see it in your eyes, you know. You couldn’t bear to take care of your poor, sick mother, and now you’re off to traipse about the countryside with some invert.”

“I didn’t leave.” Tight pressure strangled Martin’s throat, the back of his eyes burning. “I’d never do that. Where are you? I’m coming, I-I’ll find you–”

“And what, pray tell, would be the point of that?”

“Mum, please, just tell me where you are, I’m coming–”

“You’ve always been a wretched liar.”

.

Martin lurched upright, sucking painful gasps through his aching teeth, his sleep shirt sticking to his sweaty skin. No light permeated the windows— he may as well have been in a tomb, for all that he could see.

Jon was out there somewhere. Alone. As was his mother.

I’m coming back to you. I’ll find a way out of here. I’m doing everything I can– 

Liar.

Martin curled up onto his side, wrapping trembling arms around himself. Even though there was no one else to hear him, no one to stifle himself for, he drove his teeth into his lip until his mouth filled with the dull taste of copper.

Check out the Monster of Magnus Manor here!

[bailey-reaper]

The Lord of the Manor (5)

Summary: It is said that you 'reap what you sow', apparently that saying is no different for Grim Reapers...

Content Warnings: angst, xenophobia reference / imperialist thinking + me taking artistic liberties re: the van Zieks family

Other parts: (1) | (2) | (3) | (4) |

In the distance Barok could hear voices talking, which only served to confuse him. He was inside Klint's burial chamber, no one else should be here. He opened his eyes, head pounding, and found his confusion grew all the more.

This was not his brother's crypt. It was his own room, yet he had no recollection of leaving the family cemetery or the journey home.

He felt warm and dizzy, and that feeling intensified when he tried to sit up, "...Ugh..." it was slowly dawning on him that he was feverish. Most likely due to the reckless trip he took during a fierce storm.

"My Lord, are you awake?" he heard Harvey's voice.

"... Yes," his croaked, as though his vocal chords had rusted, "... What... happened, Harvey?" no doubt the butler could elucidate him.

"The groundskeeper was tending to the cemetery after the storm and found you collapsed on the floor. He came back to the estate and informed me, I then arranged to have you brought home so that the physician could assess you. Thankfully he does not think it's anything serious, most likely fatigue."

".... I see," Barok laid back in the bed and closed his eyes, his vision was already starting to swim, "... Thank you, Harvey."

"It is my pleasure, my lord, I am glad you are safe... the physician thinks you may have a fever but that you should recover after a few days of rest. Please let me know if you need anything."

"I will..." his consciousness was already slipping; soon enough he drifted to sleep.

──────≪⊰✥⊱≫───────

His sleep was fitful; drifting in and out of consciousness for several hours while his body wracked with freezing shivers and unbearable flashes of warmth. He writhed and groaned as the fever took a firmer hold of his faculties.

"Truly you seem to be suffering, little brother..."

Barok opened his eyes and stared in disbelief at the man sitting on his bed -- Klint. He was sat there, looking over at him with face marred by concern, "... K...Klint?" he uttered, before trying to sit up only to think better of it when his head throbbed sharply.

"Mmm," his older brother nodded, "Truth be told you're hallucinating, but I suppose that's to be expected when you neglect yourself in this manner."

A wry smile tugged his lips; it seemed his own mind was set upon chastising him for his earlier impulsiveness, "... Of course... a figment of my imagination."

"Yes... you've pushed yourself too hard of late, no wonder things have gotten on top of you and now you're feverish and hallucinating."

"..." he felt a strong surge of sadness in the pit of his stomach, "My mind couldn't at least trick me into thinking you were a ghost..."

"You're too cynical for that," the mirage pointed out, "No doubt you'd have tried to cross-examine this situation and forced the truth out of yourself."

It was irksome how accurate that statement was, and how he was incapable of formulating a witty reply to it. Eventually he gave up and muttered, "... Perhaps."

"Undoubtedly," the figment said, "Now, I suppose we'd best get to the bottom of why you're having this moment of delirium..."

"Clearly because I'm feverish," he retorted dryly.

"No..." Klint shook his head, "Clearly you need to do some soul searching. You've lost your way, your feelings of hopelessness have driven you to be reckless and now you don't know what to do with yourself. Perhaps you need to take a step back and re-calibrate, little wolf."

"Nonsense..." he muttered as he draped a hand over his eyes; his forehead was burning, "I... I know precisely what I need to do..."

"Oh really? Well I assure you that clinging to the past isn't it."

".... I know that," but how could he resist? This house was full of memories; it was the last place in all the world where Klint's memory was still a tangible thing that he could hold on to. It was all he had left of him.

"Find something to live for, Barok. You have a chance to turn a new page, to step out of your brother's shadow. You don't have to be a prosecutor. You don't have to be a lawyer. You can be whatever you want."

"Whatever I want..." he mumbled to himself as a wave of tiredness washed over him; he relinquished himself to it and drifted into a deep sleep

──────≪⊰✥⊱≫───────

For several days, Barok continued to drift in and out of delirious conversations with a mimicry of his brother. Until his body recovered and he overcame the fever; there was a dull pang in his chest when it dawned on him that he could not longer hallucinate his brother's presence watching over him, but, it was a familiar grief and one he continued to hold in his core.

He decided to take the fever dreams to heart, rather than wallowing, and set about busying himself with numerous distractions; a main one being repairing the old family estate. It had been refurbished sometime during his grandfather's lifetime, but it seemed the work had been rather shoddy.

In between the renovations, he engaged in correspondence with a few individuals in London, including members of the Prosecutor's Office, and dabbled in stocks to maintain the family's wealth. His employment as a Prosecutor was hardly a king's ransom, but it had been an impressive wage and he was conscious to avoid squandering his family's assets while he languished in a malaise.

For a few years that became his routine, and it was a reasonably comfortable one. He enjoyed the Devon countryside atop Black Gale and distracted himself with a mix of physical and cerebral activities. Yet, it felt profoundly empty to him; there was an acute sense of wistfulness at his core and he knew precisely what it related to.

He had geared his entire life for a career as a lawyer, and the part of his mind that had enjoyed the intellectual rigour found his current life far too humdrum. Of course he still read the Legal Reports not long after they were handed down by the Courts, out of a 'healthy curiosity', he told himself, but reading about the law was nothing when compared to actually practising it.

The anecdotes he received from his peers in the Prosecutor's Office did little to slake that innermost wish, in fact they only stoked it more. But he resisted by reminding himself why he left in the first place.

Should he return, the Capital would once more be swept up in its 'Reaper fever'; the press would fixate on his every move, the criminal underbelly of London would sharpen its knifes and perhaps this time manage to get his eyes... Fear had no part of it, for he did not fear death, but it grew wearisome to be so fetishised by the world at large and all it did was remind him all the more that Klint was not here.

Klint was the one who had inspired such a fervent love of the law in him; his righteousness, his acumen, his talent for public speaking... every time he'd watched his brother in court he'd fallen in love with the law a little more, for it embodied the very things his brother stood for. Or, that's what he'd wanted to believe.

The truth had been a bitter pill to swallow – for, while the law had the best of intentions, it was a clunky machine that often failed to work at the moment where individuals and society at large most needed it. Loopholes and the unjust were constantly undermining it. He felt the dichotomy between reality and idealism keenly. He had often equated the Law with Justice, but sadly the two things were not synonymous.

Sometimes he wondered how Klint had coped with that knowledge, for he saw his brother as a bastion of justice and a man of integrity who would no doubt have been just as aware of the law's failings as he. How he longed to ask his brother now that he had the benefit of practical experience.

For several years he maintained his distance from London and the law; many among the aristocracy gossiped, from rumours about his death to wild theories about his having eloped to America to marry into some wealthy entrepreneurial family, but for the most part he ignored them too. The only time he deigned to mingle with the other noble families was when such was demanded of him as master of the house.

One day, however, a letter arrived from London that piqued his interest to the point he could no longer resist it.

Magnus McGilded was becoming an increasingly brazen problem for the capital. He knew the moneylender had something of a reputation, one that caused misery among the desperate and unfortunate who had fallen upon hardtimes; but it sounded as though his activities were causing more angst than ever before, not least of all because he continued to evade the Courts through underhanded means.

Of course, his friend opined, it was not possible to prove that Magnus McGilded was bribing the Jury, buying witnesses and a catalogue of other dubious evasive tactics; but nor could anyone explain why entire cases were dropped at the last minute or why the police had failed to locate key witnesses until they themselves appeared from nowhere with vital information (in McGilded's favour).

It irked him to his core as he read of the various trials that had collapsed, and for the first time in a long while he felt a strong desire to do something. To bring the rodent out of his labyrinth of deceptions and into the light of day. He knew full well it was something that he would be capable of, were he to oversee a future investigation...

His mind raced with thoughts about how to outwit the Irish Shylock at his own game...

Another thing that piqued his interest was a throwaway postscript:

[Ps. We've had word from Lord Stronghart to expect some Nipponese student in a few months time. Apparently there is some cultural exchange afoot and the young man will be studying British law. I can't say I see the necessity, but I suppose our great nation ought to be charitable to those from more impoverished places...]

Seeing that word roused ugly feelings in his core, things that he had managed to keep his distance from for some time; but the anger was never far away. The resentment, like rot, was deep in his soul and it had been left alone but not eradicated.

The near-five years he had spent in the ancestral home was a welcomed reprieve, and served to focus his mind to some degree. He had never lost his passion for the law, and now it seemed there were reasons to pull him back into the foray.

Perhaps it was high time the Reaper returned London...

─────── Fin.

[bad-at-names-and-faces]

Epilogue

chapter 34

chapter index

December 1st, 1864

Dear Inga,

I’ll be mailing this letter when we arrive in Portsmouth tomorrow.  I can’t believe it’s December already. The weather is so mild this far south, though I never would have guessed we’d see any nice weather on this trip, as rough as the waters were in the North Sea.  To think, there was already snow on the ground when we left Arendelle last week! 

I would really like to stay in England long enough to see some of the country, but we’ll be booking passage on the first steamship out.  I suppose I should look on the bright side, that we’ll be settled by the new year.  A friend of Father’s has arranged for us to stay with his family for Christmas, so I don’t need to worry about doing anything for that.  I hope the holiday preparations are going well in Arendelle, though I am very sad to be missing it. 

 With love,

Elizabeth

P.S. I just want to thank you all again for the wonderful party before we left Arendelle.  I’m sure you’ll object again that it was mostly Halima’s work, but it was so nice to see everyone there.

Elizabeth sighed, looking out the porthole of their cabin at the distant lights on the coast of England as they sailed along. Normally, she didn’t mind sailing, but this trip felt so terribly bittersweet.  There were so many possibilities where they were going, and she would see so many things that she had only read about, but she had really started to feel at home during those few brief months she had been in Arendelle.

“We’ll have an early morning,” Lars reminded her as he finished changing, “please come to bed.”

“I haven’t written to your mother yet,” she smiled.  “I thought of some things I forgot to ask her to bring with her from Corona.”

“She’ll be in Arendelle for another month; you can write from the inn tomorrow.”

“I am feeling rather tired,” Elizabeth admitted, turning down the lamp as she walked to the bed.

***

Lars dressed and quietly left the bedroom. A cold sleet was coming down outside, but the kitchen was warm.  It had been fairly mild when they first arrived in Boston more than a month before, and Elizabeth had been convinced there wouldn't be a real winter, but they had a thick layer of snow for Christmas, and the temperature had been below freezing nearly every morning for several weeks.  

Susan, the girl they had hired to help around the house, had already arrived, and she had even prepared some coffee for Lars to drink before he left for the stable. It wasn’t that long of a ride to the office they had rented, but the sleet made every minute feel like an hour.  There was almost no work so far, but the assistant keeping up the office in Washington had started forwarding all of the mail, which mostly consisted of a handful of applications for Arendelle travel visas.  The previous evening’s mail had been brought in, and there were a few official notices, plus the bundle that had been forwarded, and finally he noticed a letter personally addressed to himself, and opened it.

January 7th, 1865

Dear Lars,

Inga told me that Elizabeth has been writing, and I realized that you’re only getting official correspondence from us right now, so I thought I’d fix that.  I can’t say I’m as good at writing personal letters as my sister, but I hope you don’t mind getting another letter.  I won’t bore you with official updates and announcements, since I know we send them to everyone.  

There was a lot of snow last night, and everyone was outside enjoying it all morning, then we all packed into Hudson’s to warm up, then back out.  Do you get snow there? I know it’s much further south where you are.  If you’re not too busy, write back, because I’m curious what they actually have you doing there.  

The week after Christmas was quiet, with no business and just the family at the castle.  Things are picking up again this week, but Father is going to be taking me, Anton, and Peder up to the mountains for the first ice harvest in another week.  We’ll only be staying a week or two up there, and then the rest of the winter I’ll have to spend most of my time with the tutors if I want to be allowed to do the naval training trip in the spring.

Stay well!

Frederick

Lars placed the letter in his bag. Elizabeth would like to read it, and Frederick hadn’t included anything that he would mind being shared, and he’d write back after dinner and send it out in the morning’s mail.

***

Elizabeth looked up.  “A valentine? Lars, you didn’t have to get me anything!”

“There was a shop full of them, I couldn’t help it,” he laughed, sitting down next to her on the sofa.

“But,” she sighed, “I have nothing for you.”

“Of course you do,” he replied, kissing her forehead.

“What do you mean?” she asked blankly, then looked up at him and got his meaning.  “Oh!” she giggled, lightly punching him.

***

Elizabeth looked up from the letter she was reading out loud, and sighed.  “This is dated two weeks ago, so Inga must already be up North.  She promises she’ll write to me when she gets back to Arendelle next month, but she didn’t say whether she’ll get any letters up there.”

Lars nodded. “It won’t hurt to write, if you want to. Is it any different from writing to your father while he’s at sea?”

“That’s true,” she smiled, looking out the bedroom window.  She set the letter on the nightstand and started fastening the front of her corset as Lars began to help with the back.  Today was the first day of spring.  It was still chilly, and the locals said it was likely to stay so through most of April, but at least the sun was up early. Elizabeth had again started waking up at the same time as he woke up, so he no longer had to leave the house while she was still asleep.

