jasonadamthompson

[tariah23]

🗿

My sis and I used to talk about this sometimes if I’m being honest. I never went around calling nb ppl slurs but I know that if you did as a black person, the first thing that nbs would do is look at you like you’re crazy or feign ignorance when you point out the contradiction of them thinking that it’s okay to casually throw around slurs at black people because they believe it to be so funny, term of endearment or whatever tf.

[forever-rogue]

Please Don't Leave

A/N: Halfway requested, but not really but I adore the light of my life (@bestintheparsec) and she deserves this 💕 Enjoy! Prompt used: “Would you rather kiss me or die?”

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader

Warnings: None

Javier Masterlist

»»————-　♡　————-««

"What? What's wrong?" Javi asked as you moved next to him, trying to keep your composure and break down in scared, nervous tears. The two of you were currently tied up next to each to other in the middle of nowhere in Colombia in a dark, dirty basement.Not exactly the best of situations to find yourself in.

But here you were. All because of one little wrong move when trying to close in on one of Escobar's many sicarios. It could have been worse but...no. This was pretty damn bad.

"Nothing," you lied, refusing to turn around and look at him, "just uncomfortable. You know this whole tied you thing isn't exactly fun."

"Babe-"

"Don't call me that," you hissed at him, scooting further and further away. As much as you could in the dark, dank basement. Enough to create a small distance between your bodies.

"Just tell me what's wrong," he insisted as you scoffed, "I'm not a complete moron."

"I...I'm scared, Peña," you admitted after a few moments of tense silence. You hadn't wanted to admit it, especially not to him, but this time...you just felt worried. Normally, almost nothing phased you anymore after all the horrors and atrocities you encountered on an almost daily basis. But this did, "and if you ever tell anyone I said that or make fun of me, I will kill you. If we get out of this alive. Which is looking very slim right now."

"I wouldn't..." he promised quietly. It was silent for a few moments as he seemed to be contemplating something, "listen I have a plan. It's not much, but I think its the best we have right now.

"I'm willing to listen to whatever plan you have that doesn't involve us dying," you sighed softly.

"They come back, we pretend we don't speak any Spanish, that we're just a tourist couple," he suggested as you groaned. It was a weak idea at best, but at this point you were almost willing to give it a try, "I don't know if they recognize our faces enough to know who we are. We just have to play it up, act like a real couple."

"Nuh uh. Not happening," you insisted firmly, a sharp tone to your voice, "nope. I'd rather..."

"What? Would you rather die or kiss me? Act like a couple to try and get out of this," he asked as you remained silent. It was tense as you mulled over his words. Eventually he groaned loudly and in an exasperatedg tone asked, "really? You can't just say yes?"

"I'm thinking!" you scoffed as he sighed deeply, his signature trademark, "its a close decision!"

"You didn't have any problems with it a few weeks ago. You were more than willing to kiss me then," he reminded as you cringed. You wished he'd hadn't brought that up. You wish you could have forgotten that night and scrubbed it from your memory. But no - it was still etched, deep and painful.

"Yeah, well that ended up as a one night stand, so it doesn't even matter," you insisted quietly, reminding him of the harsh reality of the situation, "let it go, Peña."

"It didn't have to be. I didn't think it would be," his response so soft and quiet you almost didn't hear it. But you did - loud and clear. You tensed up, unsure of what to say, "you were gone when I woke up..."

"You didn't...we didn't ..." you hung your head as you searched for the right words, but they seemed to fail you, "we were drunk, Javi. We are...were friends. It shouldn't have happened. We just got caught up in the moment."

"I wasn't drunk," he insisted softly, "were you?"

"No," you said, "I wasn't..."

"Then why did you leave?" he asked, and you were almost sure that there was a shake to his voice, "you've been avoiding me like the plague ever since. You barely even look at me anymore. I get if you don't want this, but can we at least try and be friends - partners?"

"I was scared...I am scared," you confessed, "I didn't want to ruin anything. I didn't...I'm not a one night stand type of person, Javi. I want more than that. And I wasn't sure what happen if I told you that. I figured it was better if I just kept my distance."

"I didn't want it be a one time thing," he replied and you turned to face him, searching for those soft brown eyes in the dim light, "I want this to be more."

"I didn't think you were the relationship type," you knew he penchant for having often a different partner and seeking his pleasure within brothels. Everyone did - not that you held that you held it against him, "I just don't...I don't know, Javi. I like you, a lot, and I don't want to fuck anything up. I'd read just keep you as friend than fuck anything up."

"Maybe I was just waiting for the right person to come along," he said gently as he reached up with his tied hands to touch your cheek, "when I kissed you that night, I didn't intend for to start and stop that night. I. Like. You. I don't know how else to make that clear."

"Me?" you asked in a surprise as he laughed and nodded, "Javi, I...I like you a lot too. I have for a long time."

Before he could respond, the door to the basement opened with a loud bang and a gruff voice calling out to the two of you. As best as he could, Javi pulled you towards him and kissed you. You were surprised for a moment but quickly melted into his touch. It was easy to get lost in him, his touch, scent, taste - all of it.

"Hey!" the man pulled you apart as looked at Javi with wide eyes. But he shot you a wink before the man continued on in Spanish, "knock that shit off."

"No...we don't speak Spanish," he lied as the man frowned at the two of you, "tourists. We're tourists from America."

"Tourists?" he replied as Javi nodded.

"Why are we here?" you played along, feigning innocence, "we just want to see the city."

The man had fire in his eyes as he stated spewing at the two of you. Of course you understand every word, but you weren't about to let him know that. Instead you put on a confused face as you hoped that neither of you would blow the little charade.

As he went on and you remained silent, he eventually gave up. For a little added effect you'd let some tears roll down your cheeks, which were partly from the stress of the situation and partly acting.

He left for a minute and the two of you remained silent as Javi squeezed your hand for reassurance. You weren't risking anything just yet. After some time he came back, stomping and huffing, muttering to himself under his breath.

Before either of you could question anything, he untied the zip ties from your wrists and hoisted you to your feet.

"Go," he said gruffly in accented English, "get out."

You reached for Javi's hand as you ran up the rickety stairs, holding onto it for dear life. Neither of you stopped until you were outside in the daylight and a safe distance away, almost back into the city center.

When you finally felt somewhat safe again, you doubled over to catch your breath, almost not able to believe your good luck.

"That man had to be a huge idiot if he believed us so easy," you said as Javi nodded, "good thinking, Peña. I'm glad it worked."

"I told you it would," he smirked lightly, "but now there's one more thing I need to do."

"What?" you asked but were quickly cut off when he pressed his lips to yours. It didn't take long to react, and you wrapped your arms around him, holding him close to you. When you break apart for a breath of air, you couldn't help but grin at him, "please don't leave next time."

"I won't," you promised softly, "I'm not going anywhere."

[dindjarindiaries]

A Bullet For You

summary: When your office comes under fire by Escobar’s men, Javier and his men come to the rescue, where he promptly offers you his bulletproof vest to keep you safe.

note: translations included at the bottom

pairing: javier peña x colombianf!reader

warnings: violence, blood, death, shooting, smoking, angst, fluff

rating: R

word count: 2.723k

masterlist

“Te amo muchísimo, cariño.”

Those were the last words you’d said to Javier before this very moment, where you now find yourself cowering in the corner of your office with your coworkers—pinned to the spot by the guns of Escobar’s allies.

You’ve never expected to see such action at your accounting job in Medellín. You’ve lived in Colombia your whole life, watching the drug crisis unfold before your very eyes. Nevertheless, you’ve always avoided it, simply desiring to live your day-to-day life with a job that, honestly, could be more boring—just so you could play it safe.

That was, until Javier Peña walked into your life. Or, rather, stumbled.

You’d been hoping for a hookup that night at the bar, needing some kind of change in your everyday life. When you saw the man who practically glowed even under the shitty lighting of the bar, you instantly knew who you’d wanted to go for—but you felt something you weren’t supposed to. After the first few drinks, casual conversation, and sharing the heated dance floor together, you realized you were in deeper than you’d first bargained for. Javier, on the other hand, was completely gone by the time you wanted to head out with him, in no good shape to do anything other than put one foot in front of the other.

So, you’d helped him get back to your apartment, providing him with a glass of water and your bed before he passed out for the night. You took the couch, and by the time he was wandering into the kitchen the next morning with a furrowed brow, you’d already prepared something for him to eat. According to him, that’s when he knew he was in love with you—and you’d told him that you had the same realization around the same exact time.

Now, it’s been a few months, and you’ve at least gotten to the point where you don’t have to sleep on the couch anymore. Javier told you all about his job with the DEA and his life growing up in the States, and you were impressed that a gringo could have such skill with Colombian culture and the language. You’d taught yourself English by watching American television growing up, and Javier helped you fill in the gaps. Though he was very solid at Spanish, you still helped him whenever he needed it, and it’s become just another way in which you’ve bonded over these past few months. If you’ve noticed anything about Javier, though, it’s his protectiveness. Even in the first few weeks of your relationship, he was hesitant about letting you go out on your own—despite the fact you’d been doing so ever since you could remember. He was relieved to hear that you had such a normal job, one that wouldn’t easily be infiltrated by the chaos he witnesses on a daily basis.