“I got a telegraph from Mother,” Lars said as he gingerly laced the back of her corset, “and she’s on a steamship arriving next week.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful news!” Elizabeth smiled, “she’ll be here for your birthday, too!”

“Yes,” Lars replied quietly, gently tying a bow at the bottom.

“Are you sure you can’t get it a little tighter?” she pouted.

“Absolutely not,” he chided her, holding her shoulders and kissing her cheek. “It’s not going to fall off, and…”

“I know, I know,” she sighed.

***

April 25th, 1865

Dear Inga, 

How are you doing? I feel very restless right now, and I hope you don’t mind that I don’t want to talk about anything serious, because around here they’re only talking about the President’s funeral and all that horrible business.  

On that note, Lars has carried the letters from your family on his trip to the capital.  He’s missing his own birthday, though of course it’s perfectly understandable.  It’s only me and his mother right now, though Susan still comes in during the day to help out.  Lars should be back in a day or two, and we’ll celebrate then, but I do feel bad, since he’s twenty-one now.   This evening I made his mother tell me stories about him as a child, and it sounded delightful. I tried to ask about the day he was born, but she said she was too tired and that I should be getting more sleep. Obviously, I didn’t mean about Lars in particular, just in general. I’ll need to know what it’s like eventually, right? She knows this, and I suppose she doesn’t want to scare me with details right now. I’m sorry I’m being so vague.  But, she’s certainly right that I should get some sleep while I can.  I hope everything is well with everyone there. 

With Love,

Elizabeth

***

“Elizabeth, have we met a Mr. Curtis?” Lars asked, looking at the envelope that had come in the mail.

“No, you haven’t met him,” Elizabeth said casually, looking up from the sofa.  “I haven’t met him, either, exactly, but I wrote to him while you were gone last month.  He’s a ship builder, and you were talking about contracting with ship builders here.”

“Oh,” Lars hesitated, “I did say I would do that, didn’t I?”

“Do you mind that I did? I’m sorry I forgot to tell you, but so much was going on.”

“Not at all,” he said as he opened the envelope, “and it looks like he wants to have us over.  You’ll need to come with me, of course, to keep me from looking like an idiot.”

Elizabeth smiled, looking out the window. “Oh, good, your mother is home from visiting Mrs. Wirth.”

0o0o0

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Lars asked as they came to the large lawn of Mr. Curtis’s house.  “It’s rather hot today, and I really don’t want you-”

“Your mother is here, and there are plenty of seats in the shade.  It’s not like I’m going to be on a train for twenty hours like you’ve been doing lately.”

“True,” he replied, “and I promise I won’t be away from you this summer.  At any rate, please don’t feel the need to act as a hostess today. That’s for Mrs. Curtis to take care of.  We’ve given them a contract for a new ship, and they’re throwing a party in honor of the Queen’s birthday.”

“So that’s already been approved? The contract?” 

“It’s in transit.  The sooner Mr. Curtis gets started, the sooner Arendelle can have the ship.  We’ll worry about the details later.”

***

July 20th, 1865

Dear Inga,

We received the invitation to your birthday party next month. It sounds like a wonderful day you have planned.  Obviously, we can’t be there, but hopefully we’ll be able to send you good news before then.  As always, I look forward to your letters.

I wish I could travel back there for the summer. The weather last summer was so pleasant, but it has been so unbearably hot and humid here.  Our neighbors all seem to be traveling to the shore or the mountains, but Lars is worried about being too far away from a doctor right now, and he assures me it’s worse in the city at his office, so in the meantime I’ve spent most my time in recent weeks in the shade in our yard.

With Love,

Elizabeth

***

The baby was cooing softly in Elizabeth’s arms when Margit Nilsen quietly entered the bedroom.  The afternoon sunlight was peaking through the curtains, keeping the room from being completely dark.

“I have so many letters to write,” Elizabeth fretted from the bed, “as soon as the baby’s asleep, I want to get up.”

“You still need your rest,” her mother-in-law scolded her.  “Lars will write to everyone, don’t worry.  Nobody expects you to be writing letters yourself so soon.”

“It’s been three weeks,” Elizabeth sighed.  

Soon, the baby was asleep, and her mother-in-law gently picked him up and set him in the cradle in the corner.  “There, dear, now you should rest, too.”

“I’m going to get up in just a minute,” Elizabeth protested, closing her eyes for just a moment before falling into a deep sleep.

Margit quietly closed the door and sat down next to Lars at the table.

“You’re going to tell me I should sleep, too, aren’t you?” Lars sighed.

“If you’re tired, you should,” she told him, “but, no, that wasn’t what I was going to say.”

He looked up.  

“You still haven’t told her about Anna, have you?”

***

“We missed your birthday, but we can have a party on your anniversary!” Lars’s mother announced as he returned home from his office.  Elizabeth had dressed up and tried something new with her hair, which Lars thought looked rather nice on her, and the baby was asleep in the cradle. 

“I hope you didn’t think I’d forgotten when you left this morning,” Elizabeth smiled.

“I...  I’m going to pretend that I remembered what day it was today,” Lars laughed, coming over to sit next to her.

His mother went into the kitchen to check on how dinner was coming along, leaving the two of them alone.  

“I didn’t get you anything,” Lars confessed, “I really wasn’t kidding that I forgot what day it was. I’m sorry.”

“You have a lot going on now,” Elizabeth reassured him, touching his cheek. “Remember, you can tell me anything.”

***

October 2nd, 1865

Dear Lars,

Sorry I haven’t written in a while, but Inga has been telling me that you’re all doing well. I know you’re probably tired, Mother and Father always are with a new baby. Everything is fine here, basically.  We’re supposed to be getting another visit from a certain person from Corona in a few days, but I’m not sure if I’m supposed to tell you that.  It’s not an official visit.  

Anyhow, I said I wouldn’t bore you with official announcements, but you probably saw that they’ll be sending me to the naval academy in Corona at some point, but nobody can agree when.  Our Admiral says he would be perfectly happy to set up an academy here, but obviously that would take a while, and there are only a few of us right now.

I’ll stop here because I’m sure you’re quite busy.

Stay well!

Frederick

***

Elizabeth sat with the baby in the chair by the front window watching the first snow of the season, thinking about how it was almost December again, and they had left Arendelle a year before. The baby was fast asleep, but she was comfortable and he was warm, and she felt no need to move.

Her mother-in-law brought her a cup of tea, then poured one for Lars, sitting down next to him at the table. They could hear Susan in the kitchen preparing something for dinner.  Lars sat reading the evening paper, and finishing the front page, did his best not to make noise turning to the second page, since the baby would nearly always wake up if the paper rustled.  He started to take a sip from his cup while he was reading, but set it back down abruptly and stared at the page, whispering something to his mother, who looked surprised.

"What is it, Lars?" Elizabeth asked, briefly glancing over, then returning her attention to the snow and the sleeping baby. Lars handed the folded newspaper to his mother, who brought it over to her.

Elizabeth took the paper, and skimmed over a few headlines about nothing astounding, then gasped, stopping herself before the baby stirred.

“Inga said there might be news soon, but nothing about marriage- did you know anything?”

"I thought I might hear something about their officially courting, certainly, or maybe even an engagement,” he muttered. “I suppose I’ll see tomorrow if any messages arrived since I left this afternoon, but they completely ignored any suggestions about getting a telegraph set up.  I dropped the topic this summer since it just sounded like I wanted faster congratulations about the baby.” 

Elizabeth stood up, handing the baby to her mother-in-law.  “I need to write to her!”

***

Lars sat down at his desk, opening the diary to December 15th.  He realized that it had now been one year since they’d arrived here.  He was growing to like this office, but there was increasing pressure to move everything back to the capital now that things were settling down.  He would need to consider that carefully: he could always spend time on the train, traveling back and forth, or they could all move South, and spend less time apart.  But then he remembered the constant threat of malaria, and what if there was another outbreak of Yellow Fever? That wouldn’t do at all.  

He heard someone ring the bell at the front door, and he got up to answer it himself.  With all the uncertainty about whether this office would be permanent, he had never hired an assistant, but there were so few interruptions that it really didn’t matter.

Opening the door, he saw a young man in a heavy winter coat, thick hat, gloves and scarf, even though the weather had gotten mild again for the last week or two.  

“Hello, I’m looking for the Ambassador.” The young man spoke through his scarf, looking directly at Lars with dark brown eyes that almost matched the bridge of his nose.  

“I’m the Ambassador,” Lars informed him.

“Oh! I’m sorry…  am I supposed to call you Your Excellency? I think that's what I read.”

“Just call me Mr. Nilsen,” Lars laughed, remembering how fastidious he had been with titles not that long ago. “Come inside.  You’re not from around here, are you?”

“No,” he said, coming inside.  He rubbed his chapped hands after he’d stuffed his gloves in his coat pockets, “in fact, I only got off the train two days ago. First thing I bought was this coat.  I’m not used to cold weather.”

“Where are you from?”

“Louisiana,” he explained, finally taking his scarf off, “and now you’re probably going to laugh at me for wanting to visit Arendelle if I can’t handle the cold.” 

“It’s quite pleasant there in the summer,” Lars offered, “but you do have me curious.”

“Well, I’ve always heard stories about it, and I started saving up my money while New Orleans was occupied, doing any odd jobs that I could. And now, I’m ready for an adventure, just for myself.  A few of my cousins went out west this summer, but I wanted something different.”

“I hadn’t realized the stories of Arendelle were that widely known,” Lars admitted, “but I’d be happy to get you set up with a travel visa, and answer any questions you have.”  He motioned for the man to sit down next to his desk.

“Thank you, Mr. Nilsen,” he said, taking a seat, still wearing his coat and hat.  “I found a few books at the library yesterday, but I’m sure they don’t tell the whole story. The books certainly told a different story than the ones I heard from the master’s family.”

“Oh?” Lars said, retrieving the papers from his desk.  The man seemed amiable enough, and Lars was interested in hearing some more about his interest in Arendelle.  He hadn’t even mentioned the fjords.  The handful of people he’d seen so far coming in person for visas had talked about nothing else. Besides, Lars didn’t get much conversation when he was at work these days.  “Were they…were they from Arendelle?”  

“Oh, no,” he laughed, “in fact, I didn’t really hear any nice things about Arendelle from them, but that makes me all the more curious to see the place for myself.”

“It’s a beautiful place,” Lars said, half listening as he started to organize the paperwork for a travel visa.  He glanced at the first space on the form. “I’m sorry, I realize I never asked you your name.”

“Right, you’ll need that,” he smiled, “John Westergard.”

Lars felt his stomach drop.  It could be chance.  It could be anyone. He needed to keep calm.

“Westergard?” Lars tried not to be obvious as he looked the other man up and down.  There was no resemblance, not even some quirk of his nose or the shape of his earlobe, to any member of the royal family of the Southern Isles. But the name, still, the name must have an explanation. “That’s an unusual name…”

“I’ve been thinking about changing it. It’s not really my name, you know how it is.”

[itstheendofthegoddamnworld]

Intoxicating: Drunk!Jacob Frye x Reader

Merry Christmas! I hope everyone has a lovely new year!

So, I’ve never played the AC games but I have watched walkthroughs and have always enjoyed the games, but recently, I rewatched AC Syndicate and never acknowledged a growing obsession for the younger of the Frye twins. 

I have decided to do an imagine with this handsome and drunk man. The reader is an assassin moved after living in England and now lives in America, but has come back to London after letters from Henry Green. Enjoy!

This wasn’t the first time you had seen him drunk. And the very first time you had witnessed it, it wasn’t as disastrous as this.

You had joined the London brotherhood after receiving urgent letters from the only assassin in the capital, Henry Green months ago from America, begging you for your return with the chaos and downfall to the Brotherhood and lack of potential help whilst Templar control took over.

You were urgently more than pleased to return back to the country you had been raised in, but after being moved to America with your attention, you didn’t think you would ever come back.

You were more than surprised to see that you were not the only assassin who had received the message, and upon arriving in London after years of being away, you ran into twin assassins; specifically, you had remembered their decease father and his work.

Little by little - and with the naive plan to start their own gang - you took back London and the boroughs, all with thanks to the increasing recruits of The Rooks.

Bit by bit, you were just as adamant on gaining control against Crawford Starrick and Starrick Industries.

After being in London for a few months and getting used to the English weather once again, it was amusing regarding working with the Frye twins at first, and how differently they behaved from one another.

Evie the oldest was the more serious and studious to her brother, carefully plotting out missions with patience and steadiness. You were at first wary working with her but found that she was caring and thoughtful, thinking to the people and children that lived in orphanages and working in gruelling conditions.

And then there was the youngest, Jacob. Where do I start with him? He was certainly more head-on, - like a bull in a China shop you remember Henry Green quoting - brash yet with an oh-so-charming personality. 

You had been blessed (you could call it that) to work with him on missions in both assassinating templar leaders and gaining control over gang territories, and in those many times you had, you had almost been killed from his audacious behaviour.

After hearing of another successful gain from The Rooks in claiming a full borough with so little casualties, everyone who had been recruited had gone out on a night to the pub, and after promising to ring up Jacob to Evie, you were more than terrified in knowing what you would find upon your arrival.

Getting to the Duke of York pub was easy, thanks to the noise of drunken men loitering around both inside and outside, the men and women were loud but pleased in seeing you here with them.

It was amazing to see how these people were so loyal to both Jacob and the assassins, and it amused you, to say the least how Jacob was so charming to rouse the restless.

Speaking of the assassin, you hadn’t spotted him entirely too quickly, but with some quick nudges from some of the men you knew that they had spotted you in here, you were quick to find his location.

He was situated and crowded around a bunch of men, chugging ale and lager and all sorts of disgusting beverages down in a gambling game, those gathered and cheering Jacob and the man he was competing against.

You took a glance at the number of pints they had emptied, and after asking a female rook for the reason behind this, she had told you that the boss was interested in trying to boast to everyone about how much he could guzzle without even feeling tipsy.

You were not that surprised in finding out how much of a light-weight Jacob was.

“Mr Frye,” Your voice brought those around you to turn to look on you, glazed eyes humming in your presence, “ how pleasant it is to see you this evening.”