Yet, here you are, watching Escobar’s allies violently interrogate one of your coworkers—who you’ve now discovered has been doing some work for Escobar—while you and the rest watch on with horrified eyes.

“¡Puta rata!” one of them shouts, giving your coworker another punch across the face. “¡Has estado hablando con la policía!” He chuckles darkly, placing the barrel of his gun against your coworker’s temple and giving it a nudge. “¿Pensaste que podrías safarte de nosotros tan fácilmente?” The man clicks his tongue, shaking his head as he gives your coworker a hard hit with the barrel of the gun. “¿Qué les dijiste?”

Your coworker looks on with a terrified gaze. “¡No dije nada!” they insist, their voice cracking in their panicked emotion. “¡Por favor, créeme!”

The same man from before gives his head another shake. “Es demasiado tarde, rata.” With that, he lifts his gun and pulls the trigger, and you along with your coworkers give a terrified shout as you try to look away from the gory sight. You close your eyes and keep your face tucked away, feeling your heart race a mile a minute as your mind only starts to think of Javier.

“Voy a regresar a las cinco esta noche,” Javier had said to you this morning, his hands resting so gently yet so securely on your hips as you stood just in front of your apartment door.

“¿Me lo prometes?” you’d remarked, your voice barely above a hushed whisper as your fingertips trailed down his cheek.

Javier had given you one of his infamous smiles, making you drown in his dark gaze of deep affection. You knew he was going to stay true to this one—because the recently late hours and time spent away from you had been taking even more of a toll on him than it had on yourself. “Tienes mi palabra,” he’d assured you, placing his soft lips against yours. The touch had left you a melted puddle of pure love on the apartment floor, leaving you to grip onto his neck for fear of your knees giving out beneath you. When he pulled away, Javier had left another tender kiss on your forehead, reestablishing his eye contact with you. “Hasta pronto, mi amor. Cuídate.” He took your hands from around his neck, holding them in his as he left a kiss on your knuckles. “Te amo mucho.”

“Te amo muchísimo, cariño.” Your lips couldn’t stop smiling despite the fact you were watching him walk through the door, unsure of what would befall him that day but knowing you’d see him sooner than you were getting used to.

And now, you’re not so sure you’ll get to see the end of Javier’s promise—but at least, you try to comfort yourself, it’s not his fault. The thought of your lover keeps you relatively calm until Escobar’s men cock their guns at you and your coworkers, giving you their full attention. The man who’d shot your other coworker steps forward, raising a questioning eyebrow.

“Entonces, ¿quién sabe qué le dijo la rata a la policía?”

You and your coworkers begin looking at each other nervously. No one even knew that man’s been working for Escobar, and since none of you have any information for these men, that means you’re going to die at their hands.

Meanwhile, at the embassy, Javier’s had a pit growing in his stomach all day for no good reason. It’s only just past noon and he’s already almost gone through an entire pack of cigarettes. When Javier lights his last one, Steve’s whistling pulls him out of his funk, drawing his attention to see a raised brow looking back at him.

“What’s up, Peña?” Steve asks almost cautiously.

“What do you mean?” Javier remarks, taking his first puff with agitation.

“I’ve lost track of your cig count for the day,” Steve says, leaning forward on his desk in a questioning manner. “So, you’re stressed over some shit. What is it? Is it your girlfriend?”

“God, I hope not,” Javier mutters, temporarily setting the cigarette onto his ash tray. “I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me, Murphy. I’m just…” Javier trails off, shaking his head as he tries to justify his odd feeling.

“… paranoid?” Steve tries to finish. “I know that sometimes I can start thinkin’ about Connie and get all worked up for no good reason.”

Javier shrugs, picking up the cigarette again at the thought of you being in danger. “I just gotta be home by five,” Javier mutters, tossing a file from his desk onto the large pile behind him. “I’m probably just worried I won’t make it on time.”

Steve’s about to say more, no doubt asking why Javier had to hold such a tight schedule, but gets cut off by the ringing of his phone. He raises a curious eyebrow at Javier before picking it up, his eyes widening the more the voice on the other end speaks. The pit in Javier’s stomach begins to grow, to the point where he has to put his cigarette down again in fear of making himself sick. Steve writes down an address and gives a reassurance, hanging up and rising from his chair. Javier stands up with him.

“What’s goin’ on?” Javier asks, trying not to make his nerves so obvious.

“Hostage crisis, with some of Escobar’s men,” Steve informs him. “Guess the police has had contact with an accountant who was working for Escobar and was giving them information—and Escobar found out about it.”

At the naming of the profession, Javier’s blood practically turns to ice, and he takes an urgent step towards Steve as his brow furrows. “Accountant? At a company?” When Steve gives a nod, Javier’s heart nearly stops. “What’s the address?” Steve offers the piece of paper, and Javier takes it in his shaking hands to see exactly what he feared: your workplace. “Shit. Fuck!”

Steve’s slightly surprised by Javier’s outburst, watching as he lunges for his gun and bulletproof vest with intense urgency. “Javi, what the hell—?”

“That’s her office,” Javier explains in a quick breath, already starting to head out of the office. “We gotta go!”

Upon hearing that, Steve’s soon going at the same speed as Javier. His heart’s practically in his throat the entire way there, his mind only able to go back to the same memory as yours—the morning that could be your last one together.

Back in the office, you’re thankfully at the end of the line, watching as your coworkers endure violent tactics in an effort to get them to reveal something—anything. You try to think of bullshit excuses in your mind, wondering if you can offer them something that’ll keep them from killing all of you. But you’re not that quick on your feet, and you suddenly wish more than ever that you had the quick thinking of Javier to assist you.

“Mentirosos, todos ustedes,” the main man scoffs after he’s given another one of your coworkers a hit of their gun to their head. “Alguien tuvo que haber oído algo de lo que el puto soplón dijo.”

“¡No sabemos nada!” someone speaks up, their voice full of nothing but fear as they look pleadingly up at the man in front of them. “Si supiéramos, ya te hubiéramos dicho todo.”

“Habla por ti mismo,” you scoff, your eyes widening as you realize you’ve said the thought aloud.

All eyes turn to you, and the man’s soon making his way over. “¿¡Qué dijiste!?” he questions, his voice hauntingly dark. “No te escuche bien.”

Instead of freezing up like the others, you think of Javier again, and your blood boils. These are the men who would shoot at him in a heartbeat, with the intention of taking him out. These are the men who keep him away from you each day. These are the men who make his life a living hell and take such a heavy toll on him that some nights, he just has to cry to you. So, rather than taking back your words and offering some bullshit, you tell them the truth. “Come mierda,” you mutter, spitting on his shoe.

The man’s face darkens immensely, but before he’s able to do anything to you, there’s the sound of footsteps coming from the hallway stairs—a practical stampede of them. Every head turns to the door, and you barely have time to see it fly open before the bullets start flying. You gasp and keep yourself ducked down, trying to avoid getting caught in the crossfire. Your arms remain over your head as you kneel on the ground, shaking in your sudden horror. Despite the threat of your own safety, you can’t stop thinking about Javier—until you feel a familiar touch on your arms. When you lift your head, you see him kneeling there in front of you, and the pure sight of him practically brings you to tears.

“Mi amor,” Javier breathes, barely audible over the shooting as he holds your face in his hands and inspects you for injuries. “I thought that… that…” Javier can’t finish the thought. Instead, he reaches to take off the bulletproof vest he’s wearing, beginning to put it around you. “Wear this. You’ll need it while I get you out of here.” He straps it on you as quickly as he can, but you’re unsettled by the idea of it.

“No, Javi,” you insist, grimacing with disapproval as he finishes securing it. “It’s yours. You need—.”

“I’ll be fine,” Javier insists, still having to raise his voice above the gunfire. “But we have to get you out of here, now!”

You give him a nod, letting you wrap both your arms around one of his as he holds his gun securely in his free hand. Javier begins to guide you back to where he’d came from, looking around whenever he can for any potential threat. You’re still shaking as you grip onto his arm for dear life, still unable to believe that you’re back in the security of his presence. Javier notices this, and he looks back for a moment to calm you with his dark eyes.

“Relájate, mi amor,” he assures you softly. “Voy a sacarte de aquí sana y salva.”

You offer him a nod, but soon find yourself gasping when a bullet whizzes by your ear. Javier turns around to shoot the man who’d almost gotten you, and you see him fall to the floor in pain immediately. Javier continues to move forward quickly, taking you with him as you refuse to loosen your grip on his arm. When you reach the staircase, you can barely descend them with the shakiness in your legs, but thankfully Javier keeps you propped up as you’re soon exiting the building and entering the security of the blockade that surrounds the perimeter. Javier tries to get you to sit on the hood of his car, but all you can do is wrap your arms around him tightly, hiding your face in his shoulder. He holds you back, running his hand through your hair to calm you.