His appearance could’ve been mistaken for his normal messiness, his top hat barely sitting properly on his head, collapsed in his seat with his clothes looking slightly more disorderly than usual; as if he had been trying to take layers off but gave up.

“Miss Y/N, how lovely to see you at this hour.” Jacob’s words didn’t slur, but from his body language, he was barely even able to keep his head up, slumped against another male rook to his left. “I would’ve kept some lager for you… but it seems I drank it all.”

“No need, I’m here to pick you up and take you back to your sister. You have some discussions with her on a particular mission tomorrow, and I’m sure she’ll be most… abjured by your appearance.”

“Yes, yes, less talking about my sister, I’m just happy to see you here. Can it not wait longer? James and I were going to participate in a shooting competition, we need someone to keep track of points.” The assassin groaned, trying to pull himself up as he slouched his ale around the table.

Heavens no, an abbreviated Jacob with a pistol are two of the last things to be mixed together. You dreaded, leaning over the table surrounded by others, and successfully prying the pint glass out of his grasp.

Jacob made a sound similar to a kicked puppy: a low whine sounded from the back of his throat, as he tried to grasp back at his drink taken, his beautiful hazel eyes wide in desperation. “But Y/NNNN-”

“No buts, come, I don’t want to drag you out in front of your rooks, do I?” You questioned, your voice trying to hide the amusement over the current affair.

You heard around you the snickers of other men, some taking side glances and whispering to one another not so quietly, all delighted by the entertainment. Choosing to ignore them for now, you could only imagine that it was just drunk men happily watching a sober assassin try to move one of their partners.

Jacob let out another whine, one you had heard many times when he was wrong in comparison to Evie; a sound of defeat. “Fine, you’re starting to spend too much time with her, I say. I do need to get up anyway, been dying for a piss.”

“Charming Mr Frye.” You mused, taking a step back to watch as Jacob attempted to climb over the other Rooks from his corner of the room, hearing the sounds of others groaning and trying to not be trampled over.

“Miss, will you need any assistance taking the boss home?” You turned to see two larger men you were familiar with in assisting in gang wars with Jacob; men twice as tall and beefer than the canned preservative.

“No need gentlemen, how bad can it be dragging him back?”

-

You watched the drunken songs being sung outside and inside the pub you had stepped out from, the night air nipping at your skin and face as you buddled up, watching as some sort of bodyguard as Jacob did his business in an adjacent alleyway.

“Come now, spill it out, how much did Evie pay for you to come to see me like this?” Jacob’s voice carried itself through the alleyway out into the open air you were standing in.

“Nothing, I have seen you in this state before. Just… not so bad.” You eyes glanced to the stumbling, a mutter of a curse word under Jacob’s breath as he stabilised himself with a hand to the wall for balance. “Does she usually pay those to see you like this?”

“Hang on, when did you see me like this the first time?” Jacob retorted dryly from the darkness. “The drunken bet, were you fought some men in the streets shirtless? I saw you run past.”

Jacob made a noise of a chuckle, zipping up as he turned to look back on you. “You were impressed weren’t you?“ He grinned, and even in this light with little of the streetlights dimming, his hazel eyes shone more like coppers mixed with brown.

“Hmm, not in the slightest.” You laughed, earning a pout in return to your remark. Jacob whispered something along his breath, too softly spoken for you to hear that he had asked you something else, maybe in regards to that evening?

“Come now, you’re freezing.” He stated, pulling away to stand away from the wall he pissed against. You noted he seemed to know where he was going, the alleyway was always a shortcut he knew more than you, but you were getting used to being in alleyways late at night.

“I’ve been worse Mr Frye-”

“Jacob. Stop with this politeness. You’re not in front of Evie or even Greenie.” His voice was low on him, lower and more sultry as if he was putting it on for effect for you.

You smirked and rolled your eyes when you took you aside to a different corner, taking your hand into his, and breathing over them to keep them warm. “I appreciate the offer, Jacob, we’ll be back on the train if we hurry up.”

“What is there to hurry for? For me to be nagged at when I return?” You knew that smirk he put on when he wanted his own way, his charm-factor had risen into the hundreds just so he could get you to not resist.

“Wouldn’t you want a little fun Y/N? The night is still young.”

His face hung lower to your own, and from this angle, you could see just how much his pupils had blown wide, some sly look waiting and bubbling in those eyes.

You hummed in thought, it wouldn’t hurt to just spend a couple of minutes away without having to return to the train, right?

You looked at him, neither one of you budging to break eye contact. “You can start by attempting to warm me up.”

“Oh, I can think of many ways of doing that.” chortled Jacob with a purr as he blew wind just below your ear, taking you to his chest as he wrapped the outside flaps of his coat around you in an attempt to keep you warm.

Facing inwards to him did keep you protected from the cold, and you wouldn’t deny that you did enjoy the feel of being this close to him. You could smell the ale strong on his breath, mingled with something muskier but mild to not make you turn your nostrils up at it.

“Is this helping?” He whispered close to your ear, keeping you taut in his arms, “Or do I need to resort to other solutions?”

“I’m sure there are ways of keeping me warm back on the train, hmm?” You suggested, pawing at his torso with needy fingers. “A nice cup of tea, and blanket? Maybe if I don’t tell on you, you can be my little cupbearer?”

“You can always give me an… reasonable reward?” He purred, nipping at your earlobe. “Something that we’ll keep the both of us warm?”

Your body was flush to his, his body leant into you and you have to keep him up. You were enjoying the thrill of hiding from his Rooks, the thought of being caught with their boss was something you couldn’t help indulge on.

“Hurry up then and we can get to the train quick, without me having to drag you all around London.”

“Okay love,” he sang, “as long as I get to have you as soon as.”

-

You heaved and pushed an unconscious Jacob onto his own bed, holding yourself up as you tried catching your breath. After passing out and having to attempt to make a return, you had to resort to taking a carriage and ride him back inside of it.

You didn’t want to imagine the possibility of the police catching you in the act of kidnapping a drunk and unconscious man and throwing him into a carriage, you wouldn’t have been too pleased in having to run faster than them.

You groaned heavily, moving to Jacob’s side as you jabbed him, resulting in the groggy man muttering nonsense to you about trying to stay awake.

You even managed to hide him away from Evie– ooh the nerve of this man! He had to make it up to you in some way-

“Up with your arms sleepy head.” You had successfully pulled at his jacket and tie, trying to throw off his shirt as he tiredly lifted his arms up.

“Hhhgh, Y/N– keep me warm,” Jacob muttered in gibberish, swaying from side to side as he tried to grab at you with a hand. You were too quick for him, leaping out of his way as you grabbed at his hat and threw it to the side.

“I think that’s the point Jacob, you should be keeping me warm.”

“But love, I can’t if you’re not here.” He threw himself back onto the bed, eyes just wide enough that you could see the puppy dog eyes come out. 

“Come here.” He patted the available space next to him.

“Jacob, you’re not that drunk to know from your lefts to your rights, so you’re certainly not that drunk to— hey! Hands off!” 

In the knick of time, Jacob had once again grabbed at you whilst you were speaking, throwing you with his hands around your waist as he threw you back onto the bed, him following soon after to throw himself on top of you.

“Shut up love.” He gruffly spoke against your neck, pressing hot kisses into your exposed skin, hands not seeming to stop in moving over you.

“Jacob, god sake, you can at least kiss me if you’re going to tease me.”You whined, throwing your arms around his neck as you initiated the kiss by pulling him back up to meet you in a feverish kiss, tongues and all.

His sideburns were wispy and ticklish along your cheeks, but you didn’t care, running your fingers in his hair and gaining a stifled groan from him.

Your hands explored his exposed body, fingers dipping over his back muscles, pulling him closer to you if possible as the two of you didn’t break from kissing one another.

“What time did you say you had to go out tomorrow morning?” You gave enough space to ask him, his own lips moving back down towards your neck as he unbuckled the front of your corset and shirt with fumbling fingers.

With a cocky grin, the assassin on top of you looked so predatory above you, with lustful eyes that made you think that he was never to begin with drunk, or the soberness was kicking back in.

With a lick of his lips, his natural charm returned, never failing to make you swoon and your knees buckle.

“I won’t tell Evie if you don’t get me in trouble.”

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @beerwolves!

Read on AO3

*****

The Prisoner

Beacon Hills, capital city of the Kingdom of Beacon, 2004

Stiles stuck close to his dad, barely looking up from his feet as they toured the Beacon Hills Sheriff's Hall. He wasn’t really sure what his dad’s new job was. Maybe he was in charge of all the other deputies in the kingdom of Beacon now? There had been a letter from the King, but Stiles hadn’t really been paying attention to anything since his mom-

“What’s down here? Storage?” his dad asked.

“It’s mostly unused cells,” their guide, one of his dad’s new deputies, said. “For long-term prisoners. But yes, there’s also some storage down here. Outdated equipment, old files, anything we don’t need on a regular basis.”

His dad hmm’ed thoughtfully. Not too long ago, Stiles would have laughed at that and maybe tried to warn this deputy what that thoughtful hmm meant, but now he just looked up and finally paid attention to the hallway they were in. They were standing next to a door with a sliding panel set in the middle and a slit of a window so narrow that Stiles’s dad would have had to lift him up and hold him right next to it if he wanted to look through it. He might be a kid, but he recognized a solitary confinement cell door when he saw one. He sidled closer to his dad and leaned against his leg.

“Is there anything else I need to see today?” his dad said. He put his hand on Stiles’s shoulder and squeezed.

The deputy looked between them and visibly changed his answer. “No, I’d say we’re all done for now.”

His dad nodded, and they headed for the stairs. Stiles thought he saw a gleam of light in the cell door window, but there was nothing when he looked again.

~

Beacon Hills, capital city of the Kingdom of Beacon, 2006

His dad had a dungeon.

Not a dark and damp stone one lit with torches - which would have been way cooler - but there were prison cells in the basement of the Sheriff’s Hall and that counted as a dungeon and there was someone in one of them . Probably a murderer.

His dad had the best job.

Stiles approached the door of the occupied cell and slowly slid the panel open. He darted back, out of arm’s reach; he wasn’t stupid. He tried to look inside, but it was too dark to see anything without getting closer. He squinted; was that movement? He took a step forward.

“Stiles,” his dad said from the top of the stairs. “I told you not to go down there.”

That was his dad’s ‘I mean business’ voice, so Stiles ran back upstairs.

Next time he was going to talk to the murderer in the dungeon.

~

Beacon Hills, capital city of the Kingdom of Beacon, 2007

Stiles waited until the nearby deputies were distracted, then slipped downstairs. If his dad was really serious about keeping him away from the basement cells, the door would be locked, right?

He didn’t bother to turn on the lights - there was just enough sunlight coming through the tiny window set high on the wall at the end of the hallway for him to see by. He could probably find his way to the Prisoner’s cell blindfolded anyway.

He slid open the panel and peeked through the opening. The room was dim; the Prisoner was to be kept in darkness, no matter how much his dad didn’t like it.  “Hi,” he whispered. “Got you something.” He placed an apple on the ledge that jutted out from the opening.

There was a deep sigh from one corner of the room. “Why?”

“Prison food sucks. Dad says so.”

“Why do you keep coming back? Talking to me?”

Stiles shrugged. He didn’t know why himself. “Because.”

There was a pause.“...thank you.”

Stiles moved away and after a moment the apple disappeared from the ledge. The Prisoner didn’t like for Stiles to get too close or try to see him.

When Stiles had first started bringing outside food for the Prisoner, he had worried about things like apple cores and orange peels. Apparently the orange peels could be flushed if they were broken up into tiny pieces, but the Prisoner ate the apple core, seeds and all. Ew. Stiles didn’t like to think about it, so he started doing what he did best: chatter.

“So my buddy Scott has a crush on the Little Princess and Lydia is all ‘Don’t be stupid, you don’t have a chance’ and it’s not like Scott actually thinks he does, but he can still like her, right? It’s like having a crush on a movie star. I mean, I have a better shot with Lydia than Scott does with a freakin’ princess, and Lydia is like, unattainable. Plus she’s going steady with Jackson, just because his dad is Lord Mayor. She has a genius brain, but I guess even smart people do stupid things.

“Anyway, Scott’s got her picture in his wallet and he looks at it and sighs a lot, which is kinda lame. I don’t do that with Lydia, and I’m an expert at having a crush. I-”

“Someone’s coming,” the Prisoner said suddenly. “Close the panel and hide.”

“What?”

“Stiles, hurry,” the Prisoner hissed, and Stiles did as he was told.

Just as he finished sliding the panel shut, the overhead lights came on. Stiles whirled and ran for the storage closet, which was always unlocked despite his dad’s efforts. He dashed inside and shut the door as quietly as he could. There was less than half an inch of space at the bottom of the door; Stiles lay down and pressed his face as close to the crack as he could. He wouldn’t be able to see anything, but he could probably hear enough to learn something interesting.

A clatter of footsteps marched down the hallway, echoing off the bare cement walls. Stiles had learned early on to be quiet while visiting the Prisoner, who had really sensitive hearing - these people either didn’t know or didn’t care.

“Open the door and leave us.” A woman’s voice, very commanding. Nobility for sure.

“My lady-” A man, probably a personal guard. The nobility always had personal guards.

“He wouldn’t dare try to harm me. He knows what will happen if he does. Open the door and wait by the stairs.”

“Yes, my lady.” There was a metallic groan - the cell door opening? - and then a bunch of footsteps clomping away.

“Der-ek,” the woman sing-songed. “Come out, come out wherever you are.”

Stiles didn’t like her.

“Then I’ll have to come to you.”

A muted step and then all he could hear was the muffled sound of her voice, no matter how he adjusted his position. He waited an eternity, with only her unintelligible words and the occasional sound of her mocking laughter audible from the Prisoner’s cell.

She finally emerged. “I’m finished,” she called. The guards came back and as the door was groaning shut, she said mockingly, “Until next year, sweetie.”

Stiles really didn’t like her.

Their footsteps marched away and then up the stairs. Then the lights went out and there was a faint sound of a door closing. Stiles waited.

After another eternity, Stiles got up and opened the door. He stepped out into the darkened hallway - the sun had set at some point - and quietly closed it again. He made his way to the Prisoner’s cell - hey, he really could find his way blind - and slid the panel open.