“I’m so glad you’re alright, hermosa,” Javier mumbles in your ear. “When Steve showed me that address, I thought I’d never get to hold you again.”

You hold him tighter, pressing your cheek against the fabric of his shirt. “Solo podía pensar en tú, Javi.” You sigh shakily, feeling Javier run another hand down your head at the sound of it. “I wanted to say that I loved you a thousand more times.”

Javier’s smile is nearly audible, but he continues with an interrogation of your wellbeing. “Did they hurt you?”

You shake your head, still keeping it against his shoulder. “They were about to.” When Javier tenses, you let out a quick chuckle and continue. “When they asked us for information, I may or may not have told them that I wouldn’t have told them even if I knew—and then told them come mierda.”

Javier lets out a low laugh at your words. “Ay, mi amor, eres muy fuerte. Estoy orgulloso de ti.”

You chuckle once again and then pull yourself away from him, holding onto his shoulders as you’re suddenly very aware of the bulletproof vest you’re still wearing. “You walked through a shootout without a vest for me.” You bite your lip to keep your emotions tucked away as Javier gives you a small smile and a nod. “How?”

Javier tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. “I would take a bullet for you any day, mi amor.” He says the words without hesitation and with such certainty that you can practically feel the truthfulness in his core—and as much as you love it, you always feel terrified by it. Javier sees this, and he cups your cheek in his hand before he goes on. “But hopefully I won’t have to.”

You finally give him a smile at that, leaning up to brush your nose against his. “Te amo más que a mi propia vida, cariño.”

Javier leaves a short yet very sweet kiss on your lips, pulling away to leave an additional one on the tip of your nose. “Te amo muchísimo, mi amor.”

translations:

Te amo muchísimo, cariño. = I love you so very much, sweetheart.

¡Puta rata! = Fucking rat!

¡Has estado hablando con la policía! = He’s been talking with the police

¿Pensaste que podrías safarte de nosotros tan fácilmente? = Did you think that you could get away from us so easily?

¿Qué les dijiste? = What did you tell them?

¡No dije nada! = I didn’t say anything!

¡Por favor, créeme! = Please, believe me!

Es demasiado tarde, rata. = It’s too late, rat.

Voy a regresar a las cinco esta noche = I’m going to come back at five tonight

¿Me lo prometes? = Promise me?

Tienes mi palabra = You have my word

Hasta pronto, mi amor. Cuídate. = I’ll see you soon, my love. Be careful.

Te amo mucho = I love you so much

Entonces, ¿quién sabe qué le dijo la rata a la policía? = So, who knows what the rat told the police?

Mentirosos, todos ustedes = Liars, all of you

Alguien tuvo que haber oído algo de lo que el puto soplón dijo = Some had to have heard what the fucking snitch said

¡No sabemos nada! = We don’t know anything!

Si supiéramos, ya te hubiéramos dicho todo = If we knew, we would have told you everything already

Habla por ti mismo = Speak for yourself

¿¡Qué dijiste!? = What did you say!?

No te escuche bien = I didn’t hear you well

Come mierda = Eat shit

Relájate, mi amor = Relax, my love

Voy a sacarte de aquí sana y salva = I’m going to get you out of here safe and sound

Solo podía pensar en tú, Javi = I was only able to think of you, Javi

Ay, mi amor, eres muy fuerte. Estoy orgulloso de ti = Oh, my love, you’re so strong. I’m proud of you.

Te amo más que a mi propia vida, cariño = I love you more than my own life, sweetheart

Te amo muchísimo, mi amor = I love you so very much, my love

[poptod]

The Dead Heed No Lies (Ch. 2)

Description: If you won't join the life of the party upstairs, the life of the party comes to you.

Notes: Building up. Word Count: 1.9k

Chapter Two: Holed Up

It had been approximately a week since you’d fainted in the break room, found by Ahkmenrah, who was apparently worried about you after you hadn’t returned, even as dawn approached. When you came fully back to consciousness, he sat with you, explaining what the tablet did, how it needed moonlight, which was the real reason for the transfer. He further explained that it only worked during the night, which was why everything seemed so still during the day. He’d been gracious about the whole fainting thing, telling you that it wasn’t entirely unexpected, simply wishing you a better day ahead of you before he left to his exhibit.

You decided not to accompany him. Watching a man crawl into his own grave to die seemed like something that wouldn’t be good for you.