“Hello?” he whispered.

No answer.

“Derek?”

“Forget you heard that name.” Derek’s voice was low and sad.

“I’m sorry she was mean to you.”

“Just go away.”

“Oh. Okay. Um, I’ll talk to you later?”

No answer.

Reluctantly, Stiles slid the panel closed and left him alone, creeping down the hallway toward the stairs, not only because it was dark.

At the top of the stairs, he opened the door a crack and peeked out. It didn’t look like anyone was around, so he opened it a little more and squeezed out. Then he closed it again and heaved a sigh of relief.

A heavy hand came down on his shoulder. Stiles yelped.

“How long were you down there?” his dad whispered, furious.

“Um-”

“Were you down there when Princess Katherine arrived?”

Stiles’s eyes went wide. “Princess Katherine?”

“Do you know what she would have done if she’d found you down there? We would both be spending the rest of our lives in one of those cells.”

“Dad-”

“Don’t, Stiles. You can’t talk your way out of this one. We’re going home. I’ll figure out your punishment for this once I’ve calmed down.”

His dad let go of his shoulder. “We’re leaving.” He strode away and Stiles hurried after him. He’d never seen his dad so angry, not at him.

The drive home was silent. Stiles felt bad, but he couldn’t think of anything he might have done differently. Not get caught?

When they got home, his dad sent him to his room. Neither of them mentioned supper.

“Dad?” Stiles asked hesitantly from the staircase. “Who is he?”

“Stiles-” His dad sighed and rubbed his forehead. “His name is Adrian Harris. He plotted against the royal family and now he’ll be in prison for the rest of his life. Stay away from him.”

Why would Princess Katherine call the Prisoner Derek if his name was Adrian Harris? Something wasn’t right. Something that might be dangerous for his dad to know. “Okay.”

Stiles trudged up to his room. He had some research to do.

~

Beacon Hills, capital city of the Kingdom of Beacon, 2011

Stiles burst into the kitchen of the Sheriff’s Hall, carrying a small bag of apples. “I’m here! I brought them! It’s not too late, is it?”

Stiles had been helping out in the kitchen since he was eleven, although at first it had been part of his punishment for going places he wasn’t supposed to go. Prison food really did suck. Stiles wasn’t sure if the bad food was part of the criminals paying their debt to society, but he did know that prisoners were supposed to be fed nutritious meals. His dad had agreed and at Stiles’s suggestion, they had added fresh fruit to the prisoner’s meals to go with their otherwise nutritionally adequate slop. For years, Stiles had been allowed to place said fresh fruit on the lunch trays before they were served (because he definitely was not allowed to cook anything or handle sharp objects) and today he had been sent to buy more apples because the ones in the kitchen had gone bad.

“I’d swear you were still eleven years old,” Brenda, the kitchen manager, said fondly. “You aren’t too late. Go on, we’re about to load everything on the carts.”

Stiles rinsed the apples and started putting them on the trays, moving as fast as he could without dropping anything or knocking anything over.

“Sooo, Brenda,” Stiles said as soon as the kitchen workers started loading the trays on carts. “Do you think I could…” He gestured vaguely with hands and smiled, his eyes wide and innocent.

“No,” Brenda scolded with a laugh. “You can’t help deliver the meals. I don’t know why you keep asking.”

“Because one day you might say yes,” Stiles said with a charming smile.

Brenda shooed him away and Stiles went.

As soon as he was out of sight, he hurried down the hallway toward a place he was definitely not supposed to be. He ducked into an unused office and hurried over to the vent, mentally thanking the fates that the Sheriff’s Hall was new enough to have central heating and old enough to have a ventilation system that required repair people to actually enter the vents to fix shit when it broke.

He pulled the grate away and crawled inside. He carefully replaced the grate behind him and began to make his way along the route he’d mapped out from building schematics. Hopefully they had been accurate. He moved as quickly as he could, cursing every thump and scrape he caused. If his luck held, the noise would be dismissed as the random sounds of an old HVAC system.

There were a few heart-stopping moments when he had to climb down to the basement level vents - the maintenance ladder needed maintenance - but soon he was letting himself down into the supply closet where he had hidden from Princess Katherine all those years ago. The door was still being kept unlocked - another uncontrollable variable working out in his favor - and he crept out into the hallway.

The sliding panel on Derek’s cell door barely made a scraping sound as he pulled it aside. “Derek?” he whispered. “It’s me, Stiles.”

“Stiles?” Suddenly a face loomed in front of him in the darkness. Derek was pale, and his dark, unkempt hair and beard were shot through with silver, but he still looked like the pictures Stiles had found on the internet. “What are you doing here?”

“I snuck in. Listen, there’s no time. I need you to promise to eat your apple today, okay?”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“It’s going to taste funny. Maybe smell funny. Just eat it, all of it, okay?”

Derek’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Stiles pulled a chain out from under his shirt. The attached pendant was etched with a swirling symbol. “The sun, the moon, the truth. Your mother sent me, Prince Derek. Please, just trust me.”

Derek stared at him, then nodded. Stiles placed his hand in the opening, palm up, and waited to see if Derek would take it. After a moment, Derek did.

When Stiles started to pull away, Derek tightened his grip. “Stiles,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

Stiles nodded. “Good luck.” Then he closed the panel and hurried away. Getting back out would be just as tricky as getting in had been.

He was almost back to the unused office when his phone buzzed with an incoming text. Shit, he was behind schedule. He sped up, muttering ‘Don’t notice me, don’t notice me’ under his breath as his progress made more noise than could be explained by it being old. He almost crashed through the vent grate, still muttering, and quickly got out and replaced it. He stopped at the door, closed his eyes and placed one hand on the knob and the other on the wall. “Don’t notice me,” he said one more time, and opened the door.

There was a deputy in the hall when he stepped out of the office, but she only looked at Stiles with uninterested eyes and continued on her way.

“Holy shit, it worked,” he whispered, then he started running. No one tried to stop him. When he reached his dad’s office, he stopped, let out a slow, deliberate breath, and said, “All done.”

He was panting with exertion when he burst into his dad’s office.

“Stiles, what’s wrong?” his dad asked, halfway out of his seat.

“Dad,” he gasped. “Can I… stay… with Scott… tonight?”

His dad sat back down. “And you rushed in here to ask because…?”

“Scott’s waiting,” Stiles answered, still catching his breath.

“And you couldn’t have called? Texted?” His dad raised a ‘my son is an idiot’ brow at him.

“I… could have done that, yes. But then I wouldn’t have seen you at all today, dad-dad-daddy-o.” Stiles shuffled his feet. “Sooo, can I?”

“How does Melissa feel about this?”

“She’s working the night shift all weekend. She told us not to set anything on fire and not to eat all of the Oreos.”

His dad gave him a piercing look, then nodded. “Fine, you can stay at Scott’s. But if I find out you didn’t clear this with Melissa…”

“Yeah, yeah, grounded for life, no driving until I’m thirty-five, bread and water diet, all that good stuff.”

The phone rang and his dad waved him out. “Don’t cause any mayhem,” he said and answered the phone.

Stiles hurried outside, where Scott was waiting for him in Stiles’s jeep. “Did you do it?” Scott asked while Stiles was buckling his seatbelt.

“All done. Now we live normal teenage boy lives for a while.”

“Awesome. Call of Duty tonight?”

“Scotty, you are going down,” Stiles said as he started the jeep.

The next morning, his dad told him the Prisoner had died in his sleep. The day after that, the news stations reported that the Prisoner’s body had disappeared from the morgue. His name was not given. Princess Katherine was seen storming in and out of the Sheriff’s Hall every day for a week. Stiles stayed far away.

~

Beacon Preserve, neutral territory between the kingdoms of Beacon and Triskele, 2016

Princess Allison Argent, formerly known as the Little Princess, now heir-apparent to the throne of Beacon, waited at the edge of Wolf’s Glade with her honor guard, which counted her secret fiance Scott McCall among its number. On the other side, Princess Laura Hale, heir-apparent to the throne of Triskele, waited with several of her brothers and sisters, including Prince Derek, formerly a prisoner of Princess Allison’s aunt, Princess Katherine. His escape had led to a brutal war, and now, five years later, both sides agreed that the cost of the war was too high. Stiles privately thought Princess Katherine’s death in battle, followed by King Gerard’s fatal heart attack upon hearing the news, had helped the end of the war along.

Stiles, as someone with ties to both sides, stood in the middle of the Glade with Emissary Deaton. Nobody was leaving until they hammered out a treaty, not if he had anything to say about it. He wanted to date his new boyfriend in peace. He looked over at Derek and winked.

[instakpop]

Suho scenario - Above all else

requested by @juminsmysticmc

Genre: angst, pregnancy!au, parenthood

Summary: During a fiery argument with your husband, you start to experience a serious health scare. In an instant, You and Junmyeon come to the realization that your decisions have to be made, not only for what's best for you as individuals but as the parents of your baby.

“Y/n! It’s just two months!” Junmyeon’s voice roared down the hall. He’s angry, but not nearly as angry as you are. Just a few months after you welcome your child into the world he’ll be going on an Asian tour. How could he think this is a good idea?

“Exactly! Two months too long. You’re not just the leader of EXO anymore. Your a husband and father.” You followed him into the bedroom, crossing your arms above your belly. 

“I know that. It’s not my decision. The timing isn’t the best but it’ll be over before you know it. “

Your heart was pounding. None of this was good for you. The last thing you need is to strain yourself. You’d already been feeling tired and the baby’s kicking doesn’t help your discomfort one bit.

“Junmyeon…” You shot him a stern look. A look he knows all too well.

He looked you in the eye, studying your face and tried to come up with a compromise.

“What if you came with?”

“On tour? Absolutely not.”

“Okay. Then on weekends, I’ll do the shows and fly home on weekdays.”

“No, Jun. You know just as well as I do that tours are a 24/7 thing. If you’re not practicing, you’re on stage, if you’re not on stage your sleeping, If you’re not sleeping, you’re back at practice!” You had a point, and it frustrated him to no end

“Why are you making this so difficult? I’m just trying to keep my priorities in check.” He fell back onto the bed, fed up with the whole conversation.

You opened your mouth, determined to get another shot in when the most extreme pain shot up your back. You let out a tensed cry, stumbling forward. You quickly unfolded your arms, catching yourself on the door frame. Junmyon jolted up with a look of terror in his eyes. He hurried to your side, placing his hand on your back just as you let out another groan of pain.

“Y/n. Baby. Tell me where it hurts.” His voice lowered to a gentle coo. He tried to help you stand up straight, but you couldn’t.

Your breaths are sharp and uneven. It’s a pain you’ve never experienced before. You grasped Junmyeon’s other hand, squeezing it tightly as another surge moved through your abdomen.

“We need to go to the hospital.” Junmyeon helped you walk out of the house and to the car. Taking small steps so as not the overwork you.

Racing down the streets, you and Junmyeon arrived at the hospital in a matter of minutes. The entire way there, you tried to regain your breath, but it was too difficult to work around the pain. As Junyeom helped you to the emergency room, you closed your eyes briefly, hoping nothing is wrong with the baby.

Both of you waited in silence in the lobby until you were brought to an exam room. The pain slowly faded away as the doctor helped you into a comfortable position. You stared up at the ceiling while they checked your blood pressure, and ran an ultrasound.

Junmyeon’s hand never left yours while you watched the screen. It took a few minutes, but sure enough, the sound of a little heartbeat filled the room. Your head fell back with a sigh of relief. Junmyeon kissed your hand, consoling you.

“Everything looks fine. Your blood pressure is looking a little high though. But I can see your pulse rate is lowering which helps. You haven’t experienced any heavy bleeding or severe spotting have you?” The doctor asked.

“No, I haven’t.”

“Very good. It was a close call but the baby seems perfectly healthy. The pain you experienced, based on your description sounds like a pulled muscle. With a baby kicking around inside you, it’s not entirely uncommon. However. Due to the high risk, I think now would be a good time to place you on bed rest.” The doctor got out a prescription pad and wrote on a slip of paper. “Not this is where dad comes in. She needs to limit her activity indefinitely. This means you will be doing the heavy lifting, the majority of house chores, and most of all, keep her stress free.” Tearing off the slip, the doctor handed it to Junmyeon. You peered over to see the words ‘BED REST’ in all capital letters. “Can you do that?”

“Yes. I can.”

“Excellent. I’ll see you both again soon for your regular check-ups. Until then. Relax; In every sense of the word.” With that, you and Junmyeon were left alone.

You looked over at him as he stared down at his lap. “I’m so sorry, Y/n. This is all my falt.”

“No, it isn’t. It’s not something you can just pin blame to. We were both pretty heated there for a minute, but luckily, we’re all still here.” You said, holding your belly.

Junmyeon looked up with a sigh and laid his hand over yours. His eyes were red and puffy as tears started to fall. A lump formed in your throat as you watched him break down.

“No one is going anywhere. Especially not me. I’ll make some calls in the morning.”

“Jun… We can still talk about this.”

“No, Y/n. You were right. I’m a husband and a father now. We’ve created a life that depends on us both. Touring can wait until we are all ready. You and the baby are my top priorities. Above all else.” He stood up and kissed your forehead.

From that day on, Junmyeon made sure you had nothing to worry about. He stayed by your side on bedrest and remained by your side when you delivered your firstborn. 

The tour was pushed back which left fans upset, but there were still able to have a few fan events nearby. Junmyeon was always close enough to come back home for dinner. In the first year of your child’s life, he proved to be a dutiful father and loyal husband. Of course, There were times when he became busy, but he never let anything lead him away from his top priority.

THE END

[weavingthetapestry]

Plague Projects, 1568: George Bannatyne and His Books

“The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men / Gang aft agley” seems like a phrase which really sums up this past month, and also says something about my altered plans for this blog this year. After all, with the 700th anniversary of the Declaration of Arbroath coming up, I had hoped that the next time I’d be posting, it would be about nation-defining fourteenth century documents, not sixteenth century cultural treasures. Indeed, I should probably apologise to those of you particularly interested in earlier periods for publishing what I believe is my fourth or fifth lengthy sixteenth century post in a row- and it IS horrendously lengthy. But as many of us will be keeping to our homes for the foreseeable future, it seemed apt instead to consider taking a leaf out of George Bannatyne’s book. 