“How long are you staying here?” You asked Tilly, watching from the balcony as chaos ensued in the form of an almost hysterical party.

“Dunno, this is a pretty prestigious museum. But should be for another few months.”

“That’s quite a while,” you noted, nodding in a mildly impressed manner.

“Should give you enough time to get to know Ahk more,” she said, leaning over to you, attempting horridly at a wink.

“I - what?”

“You know, you and the King,” she said, saying his title with a theatrical form of reverence.

“… Right. Me and the King. What is this, Disney?” You shook your head, chuckling to yourself.

“What? You’d make a great couple,” she said, nudging you with her elbow.

“Til, I barely know him. You’re seeing things.”

“Whatever you say,” she said skeptically, turning and leaving down the stairs.

The whole notion she was proposing was ridiculous. You’d spoken to him a grand total of three times, the first being when you met him, the second was him waking you from a black out, and the third was you accidentally running into his parents, and he quickly introduced you to them.

On the whole, the conversation wasn’t bad, but it could’ve gone better. It felt rather like a young teen who had modern ideals with two racist parents, but this time it was an actual King and Queen who had Jewish slaves and their son, who had apparently never agreed with that.

You didn’t agree with it either, being Jewish yourself. After his parents had left, Ahkmenrah explained that it wasn’t the first time it’d happened, that it was equally embarrassing as it was funny. You agreed, and quickly excused yourself.

As fun as it was to be upstairs during the night of life, you had a job, and it couldn’t be avoided. Especially since McPhee was now breathing down your back, which was a change, because usually he was at home, asleep, during your work hours. Now, fully awake, he was free to observe your every movement. Not that he did, he was busy making sure nothing in the museum was destroyed. You stayed far away, in the basement, locked up and sorting through the archives.

Every now and then Tilly would come down, asking you to take a break, which you nearly always declined.

Then the King visited you.

You could tell it was him without even looking up, from the way his cloak dragged across the ground, and his sandals hitting the asphalt.

“Hi Ahk,” you said, not looking up from the papers you were sorting.

Man killed 150 bears in American wilderness, original article…

“Hello. How’d you know it was me?” He asked, chuckling as he sat down beside you. That was something you hadn’t expected of him when you first met him - for him to be normal, to stoop down to your level. Sit with you on the ground, cross legged, looking like a perfectly normal man in an impeccable costume. Warm and human.

“I can hear your cloak. No one else wears a cloak,” you said, smiling as you looked at him, before looking right back down again.

“Ah. Suppose it does sort of… give it away,” he said, fumbling with his cape in his fingers.

“It’s fantastic material, though. I assume it’s the same clothing you were embalmed with?” You said, and without thought you fingered the material, always wondering what fine cloth would feel like. As much as you studied history, you never actually experienced any of the findings it brought.

“Oh, uh, yes. It is. Gold sewn in and all. I think we were a little dramatic back then,” he laughed quietly, his eyes fixed on your hands.

You knew it was inappropriate, but dear God it was soft.

“Well you had a lot of gold. Symbol of status, a way of letting people know how much you were worth. It’s like people owning mansions nowadays, buying fancy cars. Just a show of wealth and status.”

“Unsightly,” he joked.

“Unseemly,” you said with a chuckle, playing along. After a moment of quiet giggles you turned back to your papers, continuing to sort through them though it was the last thing you wanted to be doing. Here you were, studying historical records when a literal goldmine of information was in front of you, and he acted quite like he liked you, and a lot, always open to talk, always trying to learn more about you. Overall, very friendly.

“Ahkmenrah, I was wondering,” you started, setting your papers down. The more you looked at them, the duller they got. He looked expectantly at you, so you continued.

“There’s hardly any mention of you at all in any history books. No statues, we only found out you existed when we found your, um. Your sarcophagus. Do you have any idea as to why that is?”

It was, maybe, a sensitive topic. Maybe it was a question he didn’t know the answer to. Either way it evoked some emotional reaction out of him as he shifted uncomfortably, tucking his feet and hands further into himself in a psychological sign of defensiveness.

“I didn’t know, for a while. I found out later when my parents told me. I don’t remember this for whatever reason but my brother killed me, and uh… took the throne? It was his birthright, to be fair,” he said, defending him though he deserved none of it.

“He was older than you, but your parents gave you the throne?”

“Yes. I know it’s odd,” he sighed, relaxing as he leaned back on his arms. “But they thought it would be a better decision if I ruled instead of him, and generally speaking, I think they were right. My brother’s a bit, ah, bloodthirsty, you could call it?”