In autumn and winter 1568, plague once again raged in Edinburgh. Confined to the family home “in tyme of pest, / Quhen we fra labor was compeld to rest”, 22-year old George Bannatyne whiled away the hours compiling a massive collection of Old Scots poetry. His book, containing works from such famous names as Chaucer, Dunbar, Henryson, Lindsay and others, is now known as the Bannatyne MS (or, to give it its less snappy title, Adv. MS. 1.1.6). It is widely acknowledged as one of the most significant books in the history of Old Scots literature, preserving some of the very best works of the age for later generations. So, since I have the time and the ink (metaphorically at least), I thought it might be a good opportunity to explore the history of this vital manuscript, the life of its author, and the circumstances in which it was created. 

George Bannatyne was neither the son of a great noble nor some powerful churchman, but he did come from a reasonably well-off family with an important network of acquaintances. Thanks to the survival of a ‘Memoriall Buik’ which he began compiling around 1582, we are able to trace some of his background with more ease than might otherwise be the case. In it, we find that George was the son of James Bannatyne of the Kirktoun of Newtyle (born 1512) and Katherine Taillefeir (or Telfer or any number of variant spellings; she seems to have been born c.1523). James Bannatyne belonged to the legal profession and played a not insignificant role in public life, acting as a Writer to the Signet and Deputy Justice Clerk among other things. He also had mercantile interests and, despite originally hailing from Angus (a region he would maintain links with for the rest of his life), he was admitted as a burgess and guild brother of Edinburgh in 1538. It may have been around the same time that he married Katherine, who appears to have hailed from a prominent Edinburgh merchant family herself, and their first child, Laurence, was born in September 1539. The couple would go onto have twenty-three children between 1539 and 1565, of whom eleven were still alive at the time of their mother’s death in 1570, and eight were still living in their father’s house, “unput to proffeit”.

George was the seventh child, born on 22nd December 1545, and his memorial book notes that his uncles, George Taillefeir and William Fisher* acted as his godfathers, and Mavis Fisher as his godmother. Not much is known about his early life, but he does appear to have attended the University of St Andrews for a time, being incorporated at St Mary’s College in 1558 (aged about twelve) and listed as ‘baccalaurei’ in 1561. Unlike some of his brothers, however, there isn’t much evidence that he followed his father into the legal profession and we can ascertain little about his early career (beyond the basic details) before the age of forty.

(Bannatyne house near Newtyle, Angus. This property was purchased by George’s father James Bannatyne and the house built by Thomas Bannatyne in the late sixteenth century. Despite their Angus roots however, the family’s main business was in Edinburgh. Not my picture.)

The year 1568, when he was 22 years of age, would later serve as a major landmark in the young George Bannatyne’s life. Indeed, it was to be an eventful year for the kingdom of Scotland as a whole. In May, the deposed queen Mary I had escaped from captivity in the Kinross-shire castle of Lochleven, and soon raised an army to challenge the men who governed Scotland in the name of her infant son James VI. Defeated by the forces of her half-brother, the Earl of Moray, at the Battle of Langside, she then fled across the border to England, seeking the help of their cousin Elizabeth I. With the plight of the ex-Queen of Scots now an international incident, the affair would rumble on throughout the autumn and winter of 1568 and the publication of the notorious Casket Letters did nothing to diminish the scandal. Back in Scotland, meanwhile, the events of 1568 precipitated a major civil war between the supporters of the exiled Mary and the ‘King’s Men’ who fought in the name of her son. Even in August, Edinburgh had a scare when it was rumoured that the lords of ”the south and north and west countries” might attack before the next parliament, and as a result the burgh’s defences were reinforced. 

And then, just to make things worse, that same autumn a vicious bout of plague broke out in the merry town. The Diurnal of Occurrents claims that ‘the pest’ was initially brought to Edinburgh by a merchant named James Dalgleish on 8th September 1568. Whether or not this very precise account can be taken at face value, by the end of the month the situation was so concerning that, on 26th September, the Regent Moray wrote to the burgh council from Tantallon, requesting that the election of new magistrates be delayed. This was due to concern for “the publict ordour to be observit anent the plaige”, and in case the new officials, “throw laik of experience may omyt the maist necessar thingis that in sa strait ane tyme ar requisit to be done”. On 13th October the burgh council made further proclamations that nobody was to pass to the Burgh Muir (where the sick were quarantined in huts) without an official escort, and, a couple of days later, officers were appointed to clean the victims’ houses and take charge of burying the dead. Meanwhile it was ordained:

“that how sone any maner of persoun fallis seik within this burgh, in quhatsumeuir kynde of seiknes that ever it be, the awneris of the hous inclose thame selffis and cum nocht furth of thair houssis, nowther suffer ony to resort to thame unto the tyme thai aduertice the baillie of the quarter and ordour be taiken be him, under the pane of deid.”

[“that as soon as any manner of person falls sick within this burgh, whatever kind of sickness it may be, the owners of the house should enclose themselves and not come forth of their houses, nor suffer anyone to resort to them, until such time as they inform the baillie of the quarter and order is taken by him, under pain of death.”]

Plague was hardly unknown in the capital and a particularly serious outbreak had ravaged much of Britain, including Edinburgh, as recently as 1563. The burgh was therefore used to the strict measures which had to be taken (even though this didn’t stop the unfortunate William Smith and his wife Black Meg from breaking the rules, an offence for which they paid dearly). Nevertheless the periodic recurrence of the the disease struck terror into the hearts of the people, and with good reason, since the 1568 outbreak alone is estimated to have decimated a fifth of Edinburgh’s population. There were major economic consequences too, not least because of the stoppage of trade, and the Diurnal of Occurrents claims that, due to the outbreak in the burghs of Edinburgh, Leith, and Canongate, there were severe shortages in the country over the course of the following year. Little wonder then that the earliest known medical treatise to be printed in Scotland- “Ane Breve Descriptioun of the Pest” by the Aberdonian physician Gilbert Skene- rolled off the press in this year. 

[read more under cut]

(Edinburgh in the late 16th and early 17th century, according to the ‘Civitates Orbis Terrarum’. Not my picture.)

This was the wider context in which George Bannatyne compiled his famous manuscript, in the last three months of the year (according to his own explicit). But the entire MS runs to almost 800 pages and shows signs of careful organisation and so some modern commentators have naturally raised doubts about the claim that such a large project was completed in only three months, no matter how much Bannatyne may have been climbing the walls during a time of isolation. We also have to account for the 54 pages which make up the so-called Draft or Duplicate MS- draft pages which do not form part of the main Bannatyne MS but have been tacked onto the front of the surviving copy. This draft MS, currently made up of at least two gatherings, may have been larger at some point, as leaves which seem to have been part of the Draft are to be found slotted in at various points of the Bannatyne MS proper (the two MS use different styles of page number, and it may be possible to identify some of the Draft MS leaves from their Roman foliation). 

Meanwhile it was observed by J.T.T. Brown back in 1903 that one of the dates written into the manuscript as ‘1568′, on folio 290v., had originally been 1565, the last number having been altered at a later stage. Subsequently it was noticed that the year written as ‘1568′ on folio 298r. had initially been 1566, and it has been argued that the altered dates, as well as the obvious effort involved in organising and transcribing such a tome, suggest that the Bannatyne MS was the result of a much longer period of compilation than its author claimed. Not every commentator has been convinced by this- William, A. Ringler, for one, argued in 1980 that it was not impossible for George Bannatyne to have completed the work in three months, pointing out that he would only have had to spend about three hours a day on his project, and characterising the altered dates as mere slips of the pen. However most of the recent writers I’ve consulted seem to acknowledge that the MS was probably compiled in several stage, with the book only taking its final form in December 1568 after some months- possibly years- of intermittent work. The exact process of compilation is a matter of great interest to those attempting to establish a political and social context for the work. For example, Alastair A. MacDonald, asking the pertinent question of why Bannatyne might have wished to conceal an earlier start date (and assuming that the 1565 date was not a mistake), has argued that the Bannatyne MS could be seen as a Marian anthology. He has characterised it as a book which grew out of a collection of love poems associated with the poets of Mary I’s court (especially Alexander Scott), the nature of which had to be discreetly altered when the political winds changed. Whatever the case, the precise dating of the Bannatyne MS. and the manner in which it was compiled raises some fascinating possibilities and will probably continue to stimulate debate in the future.** 

(A reproduction of a page from George Bannatyne’s ‘Memoriall Buik’. Not my picture, digitisation by internet archive)

The Bannatyne manuscript itself is an impressive piece of work and Evelyn S. Newlyn is certainly justified in describing its author as, “neither a mere collector nor a passive scribe”. On top of copying out around 400 poems and other literary works (some of them quite lengthy), it is clear that George Bannatyne put thought into the organisation of the MS and its overarching purpose and literary nature. The results of his endeavours hugely impressed some later readers, not least Sir Walter Scott, but modern scholars have rightly cautioned against viewing the MS as the product solely of one young man’s ‘genius’. Bannatyne’s broad social and family networks were likely crucial to the success of his project. Several other members of his immediate family had literary and scholarly interests- his father James and possibly also his brother Thomas owned (and in the latter case compiled) notable legal collections, while a copy of the “Regiam Majestatam” owned by George’s grandfather John Bannatyne has poems copied into its pages. George’s father James was probably also the figure of that name who was referred to in Robert Sempill’s “Defence of Crissel Sandelandis” in the line, “Auld James Bannatyne wes anis a  man of skill”, and another lawyer Bannatyne, Patrick, appears elsewhere in the poem. On his mother’s side, George seems to have been related to Laurence Taillefeir, treasurer of Dunkeld, and proud owner of printed copies of Pleny and Seneca, who was also godfather to George’s eldest brother Laurence Bannatyne in 1539. Serving as the other godfather on that occasion was Henry Balnaves of Halhill, then a senator of the College of Justice, and perhaps already holding the strong Protestant views which would shape much of his career; he may be the ‘Balnevis’ listed as the author of a poem in the Bannatyne MS (“O Gallandis all, I cry and call”). 

These details regarding the godparents of the numerous Bannatyne siblings may be found in George’s “Memoriall Buik” and among the other family acquaintances listed there we also find John Bellenden of Auchnoule and his father Master Thomas Bellenden. Bellenden of Auchnoule was justice clerk (and James Bannatyne served under him for a time as deputy) but even more interest are their connections as nephew and brother respectively to John Bellenden, archdeacon of Moray. That John Bellenden was a poet at the court of James V and translator of the prose Scots version of Hector Boece’s ‘Historia Gentis Scotorum’, and the close social (and perhaps family) relationship between the Bellendens and Bannatynes may explain the prominent position given to his work in the Bannatyne MS. Meanwhile, if Balnaves of Halhill and others provided the Bannatynes with Protestant connections, there were also members of the Catholic clergy to match them, such as George Clapperton, provost of Trinity Collegiate Church, and a member of the Chapel Royal at the same time as the poet Alexander Scott (who features prominently among the love poets featured in the MS). The court connections of the above men may have proved a major asset to George Bannatyne during the compilation of his MS, although it may be going too far to describe the book, as some writers have, as a direct record of Stewart court culture. The Bannatynes also had connections to Henry Foulis of Colinton and his father James, the notable neo-Latin poet, as well as to the poet William Stewart through the Foulis family (it is also worth noting that George Bannatyne’s daughter would later marry Henry Foulis’ grandson). 

From documentary sources other than the memorial book, scholars have further traced the Bannatynes’ links to notable figures in Edinburgh’s printing trade, including King’s printer Thomas Davidson (who undertook work for the government in James Bannatyne’s company), and one of the city’s first printers Walter Chepman (both Walter and James were public notaries who witnessed some of the same transactions, and it might have been Chepman’s widow who stood godmother to George’s brother Thomas). The Bannatyne family’s connections to these notable individuals- and indeed many others whose histories we unfortunately don’t have space to trace- formed a hugely important social network of prominent lawyers, clergy, lairds, merchants, and courtiers, which must have proved immensely useful to George Bannatyne when he was gathering pieces for his MS.

(The arms of the Bannatynes of Corehouse in the Bannatyne MS, set beneath part of the story of Cokelbie’s Sow. Not my picture, property of N.L.S.)

The manuscript itself reflects this background and, although Bannatyne complained that he had to draw on sources preserved in “copeis awld, mankit, and mutillait”, he also seems to have used printed sources. Equally the high number of poems that Bannatyne was able to pull together does seem to indicate that the situation wasn’t always so dire and, as Sebestian Verweij points out:

“Bannatyne’s access to enormous numbers of manuscript and print exemplars is the best available testament to the extremely rich literary and scribal cultures in the Scottish capital.”

The list of authors whose works appear in the MS is a long one, but the most important should be singled out, if only to further demonstrate the scale of the work. The works of some of Scotland’s greatest writers before Burns are included, including pieces by William Dunbar (including the “The Thistle and Rose”, “The Golden Targe”, “The Flyting of Dunbar and Kennedy, “The Lament for the Makars”, and many more); Robert Henryson (especially worth noting are his “Morall Fabillis” and the apposite  “Ane Prayer for the Pest”); Gavin Douglas (including several prologues from his “Eneados”), and Sir David Lindsay (of particular interest is an abbreviated early copy of his play “Ane Satyre of the Thrie Estaitis”). As already mentioned the works of John Bellenden, Alexander Scott and William Stewart are well represented, while other authors include Richard Holland, John Rowll, Robert Sempill, and Richard Maitland of Lethington (who also compiled major literary collections contemporary to the Bannatyne MS). “The noble Chaucer, of makaris flour”, is also named ias the author of eight poems in the MS, though seven of these are inaccurately attributed (the other is the ‘Song of Troilus’ from “Troilus and Criseyde”). George Bannatyne seems to have included several poems of his own composition in his MS, although Theo van Heijnsbergen has suggested that two of the poems attributed to a Bannatyne which appear “more competent” than the others, might have been written by one of George’s family members instead. Numerous anonymous poems feature in the MS (and some have been given authors in annotations made by later hands), including some well-known titles such as “The Friars of Berwick, “Christ’s Kirk on the Green”, “Kynd Kittock”, and “Cokelbie’s Sow”. Bannatyne’s collection thus opens a window onto an impressive body of late mediaeval and sixteenth century Scots literature- and his achievement is all the more impressive in that around half of the 400 poems included in the MS are not known from any other source and would otherwise have been lost to us. 

Bannatyne also put a good deal of thought into the construction of the MS, beyond simply copying out as many poems as he could find. The main part of the book is divided into five parts: firstly, poems about “Godis gloir and ouir saluation” and other Christian religious subjects; secondly, poems with serious moral or philosophical content; thirdly, ‘mirry’ and comic works (some verging on bawdy), including political and social satire; fourth supposedly poems about love, but also including works criticising love and poems against the evils of both men and women (but mostly women); and lastly tales that have some kind of allegorical significance, from Robert Henryson’s animal fables to dream allegories like “The Golden Targe”. This level of editorial awareness has been said to demonstrate Bannatyne’s care and attention in compiling the MS. But some of his editing choices have been less popular with modern scholars, not least his discreet censorship of some the more obviously Catholic aspects of the pre-Reformation poetry, to suit contemporary political circumstances. His decision to include a hefty number of overtly misogynistic poems at a late stage in the compilation of the MS has also been seen as indicative of both the wider political context and also his own personal views. Most interesting though is the evidence that Bannatyne modernised- or perhaps a more exact term would be ‘anglicised- much of the spelling in the poems he transcribed, giving them a more ‘neutral’ language that might have been meant to render the work more accessible to readers of his own day in both Scotland and England. Despite these (sometimes quite major) alterations to the texts of some of the most famous works of Old Scots literature, Bannatyne’s versions of the poems of Dunbar, Henryson, and others have often been used as the basis of modern scholarly editions even sometimes when better alternatives might have been available. Regardless of accuracy, a lot of energy was clearly spent on the organisation and editing of the MS, and many authors have argued that Bannatyne intended that the book should be printed and published. As Alastair A. MacDonald wrote:

“It nonetheless remains that the only credible explanation for the care lavished on the MS and in particular for the concern with the formal appearance of the collection, is that Bannatyne had indeed entertained the hope of seeing the volume in print. It was doubtless with this purpose in mind that he made all the subtle accommodations to Protestant feelings which have been detected in manuscript.”

There is some debate over this however and others have suggested that the work could instead have been intended for circulation in manuscript form among Bannatyne’s social network. Whatever the case the result of George Bannatyne’s labours is a very impressive collection of great significance for the history of Scottish literature- and certainly worth the three months or more he is supposed to have spent working on it.

On 22nd December 1568- George Bannatyne’s 23rd birthday- the burgh council of Edinburgh noted with some relief that it finally seemed as if “God of his mercye and gudnes hes metigait the raige of the pest within this toun”. So the officers who had been appointed to keep the regulations enacted during the time of the plaque were discharged. Unfortunately, their relief was somewhat premature: the disease would return by late spring 1569 and continued to menace the city for much of the year. We have little further indication of how the Bannatyne family coped during this difficult time, but we do know that our protagonist survived and would live to a good age. Strangely though, other than his memorial book (which he began compiling around 1582), we have no evidence of any further literary activity on George Bannatyne’s part. Instead we must follow the rest of his career in his role as a prominent merchant active in family life. 

(The grave of George Foulis of Ravelston and Janet Bannatyne in Greyfriars Kirkyard. Picture from wikimedia commons.)

Until the death of James Bannatyne in 1583, aged 71, George was closely associated with his father’s activities. He was granted his first piece of property- a tenement in Leith- in 1572, and acquired others over the years. He also developed his career as a merchant (though we do not know what he dealt in) and was admitted to the merchants guild of Edinburgh in 1587, being described as a “merchand burgess of Edinburgh” the following year. Some time before this he had married Isobel Mawchan, the widow of an Edinburgh baillie, and the couple would go on to have three children- Janet, who was born on 3rd May 1587 (sharing her birthday with her late grandfather James), James who died aged eight in 1597, and a stillborn daughter. George was also stepfather to two children from his wife’s first marriage, Edward (b.1571) and Isobel Nisbet. George’s only surviving child Janet Bannatyne later married George Foulis, laird of Ravelston near Colinton (both now suburbs of Edinburgh) and later Master of the King’s Mint in Scotland- their gravestone can still be seen in Greyfriars kirkyard. Isobel Mawchan died in 1603, and her husband wrote of her that she “levit ane godly, honorable, and vertewis lyf all hir dayis. Scho wes ane wyis, honest, and trew matrone.” In his twilight years, George Bannatyne appears to have spent some time residing with his daughter and son-in-law at Dreghorn. We do not know the exact date of his death, although it has been determined that he must have died before December 1608. The last entry in his memorial book is for 24th August 1606, when he recorded another visitation of the plague:

“George Foulis, Jonet Bannatyne, his spous, my dochter, and I, George Bannatyne, thair fader, being dwelland in Dreghorne, besyde Colingtoun, the nureise infectit in the pest, being upoun ane Sounday and the secound day of the change of the mone, and Sanct Bartilmo his day; and scho deceissit upoun the Tysday nixt thaireftir, the 26 day of the same moneth. And efter ane clenging na forder truble come to our houshold, blissit be the Almichty God, off his Majesteis miracouluse and mercifull deliuerance.”

[“George Fowlis, Janet Bannatyne, his spouse [and] my daughter, and I, George Bannatyne, their father, being then resident in Dreghorn, beside Colinton, the nurse [was] infected of the plague, being upon a Sunday and the second day of the change of the moon, and St Bartholomew’s Day; and she died upon the Tuesday next thereafter, the 26th day of the same month. And after one cleansing no further trouble came to our household, blessed be the Almighty God, of his Majesty’s miraculous and merciful deliverance.”]

George Bannatyne’s two books survived their author, and both passed into the hands of his Foulis descendants. The Bannatyne MS remained in the hands of that family until 1712 (and several members of the family signed their names on the spare leaves of the book) and was donated to the Advocates Library in 1772. Over the centuries several notable figures have come into contact with the MS, not least Thomas Percy, Bishop of Dromore (author of ‘Reliques of Ancient English Poetry’) and Allan Ramsay (who used some of the contents in his ‘Evergreen’ anthology of 1724). Both men (Ramsay certainly) appear to have left their own marks on the MS, as have several anonymous hands, some of them adding extra poems on spare leaves. By the early nineteenth century, the fame of George Bannatyne’s compilation had secured for its author an eminent place in the eyes of Scotland’s literati, and the Bannatyne Club, which was founded in 1823 by Walter Scott and others to print works of Scottish historical and literary interest, was named for George. Strangely, though, at the time of the Club’s foundation, not much was known about George Bannatyne himself. It wasn’t until a few years later, when his “Memoriall Buik” was rediscovered among the papers of his descendant Sir James Foulis of Woodhall and published under the auspices of the Bannatyne Club in 1829, that historians were able to trace the story of Bannatyne and his manuscripts in any depth. The first printing of the Bannatyne MS in its entirety came quite late, with the Hunterian Club’s edition of 1896, but there have been other printings since, and the MS has lost none of its fascination for historians and literary scholars. For all its idiosyncrasies, the Bannatyne MS remains, along with the contemporary Maitland MSS, one of the most valuable literary compilations in Scotland’s history. Without the efforts of George Bannatyne and his circle of friends and family during those uncertain plague-ridden months in 1568, our knowledge of the state of literature in Britain during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries would be much darker.

“Heir endis this buik, writtin in tyme of pest, 

Quhen we fra labor was compeld to rest

Into the thre last monethis of the year,

Frome oure Redimaris birth, to knaw it heir,

Ane thowsand is, fyve hundreth, threscoir awcht;

Off this purpoiss namair it neiddis be tawcht,

Swa till conclude, God grant ws all gude end,

And eftir deth eternall lyfe ws send.”

National Library of Scotland Digitisation

Hunterian Club Edition (x) (x) (x) (x)

Scottish Texts Society Edition

 ‘Memorials of George Bannatyne’ (includes extracts from the Memorial Book)

Notes and References:

* The actual word used for William Fisher is ‘eme’, in contrast to the word ‘uncle’ which is used for George Taillefeir. I may have to do some more digging to establish the exact relationship, but as ‘eme’ usually (though not always) meant uncle I had to go with that for now.

** Without wanting to bore the reader TOO much (and I am aware of how long the above post is) I also wanted to raise a question of my own about where the MS. might have been written in the hopes that someone might be able to help. This question may be the result of a gap in my reading but try as I might I can find no textual reference to the MS. having been compiled in a ‘country retreat’, as the N.L.S., Evelyn S. Newlyn, and others state. All I can find is William Tod Ritchie’s comment that a ‘local tradition’ in Angus claims that the book was written in the north-eastern turret of Bannatyne House, Newtyle. This property was obtained by George’s father James in 1562, but it’s not clear that the tower in question was actually in existence in 1568. Otherwise I’ve not been able to find a source for the statement that Bannatyne left Edinburgh for the country during the plague of 1568, though certainly this was something which those inhabitants of medieval and early modern towns who had the means did do (as in Boccacio’s ‘Decameron’). This did occur in Edinburgh in 1568/9 as well, as evidenced by a letter which the Bishop of Orkney sent to his brother-in-law Sir Archibald Napier of Merchiston (father of the famous mathematician John Napier) in the same year. In it he recommends that due to Merchiston’s proximity to the Burgh Muir where plague victims were then quarantined, Napier should send his children north or west of the city into the southern Highlands:

“for, be the nummer of seik folk that gais out of the toun, the muir is abill to be ouirspred, and it can not be bot throw the nearness of your place, and the indigence of thame that ar put out, thai sall continewallie repair aboutte your roume, and throu thair conversatioun, infect sum of your servandis, quhairby thai sall precipitat yourself and your children in maist extreme danger; and as I se ye hef foirsene the same for the young folk, quhais bluid is in maist perrell to be infectit first, and therefoir purpois to send thame away to Menteith quhair I wald wiss at God that ye war yourself, without offence of authoritie, or of your band, sua that your housss gat na skaith. Bot yit, Schir, thair is ane midway quhilk ye suld not omit, quhilk is to withdraw you fra that syid of the toun to sum houss upon the north syid of the samin, quairof ye may hef  in borrowing quhen ye sall hef to do, to wit, the Gray-cruik, Innerlethis self, Weirdle, or sic uther placis as ye culd chose within ane myle; quhairinto I wald suppois ye wald be in les danger than in Merchanstoun; and close up your houssis, your grangeis, your barnis and all, and suffer na man cum therin, quhll it plesit God to put ane stay to this grete plage, and in the mean tyme, maid you to live upoun your penny, or on sic thing as comis to you out of the Lennos or Menteith; quhilk, gif ye do not, I se ye will ruine yourself”

In the absence of any evidence of the Bannatynes taking such measures, I would argue that it might still be possible that the MS was written in Edinburgh (in which case one has to wonder if Bannatyne ever witnessed a tenement’s inhabitants singing that popular hit ‘Ane Ballat Maid off the Tyme the Chefe put the Sunne schyne on Leith”). In any case, whether it was written in Angus or Edinburgh or somewhere else entirely, Bannatyne himself testifies that they were unable to go about their business as usual and so he may have found himself stuck in the house with parents, servants, and at least seven siblings- it is unclear whether this was conducive to his work on the manuscript!

Selected References:

- Obviously I consulted all three versions of the MS linked to above, as well as “Memorials of George Bannatyne”, printed by the Bannatyne Club (for the Memorial Book) and also linked above. 

- “Extracts from the Records of the Burgh of Edinburgh, 1528-1557″, edited by J.D. Marwick

- “Memoirs of John Napier of Merchistoun”, by Mark Napier

- “An Urban History of the Plague: Socio-Economic, Political and Medical Impacts in a Scottish Community, 1500-1650″, by Karen Jillings

- “The Bannatyne Manuscript: A Sixteenth Century Poetical Miscellany”, J.T.T. Brown, in the Scottish Historical Review (link)

- “The Bannatyne Manuscript: A Marian Anthology”, A.A. MacDonald in the Innes Review

- “The Literary Culture of Early Modern Scotland”, Sebastian Verweij

- “The Interaction Between Literature and History in Queen Mary’s Edinburgh: The Bannatyne Manuscript and its Prosopographical Context”, by Theo van Heijnsbergen in “The Renaissance in Scotland: Studies in Literature, Religion, History, and Culture Offered to John Durkan”, edited by A.A. MacDonald, Michael Lynch, and Ian B. Cowan.

“The Wryttar to the Reidaris: Editing Practices and Politics in the Bannatyne Manuscript”, by Evelyn S. Newlyn

[ibijau]

Concubine nhs pt4 / on AO3

Because there is a war to organise, because the emperor is a busy man, it is a full two weeks before Nie Huaisang gets formally summoned to the imperial palace to play weiqi with the emperor. But there can be no doubt that such an invitation is still planned, because Nie Huaisang receives two different notes stating that the emperor hasn’t forgotten about it. Those notes are carefully put away in a small box, alongside a few pieces of jewellery that belonged to his mother, and a jade hairpin that Nie Mingjue gave him.

While waiting for his next encounter with the emperor, Nie Huaisang keeps busy. He doesn’t have an official position in the house, and his cousin refuses to give him one for the time being, stating he’s waiting to see how things will go. Without any clear instructions, Nie Huaisang either helps Meng Yao with his duties, or reads up about the Wens, or plays weiqi against himself so he won’t disappoint the emperor when they play together.

Then, at last, the much awaited invitation arrives, requesting Nie Huaisang’s presence at the imperial palace a few days later.

Nie Funyu intercepts the letter and reads it before giving it to his cousin. He immediately sets out to ruin any joy Nie Huaisang might have felt with a list of strict instructions regarding the way he should behave. Considering the things Nie Huaisang admitted to saying on that very first meeting with the emperor in Qinghe, he supposed his cousin can’t be blamed for being worried. He tries to explain that he’d just been surprised that day, that he hadn’t realised who he was talking to, but Nie Funyu won’t hear it and orders him to be on his best behaviour.

What he wants, in short, is for Nie Huaisang to pretend he isn’t himself, that his personality is so mild as to be nonexistent, that he doesn’t have any humour. He is allowed to be good at weiqi if he must, but not too good.