The two of you laughed, but you wondered what in the hell his brother could’ve done in Egyptian times to be considered bloodthirsty enough to pass the throne to the younger child.

“Anyway, he poisoned me, and my parents were still alive when this happened, but they couldn’t do much while he desecrated everything that ever mentioned me.”

“That’s depressing,” you sighed, stretching your arms as you relaxed, looking ahead to the rows of boxes.

“What’s depressing,” he said, his tone suddenly changing, “is you sitting down here all night when all the fun is upstairs.”

“Oh not you too,” you groaned, not wanting to have to convince another person that you had an actual job to do.

“What? It’s not healthy, you know,” he said, laughing, knowing he was a terrible influence.

“I’m fully aware of that but it’s my job. Wouldn’t expect you to understand that, all you do is have fun,” you chuckled, digressing into a tired sigh. He hummed, quiet and low, relaxing in his position once more.

“In that case, if you really can’t be swayed, I’ll stay with you.”

You stammered, fully disagreeing. If he stayed you’d never get anything done, he was a huge distraction, him and his beautiful flowing robes and his stupid gorgeous face - no, you couldn’t do it, you would absolutely not stand for it.

However, before you could go off on a rant of why that was a terrible idea (while completely avoiding your actual lovey-dovey reason as to why it was a terrible idea), he saw the look in your eye, and his smile faded into a sad, open mouthed, glittering eyed expression that made him instantly look like he’d been crying.

Like a goddamn puppy.

“Fine,” you sighed, giving in without a word exchanged. “But don’t distract me!”

“Me? Never!” He laughed, standing up and wandering through the aisles, letting you have your silence as you worked. You didn’t say anything, but you appreciated the thought deeply.

Every now and then, over the next few hours that passed, you’d see him through the spaces between the boxes. His head would poke out, and sometimes he’d kneel down to where you were, giving you a funny face for you to soften and laugh at.

This boy is too kind for his own good, you thought to yourself, wondering if he was like this during his life in Egypt. As you sorted mindlessly through sheets of paper, your mind wandered, going through the two different scenarios.

If he was exactly the same then as he was now, you wondered how he survived. As a prince, he was supposed to be mature, a role model for his kingdom. He should’ve been manly and strong, neither of which were traits he’d shown thus far.

If he was not the same, you wondered when the change happened. What he was like back then. Was he cruel, antisemitic, and a succinct ruler? Or was he just as kind as he was now, just more mature, with the weight of his responsibilities drowning out his personality?

“You look lost,” he noticed, boxes pushed to the side as he poked his head through the other side of the open shelf. You laughed, pushing the boxes back together to force his head out. He whined, jogging his way around the long hall to make it to you.

“No need to be ashamed. I, too, get lost in sheets of paper,” he chuckled, sitting down behind you and looking over your shoulder. He was slightly taller than you, allowing him a vantage point.

“You know, you speak remarkably good English for a 4,000 year old Egyptian Pharaoh,” you said, using the end of your pencil to tap his nose.

“What can I say, it’s what everyone else speaks. I hardly ever speak Egyptian now except with my parents.”

“I guess that makes sense,” you said, growing slowly quieter. “Your version of the language is dead now.”

A clangor of Rex’s roar resounded from upstairs, a sound you now knew signified that everyone needed to return to their place.

“Just as I am soon about to be,” he said, grunting slightly as he stood. Without thought you stood with him, letting your pencil and paper fall to the ground clattering quietly. With a chuckle he looked you up and down, almost sarcastically wondering if you’d do anything else embarrassing. You just glared, the blushing heat in your cheeks obvious.

“Come on, let’s get you to bed,” you mumbled, leading him out the door and up the stairs. He followed, and the two of you walked to his old room in the museum.

As you reached the threshold he stopped, turning to you.

“I must leave you now,” he said, his words dramatic but his tone sincere. His hands came up to hold yours, another sign of his truthfulness.

“Try and do what I said?” He asked of you.

“What was that again?”

“Have some fun. Don’t hole up in that basement.”

You laughed, shaking your head.

“Sure.”

He left you with a smile, never wanting people to see him as he wrapped himself back up in his tomb. You understood his wish, obeying his need for privacy.

Until tomorrow night, you thought to yourself.

[bnhascribbles]

A Plan

Bakugo x Hero!Reader

Request: Dialogue Prompts (31, 53, 65, 73) for “my boi Bakugo”

Words: 1.5K

Warnings: Swearing, Violence

“Piss off!  I can handle these asswipes by myself!”

If you’d only heard Bakugo, his voice as brash and thunderous as ever, you would’ve assumed that he had everything under control–that he wasn’t actually about to get ripped to shreds by two goons from Watchdog’s gang.