When he helps him prepare to go meet the emperor, Meng Yao has some very different advice to offer.

“Master has many qualities, but he doesn’t understand the heart of young men,” he says, neatly tying into place the last layer of Nie Huaisang’s outfit. 

It is a gorgeous robe in a soft green that makes Nie Huaisang look nobler than he is, in a cut that gives the impression he’s not as short as he is. Meng Yao selected the fabric, chose the sash to go with it, decided the way it ought to be worn, and turned Nie Huaisang from a country boy into the perfect picture of a fashionable young man.

“If His Highness took notice of you that day, then it must mean your behaviour pleased him,” Meng Yao adds, motioning for Nie Huaisang to go sit so his hair can be dealt with. “So don’t change your manners too much, and don’t be too serious.”

Nie Huaisang promptly obeys, and abandons himself to the clever hands of Meng Yao. 

“I don’t know why my cousin worries anyway,” Nie Huaisang says, closing his eyes to enjoy the pleasant sensation of hands on his hair. “The emperor probably only wants to make sure I’m comfortable so he can tell Mingjue that he’s a good friend.”

Meng Yao’s hands slow down to the point of stillness, then start working again.

“Maybe it is so,” Meng Yao cautiously says. “But there are many people who have sent their relatives to the capital because of the war, and this humble servant doubts the emperor is making time for them, or apologising when he doesn’t have that time. Young Master Nie must have pleased him.”

“Don’t say that, I’ll get ideas,” Nie Huaisang mumbles, his cheeks burning.

“This humble one will keep quiet if Young Master Nie orders it,” Meng Yao retorts with a smile. “But this one won’t stop thinking that he’s right.”

If Nie Huaisang were a real noble, he’d scold Meng Yao for speaking so insolently. But of course it is because they both know what they are and where they stand that Meng Yao allows himself to chat so freely.

Still, it’s a little unkind to encourage him in his delusions, and he wishes Meng Yao wouldn’t do that.

-

That afternoon with the emperor goes well. It wasn’t supposed to be a whole afternoon, but one game of weiqi turns into three, until some ministers come knocking at the door, insisting that the emperor really must attend to certain business now. Only then do they separate, and with great reluctance. Nie Huaisang is brought back to the gate of the imperial palace, where his cousin waits for him. 

Strangely enough, Nie Funyu doesn’t seem in a bad mood, in spite of being made to wait longer than was planned. He does however insist that they head home directly, even though Nie Huaisang is now starving and would have liked to stop somewhere to grab some food. But a letter from Father has arrived, Nie Funyu explains, and it contains some instructions for Nie Huaisang that must be discussed in private.

In spite of his growling stomach, Nie Huaisang doesn’t protest and lets his cousin take him home. Perhaps there are news from Nie Mingjue in that letter. It would be nice. Nie Huaisang wishes he could talk to his brother, because they’d have more to say to each other than ever before.

But when they get home, Nie Funyu doesn’t share the contents of Father’s letter. Instead he takes Nie Huaisang to his private room, orders every servant to keep away, and locks the door.

“Tell me everything that happened,” Nie Funyu orders. “You were there for over a shichen, surely something must have happened. Tell me.”

Nie Huaisang, startled by the demand, the tone in which it is made, the locked door, hesitates.

It feels wrong to share what happened, especially with his cousin for whom he has little affection and only as much trust as is required toward a relative. What happened isn’t to be shared with just anyone. The emperor opened up to him over the afternoon and spoke, not as a son of heavens, but as a young man almost his age, lonely and in need of a friend, of a companion, in need of affection. 

Nie Huaisang isn't stupid, he can tell the emperor was flirting. 

The most powerful man in the world, flirting with him. It should be something to boast about, and instead Nie Huaisang wants to keep it secret. The knowledge that out of everyone in this world, out of every scholar, every beautiful man and woman, he’s the one whom the emperor might want at his side feels like a treasure. It is something to be kept away from prying eyes and enjoyed in private. He wants to take that realisation and put it away in his little box, alongside memories of his mother and brother, to be kept safe forever.

It is not something Nie Funyu deserves to hear about.

So Nie Huaisang tries to hide what he can. He describes the three games they played, praising the emperor for his skill, mentions that he tried to lose but was scolded and forced to play seriously, proving that the emperor is a wise man who values honesty. 

Nie Funyu isn’t satisfied with that. He asks question after question, demands details for every answer he gets, slowly forcing his young cousin to reveal everything, how the emperor smiled at him, how he laughed even as he scolded Nie Huaisang into playing well enough to beat him, his excitement as they spoke of poetry. Nie Huaisang can’t keep anything to himself, not even the way the emperor took his hand and squeezed it with such tenderness after making him promise he would visit again. 

When everything has been laid out, Nie Funyu is satisfied while Nie Huaisang feels ashamed. He wasn’t asked to keep any secrets, but this still has the aftertaste of a betrayal.

"It's as I thought then," his cousin says when he’s decided that he’s heard everything there is to say. "I'm glad I immediately wrote to your father. He's already answered that he also sees the advantage to be gained in this."

"I'm not sure I understand?" Nie Huaisang replies, too tired to keep his tone polite. He’s starving, and feels a headache pressing behind his eyes… or it might be that he just wants to cry.

"Your duty is to obey, not to understand," Nie Funyu snaps. "You will continue seducing the emperor, and ensure he doesn't turn on our family. Everyone knows his uncle is against this war, we can't have that young idiot change his mind. But what the brain can't achieve, the heart will do. So do your duty, and serve your family in the way you can."

“Seducing?”

Nie Funyu glares at him, and hands him Father’s letter at last.

Most of it regards ordinary business, a few requests regarding the war, some news from Nie Mingjue. The most interesting part comes last, when Father states that he sees no objection to letting the emperor have Nie Huaisang in whatever way pleases him. It is important, Father says, that Nie Huaisang doesn’t balk at his duty, whatever the personal cost. Everything must be sacrificed for the good of the empire… and what’s good for the empire is to make sure the emperor listens to the Nie family.

Nie Huaisang doesn’t cry. It would make his cousin angry, he thinks, and he’d rather not deal with that on top of the rest.

He doesn’t cry but he desperately wants to.

That afternoon with the emperor was so good, he had so much fun. Aside from Nie Mingjue, he doesn’t think anyone has ever been so warm and kind to him, so eager to get his good opinion. Nie Huaisang was so happy, and now it’s all been ruined, because he’s not allowed to just enjoy the fact that this gorgeous, powerful young man likes him.

He’ll do what Father asks, of course. He has to. It’s for the good of the empire, Father says, and it’s to make sure that Nie Mingjue gets all the support he needs while fighting the Wens. Nie Huaisang can’t take part in that war, but if he can help like this… He has to be a good son, a good brother.

It’s fine to be doing this. He’s not lying to anyone. Nie Huaisang wants to continue meeting the emperor, wants to see if they can be friends, if they can be more.

It’s fine to be doing what everyone wants if he also wants it, right?

[sumayyahwrites]

Fashion in the time of COVID

WILL THE PANDEMIC LEAD TO A MORE ETHICAL, SUSTAINABLE INDUSTRY?

"We went way too far. Our reckless actions have burned the house we live in. We conceived of ourselves as separated from nature, we felt cunning and almighty. We usurped nature, we dominated and wounded it."  

Alessandro Michele, Creative Director of Gucci

Gucci's creative director Alessandro Michele posted 1,200 words of poetic, impassioned diary excerpts on Instagram, making one thing abundantly clear, Gucci, and possibly the fashion industry as a whole would never be the same again.

The COVID-19 pandemic hit the fashion world hard, gravely impacting all of its global capitals. Even before the virus struck, the industry was ailing. What happens now that no one's compelled to dress up from the waist down? And with our precarious place in the world coming into sharp relief, shopping for season “must-haves” seemed not only frivolous but immoral.

In March, Vogue partnered with the Council of Fashion Designers of America to set up A Common Thread, a pandemic-relief initiative that has raised $4.9 million to date. By May, more than 1,000 companies applied for aid, with even the biggest names on the precipice of an uncertain future.

In the interest of damage control, there has been industry talk of pushing the unreleased 2020 collections to 2021. It's curious that this requires we literally disavow the concept of fashion itself; that amorphous behemoth that tells us whether midi skirts are in or out this season.

With no end in sight to this state of flux, could this be an opportunity for the industry to ask itself some serious existential questions?

THE PROBLEM WITH FASHION

"We didn't respect the planet until now and in a way this [pandemic] is a message and unfortunately it's a very, very heavy message. Change had to be done. Everyone thought that the change would happen gradually, but that's not the case. Change has to be done now, and done quickly."

Sara Maino, Deputy Editor in Chief of Vogue Italia  

Before the fashion world spiralled out of control, you had four seasons in the four major fashion capitals - London, Paris, New York and Milan. But the emergence of fast fashion accelerated the situation to a dizzying degree. Brands were sucked into the vortex of insatiable consumer demand. The pressure on luxury and high-street alike to drop new trends at higher speeds and lower costs had designers in a hamster wheel trying to outpace the copycats. "We were out of breath", admits Gucci’s Alessandro Michele, referring to fashion's unrelenting schedule of up to eight collections per year.

In her book, 'Fashionopolis: The Price Of Fast Fashion And The Future Of Clothes', Dana Thomas takes an unflinching look at the catastrophic environmental and human cost of this obsession with newness. Fast fashion refers to the production of masses of cheap, trendy clothes at breakneck speeds. Thomas refers to this as "a dirty, unscrupulous business that exploited humans and Earth alike".

Fashion is one of our biggest global polluters, "responsible for nearly 20 per cent of all industrial pollution annually" and "10 per cent of the carbon emissions in our air". Deep down, we knew our clothes often were made by desperate people in unthinkably dire situations; how could we forget the Rana Plaza disaster in Bangladesh that took the lives of more than a thousand factory workers? Meanwhile, the COVID-19 pandemic has made the human cost of fast fashion devastatingly clear. Crowded, unhygienic environments coupled with exploitative employment and a shady supply chain left brands with no accountability and employees with no pay.

According to Thomas, we buy five times more clothes than the previous generation, with the average garment being worn only seven times before being thrown on the scrap heap. There's no escaping the pangs of guilt that many of us experience with these suspiciously cheap garments. However, there is also no denying that slow fashion can be prohibitively expensive.

Should caring about the environment be a privilege afforded only to the haves, with the blame being placed squarely on the have-nots? And should the onus fall on the consumer to fix the deep-seated problems in the fashion industry or should corporations take responsibility for their exploitative behaviour?

THE SEASON OF DISCONTENT

"At a certain level, most of us were forced to make what the industry told us to make, but it's already proven that the industry is broken. We will now concentrate more on making what we want to make and how we want to make it."

Sonia Carrasco, Fashion Designer and Brand Owner

There are calls for reform, with designer Dries Van Noten urging leading industry figures to sign an open letter setting out some demands. Van Noten wants to reduce the number of runway shows, and the preposterous volume of clothing produced, and sell collections in real-time. That is: bikinis in S/S and coats in A/W. Have you ever been shopping for summer staples, only to find all the season's rejects already relegated to the sales rack? Fashion moves at its own pace darling, a pace at odds with customers' needs. Van Noten says this is about making collections "more environmentally and socially sustainable" with a move towards sustainability throughout the supply chain with less product, less waste and less travel.

Not that Chanel is paying attention, taking customers and press to Capri for its Cruise 2021 pre-collection in June, in the midst of the COVID pandemic. The French fashion house is resolutely old guard, announcing it will stick to six shows: two ready-to-wear, two couture, as well as cruise and Métiers d'Art. Chanel is not alone, with Dior also showcasing its cruise collection physically in Southern Italy.

In response to COVID-19, the British Fashion Council and the Council of Fashion Designers of America released a joint statement, echoing many of Van Noten's concerns. It urges brands, designers and retailers to slow down, with appeals for changes that will benefit customers, improve the wellbeing of the industry and have a positive effect on the environment.

FASHION IN THE TIME OF PANDEMIC

"I try to ask myself what is the meaning of my actions. It's a vital and urgent questioning for me, which demands a careful pause and a delicate listening."

Alessandro Michele, Creative Director of Gucci

The big players in luxury fashion produce between six and eight collections per year, spending an eye-watering amount of money on each show. But is fashion week, with all its excesses and spectacles, gone for good?

The pandemic has led to a cascade of reflection and introspection, and fashion's big players were not unaffected. Saint Laurent announced plans to '"take control of its pace and reshape its schedule". Alessandro Michele has reduced the number of Gucci shows from five to two, nixing both seasons and gender. He writes: "I will abandon the worn-out ritual of seasonalities and shows to regain a new cadence, closer to my expressive call. We will meet just twice a year, to share the chapters of a new story".

After the cancelling of June's men's fashion week in Paris, Louis Vuitton disregarded both the industry's European home-base and its calendar, taking its latest men's show to Shanghai, a big change that signals a significant move towards a consumer-first approach. Which makes perfect sense with shoppers from Asia, the Middle East, Africa and Latin America accounting for the bulk of luxury sales. Is it time to admit that Eurocentric fashion shows are so last season?

Many brands have gone "phygital", which is the somewhat awkward portmanteau describing the hybrid of physical space and digital technologies. With Shanghai and Moscow both fully embracing digital for their fashion weeks in March and April, and Helsinki adopting a purely digital format with innovations such as 3D shows. If more fashion houses go off-piste with localised, digitally amplified events, this could be the death knell for fashion week as we know it.

Another big IRL fashion event on the calendar is the Met Gala, an annual fundraising gala for the Metropolitan Museum of Art's Costume Institute in New York City, and the most-watched fashion/society event of the year. It's usually an occasion for a (very) select few to dress-up in response to the year's theme, in a grand display of fashion as art, with the results ranging from the sublime to the ludicrous. This year it was postponed.

The show must go on, as they say, and it was a group of Gen-Z internet kids known as High Fashion Twitter (or 'hf twitter', because they're too cool for CAPS) hosting the biggest fashion party of the year. On May 4th, instead of the exclusive, highly branded, extremely profitable, marketing opportunity the Met Gala has become, hf twitter brought us an inclusive online celebration of self-expression and diversity. Whether dressing themselves, collaging or using other visual means, the guests shared their 'looks' on Twitter with the hashtag #HFMetGala2020, taking fashion out of the hands of the establishment, if only for a day.

High Fashion Twitter is a loosely structured mix of fashion fans and aficionados, who share inspiration and knowledge while being vocal about industry issues such as representation, sustainability and accountability. And for the event, they purposefully excluded any brands they deemed problematic, such as those known for cultural appropriation.  

FASHION AND SOCIETY

"I understand that, for many, the purpose of a fashion magazine is about escapism, about providing beautiful images of beautiful people in beautiful clothes […] But there are moments when this feels weird. And this is one of those moments."

Emanuele Farneti, editor-in-chief of Vogue Italia

The effects of a global disaster of this magnitude amplified many social justice issues, notably resulting in the backlash over tone-deaf comments from fashion brands about the Black Lives Matter Movement, or their conspicuous, deafening silence. There was nowhere for the industry to hide.

While taking any political stance wasn't de rigueur for most major fashion houses, it's now not only accepted but expected to be in touch with issues facing the wider community. In fact, for some, this out-of-touchness is seen as impossibly callous in a world confronted by human tragedy and economic devastation.

There have been attempts to meet the moment, with efforts such as Vogue's new web series "Good Morning Vogue", fashion's self-proclaimed "wake up call". If the last decade has shifted the discourse around issues such as racism and climate change, then the global pandemic has accelerated it.

FASHION GOING FORWARD

"Through the creation of less product, with higher levels of creativity and quality, products will be valued and their shelf life will increase. The focus on creativity and quality of products, reduction in travel and focus on sustainability […] will increase the consumer's respect and ultimately their greater enjoyment in the products that we create."

The British Fashion Council

Driven by a new generation of socially and environmentally conscious consumers who care where the things they buy come from and where they'll end up, brands have upped their sustainability game. And with the threat of this pandemic acting as a call to action for the fashion industry to slow down and scale down before we find our selves facing a much bigger existential threat.

COVID-19 has caused a significant shift in the mindsets of both brand and consumer, teaching us all to slow down and reset. And should this pass, the things we learnt to value, such as our health, our freedom and hopefully our planet, may eclipse our desire for any conveyor belt of trends.

[mrs-han]

Play You For It

My piece for @juminfanzine ! I was so honored to be a part of this amazing project, and I appreciate all the hard work of everyone involved!

—

The following story endowed by Mrs. Han herself explores the private lives of the Executive Director and the RFA Party Planner weeks before their wedding. According to Mrs. Han, the then-engaged couple had a small dispute over which colors to have displayed on the day they would finally speak the words, “I do.”

—

“Okay, tell me again why teal, mint green, and creamy white are an ‘ordinary’ choice, Jumin.”

Jumin swirled the dark red wine in his glass tentatively. “Don’t get me wrong, darling. They’re fine colors, it’s just… wouldn’t you prefer something bolder?”

The brunette faced her fiancé and cocked a brow. “Like royal purple and midnight black?”

“Those are only two of the colors I chose,” Jumin hummed. “You forgot to mention silver.”

“Those colors are too heavy, Jumin. Besides, you wear them every day, aren’t you tired of them?”

Jumin took a sip. “Not at all, my love. These colors are clean and professional.”

“Yes, which is one reason I have a problem with them. They’re just… too gothic-looking, and I don’t want our guests to feel intimidated.”

Jumin reached over and grabbed her hand. “Mm… I hear you. Why don’t I adjust one color from royal purple to lilac?”

She tried to force a smile as her eyebrows scrunched together and her hand balled into a small fist against his palm. Without so much as a glance at her, he knew she didn’t like his proposal.

“I’m not… I’m not feeling it, Jumin.” She moved her hand from his and pushed the bedsheets away. “Purple just does nothing for me.”

“All right.” Jumin pulled his hand to his lap and cleared his throat. “You have thirty seconds to tell me why teal, mint green, and creamy white are the perfect color choices.”

She scoffed and playfully rolled her eyes. “You aren’t seriously going to time me, are -”

“Twenty-seven seconds.”

“Oh. Oh, okay, um, well, they complement each other, and… and they’re inviting… they aren’t gothic, they’re stylish, and ah… they… ah…”

“Twenty seconds.”

“... I don’t know, what do you want from me?”

Jumin smiled mischievously. “You haven’t convinced me, my precious princess.”

She bit her lower lip. “Tell you what, Jumin. I’ll play you for it.”

“... You’ll play me for it?”

“Yes.”

“Darling, this is our wedding. I figured you’d be a little more serious about this.”

She grabbed a quarter from her drawer. “Do you have any other suggestions?”

“... What game did you have in mind?”

“A simple one. Heads or tails, Jumin?”

“Mm… hm. Heads or tails.” Jumin squinted. “There are two sides of the coin, which makes the probability of landing on either heads or tails one half for each side. However, heads are the popular choice because it is the heavier of the two, with it having a 51% chance of dominating. There may also be faults on the coin itself, considering coins are a currency people handle. People aren’t perfect, they consistently drop their things, including their coins. But based on the mathematical probability...”

“Jumin, dear lord, please pick one.”

“... Heads.”

She tossed the coin and slapped it against the back of her hand. “Tails.”

“The coin must be damaged,” he said nonchalantly.

She giggled. “You’re only saying that because you lost! Well, that’s that then!”

“Now, wait a minute, hold on. Best two out of three, dear.”

She raised her brows. “You are awfully persistent about this, aren’t you?”

“This time, I’ll toss it and you call it.” Jumin grabbed the coin from her and threw it up.

“Tails,” she said.

The coin landed in his palm and he slapped it against the back of his hand. “Heads.”

She grabbed the coin from him. “Best two out of three, remember? You haven’t won yet. I’ll toss it this time.”

“Fine.” Jumin watched her carefully. “Tails.”

Rather than slap the coin on the back of her hand, she threw it up and let it fall onto the bedsheets. “... Heads! Hah! I won! Do you see that?!”

Jumin tipped over and looked at the coin.

“Hah! Well, it looks like my pretty, classical colors will be on display on our wedding day!” She leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Good night, Jumin!”

“... No. Another game.”

Just as she pulled the bedsheets over her body, she heard her fiance’s firm insistence. “Jumin, we need to be up early tomorrow. You lost. No more games.”

“One more.” he opened his left palm and made a fist with his right hand. “Ga-wi, ba-wi, bo, eh-seo hana-bbagi-il.”

“Jumin, really?” She pushed the sheets back. “I need to be up in four hours, and you need to be up in three.”

Jumin grabbed her wrist. “While that is the case, our wedding is four weeks away, and we are still arguing about colors.” He resumed the hand position for the Korean-style of rock, paper, scissors, a determined look on his face. “I insist.”

“All right. Best two out of three again.”

“Ga-wi, ba-wi, bo, eh-seo hana-bbagi-il.”

“Again, Jumin.”

“Ga-wi, ba-wi, bo, eh-seo hana-bbagi-il.”

“... One more time, I promise.”

“Ga-wi, ba-wi- bo, eh-seo hana-bbagi-il.”

“... I don’t like this game, Jumin.”

Jumin smirked smugly. “Now, as I remember you telling me earlier, ‘You’re only saying that because you lost’. I won. You must give up your position as the victor and push your colors aside.”

“No way! We won one game each, isn’t it fair we have a tie-breaker?”

“... We should have drafted up a contract.” Jumin grumbled.

“I know what we can do. Video games. ‘Combat for Mortals.’ Three rounds.” She jumped out of bed and rushed towards the Greystation. “This will be our tie-breaker.”

“Dear -”

As soon as the Greystation hummed to life, Jumin closed his eyes and rested his head against the baseboard of the bed. “All right. Three rounds. But I insist we draft a contract before we engage in combat.”

“No need, this will be fast,” she handed him a controller.

“Oh? What brought you to that conclusion?” Jumin murmured inquisitively.

“Jumin, I mean, no offense, but I’m good at this game. I will destroy you.”

“Is that so?”

“Choose your warrior!”

___

“I win.”

“Jumin, all you did was spam the same attacks on me. I want a rematch.”

“I only, as you say, ‘spammed’ the same attacks because you kept trying to back away from my character.”

“Yes, because you kept ‘spamming’ the same moves!”

“All right, if you want a rematch, then I would be happy to oblige.” Jumin took her hand and delicately kissed a trail from her wrist to her forearm. “I would do anything to make you happy.”

“Ah, Jumin…” her lips pecked his cheek and traveled to his ear. “... then agree to my colors.”

“Now, now…” Jumin pushed her hair back. “Let’s not be rash, dearest.”

“You think I don’t see what you’re doing, honey bunny? Your flattering words won’t work with me. Not this time.”

Jumin stared at her for a moment… then grinned playfully. “It was worth a shot. Come, let’s play another round.”

___

“I win.” Jumin tossed the controller onto the couch.

“You don’t win a fight if you keep spamming the same buttons.” MC huffed and threw the controller off to the side. “This isn’t working. Let’s try something else.”

Jumin hummed softly. “I know what we can try. Trivia.”

“Trivia? Wait for me then.” She untucked her legs and made her way to the kitchen. “Brain games require coffee.”

“Make me a cup too, if you please,” Jumin called out.

“Sure! As long as you agree to my colors!”

Jumin surged towards her and gathered her in his arms from behind. “You’re a sneaky little devil, aren’t you? I’ll make my cup, thank you.”

“It was worth a shot,” she smiled.

___

“You included math questions within the deck?”

Jumin shuffled the trivia cards. “Is that a problem?”

“Eh, a little. You know I’m not good at math, you’re automatically putting me at a disadvantage.”

“Is that so…?” Jumin droned, his hands still busy shuffling the cards. “See now, if we had drafted and signed a contract, I would have considered your mathematical disability.” He glanced up at her. “We don’t have to do this. You can give up.”

“No way,” she grimaced. “I will do my best.”

“That’s my girl,” Jumin rubbed her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Stubborn to the end.”

“Psh,” she huffed playfully. “Who goes first?”

Jumin adjusted his sleeves. “Well, since I won ‘Combat for Mortals,’ it’s only fair I go first.”

“You don’t win by spamming,” she said under her breath. “All right, fifteen seconds on the clock. Ready?”

“Yes,” Jumin nodded.

“Olympia is the capital of which U.S. state?”

“Washington,” Jumin answered.

“Correct. What is Shawshank in the movie ‘The Shawshank Redemption?’”

“The prison itself,” Jumin responded.

“Correct. What is Naan the Persian -”

“Bread.”

“Correct. If letters were numbers a=1, z=26, how much would Wayne Rooney -”

“160.”

“Time.” MC reached down and stopped her timer. “You got… all of them right. No surprise there!”

“Your turn,” Jumin reshuffled the cards. “Fifteen seconds. Are you ready?”

“Wait!” she reached out, sipped her coffee, and nodded. “Ready!”

“What is the second largest country by land mass?”

“Second… Canada!” She shouted.

“That’s right. In which ocean did the Titanic sink?”

“Titanic… oh! The Atlantic ocean!”

“Be more specific.”

“The uh, the… North Atlantic ocean?”

“Correct. A student’s math scores are 98, 87, 82, 95, 93, 81, 100. What is the average?”

She froze. “Uh. 98… 95… one… 93?”

Jumin shook his head. “No, 91. What is the world’s smallest -”

Jumin stopped his timer as it went off. “Time is up, dear.”

“You threw a math question at me, that’s not fair!”

“It’s more than fair, dear, trivia games include math questions.”

“Let’s play another game.”

Jumin squinted his eyes. “You realize you’ve lost two games in a row now?”

“I didn’t lose the combat one, Jumin.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Spammers don’t decide who wins or who loses.”

Jumin huffed. “Well… what other games did you have in mind?”

“... I bought marshmallows the other day. Let’s play chubby bunny.”

“Chubby what?” Jumin watched as his fiancée made her way back to the kitchen.

“Chubby bunny! You stuff as many marshmallows in your mouth and say ‘chubby bunny’ after every marshmallow.”

“... Dear, that sounds dangerous -”

“I’ll start!” MC’s hand ripped the bag open, and she pushed a marshmallow in her mouth. “Chubby bunny!”

Jumin watched her, grabbed a marshmallow, and timidly pushed it into his mouth. “Ch… Chubby bunny.”

She clapped for him playfully and pushed another marshmallow into her mouth. Jumin snickered as he watched her; she had only gotten two marshmallows in, and it looked like she was having a hard time keeping them in.

“Chu… chub… mm… chubby bunny!”

Jumin swallowed his marshmallow and pressed a quick kiss to her lips. With a squeak, she jumped up, ran to the kitchen, and coughed the marshmallows into the trash bin. Jumin, not too far behind her, rubbed her back and stroked her hair.

“I told you it was dangerous.”

“Hah… you were right…” she panted. “But that… was only because you… haah…”

Jumin pulled her against him, turned her around, and held her chin in his hand. “Because I…?”

Flustered, she tried to look away from him, but he lightly pressed his fingers against her skin. “Look at me, darling.”

Her eyes slowly met with his. A soft, intimate beat of silence passed between them when Jumin’s eyes sparkled.

“I have an idea.”

“O-Oh?”

Jumin pushed her hair behind her ear and took another step closer, closing the gap between them. “Hazel... and gray. These can be our colors.”

“What…? Where did you…” As soon as she looked into his eyes, she knew. His thoughtful, polished metal gray eyes were peering back at her… just as her autumn-hazel eyes were peering at him.

“I think… that’s a fantastic idea,” she smiled.

“Mm…” Jumin beamed. “... do you really think so, dear?”

“I do. Then… that’s that, isn’t it? Those are our colors…!”

Jumin kissed the tip of her nose. “Those are our colors.”

An unsettled expression graced her features. Jumin’s eyebrows scrunched as he observed her. “What’s the matter?”

“I realized something, Jumin. We didn’t decide on a flavor for our cake.”

“Hm? We visited the pastry chef two weeks ago. We decided on the vanilla filling.”

“Vanilla?” She frowned. “I didn’t agree to vanilla. I wanted chocolate.”

They stared at each other. A sigh escaped her, and she gripped his hand. “I’ll play you for it. One, two, three, four, I declare a thumb war.”

“Before that, I need to schedule today off. You should do the same, my love.”