Your first mistake had been letting the agency split the two of you up in the first place.  Sure, you were of more help in rescue situations and he was better at making the baddies go boom, but you and Ground Zero were still a team; You had each other’s backs–you fed off each other’s energy.  So yeah, you should’ve said “hell no” when they’d put you on patrol in different wards.  Maybe then he would’ve been able to focus on obliterating the six-foot-tall man-mutt hybrids instead of alternating between offense and rescue.  Thank God you’d at least had your phone on, or else you might’ve seen the news alert a few minutes too late.

“Hey!  Over here, you overgrown poodles!

Both villains turn and face you, although one still keeps a clawed hand curled around Bakugo’s neck, pressing him further into the pile of rubble beneath him.  Your partner writhes despite the thick trail of blood seeping down the side of his forehead.  You’d expected him to use your distraction as an opportunity to get a shot in–to free himself.  He doesn’t; There are no explosions, only shouted curses and a low, ominous, rumbling sound.

His palms had probably run dry.  

Well, shit.

As two pairs of predatory eyes begin to bore through you, you can’t help but wonder if maybe you should have thought this through a little bit more.  It wasn’t like you could breathe fire or punch them into oblivion with super strength.  Your quirk was barrier for fuck's sake; What were you gonna do, shield them to death?  The best you could hope to do was buy time for Bakugo to get some juice back and blast these guys into oblivion.

As the larger of the two mutts hunches over onto all fours–growling and poised to strike–you decide to do what you do best: Talk shit.

You force yourself to smile, to fake arrogance despite the cold sweat clinging to the back of your neck. Bakugo always said that if you really wanted someone to make a mistake, you had to piss them off first.  

“I can’t understand you.  Sorry, but I don’t speak bitch.”

It pounces, and you roll to your left, avoiding the impact by a few inches.  You’re better prepared the second time it lunges, throwing up a barrier at the last possible moment.  It hits the wall hard–the air echoes with a distinctive crunch that you can only hope meant it’d managed to smash in its snout.  As the villain clutches at its face–a mess of blood and drool–you concentrate and form a cube around it, trapping it in an invisible prison.  It snarls, bashing at the enclosure in a frenzy.  The tightness in your gut tells you that you’ll be able to keep it up for fifteen–no, ten minutes tops.  Hopefully, that’s all I’ll need, you pray, turning your attention to the beast’s buddy.

"Yo, Lassie!”

It keeps an eye on Bakugo, but bares a set of very sharp teeth in your direction.  Your partner is still putting up a fight–kicking, biting, cursing–but his captor still has sheer size working to its advantage.

“Fucking leave already!”

You disregard Bakugo’s insane demand; Frankly, you couldn’t care less if your rescue shattered his ego.  Even if it did actually came from a place of caring for you–not wanting you to get straight-up murdered–couldn’t he see that you were trying to save him?  God, sometimes it felt like his head was full of rocks.  Short-tempered, loud-mouthed, insanely-attractive rocks.

Right–not the time.

“If you’re gonna kill him, then you'd better kill me first.  Otherwise, I'm gonna kill you.”

When the creature finally shifts its gaze away from Bakugo, you don’t miss the way the blonde’s eyes go feral.  His struggling intensifies, and you know that you’ll have to work extra hard to keep your foe’s attention.

“Wouldn’t you rather run home and hump your big boss’s leg?  I’m sure you’d enjoy that much more than sticking around here and getting your ass kicked.”

The next few seconds happen so fast that they seem like a blur–a memory playing out in real time.  The villain turns to face you.  Bakugo is lifted high in the air.  You sprint towards him and, on impulse, your arms shoot out in front of you.  You would create another barrier, throw the beast off-balance–after all, that was all you could do.

Before you can fire up your quirk, there’s an explosion.  The force of the blast sends you flying backward, landing unceremoniously on your ass.  As you sit there trying to catch your breath, the hot air feels like it’s scorching your insides.  Coupled with the smoke, it makes for a positively painful experience–complete with watery eyes and a whole lot of wheezing.  Still, none of that mattered right now; Ground Zero was back up and running, baby.

You can’t be sure how long it takes for the street to reemerge from beneath the blanket of smoke.  All that you know is that once it finally does, Bakugo’s standing right there, his stern voice contradicting his battered appearance.

“There were at least three times you should’ve died back there.”

“Only three?”  You reply, voice dripping with sarcasm.  “I hope that number includes you nearly barbecuing me with that last little blast.”

“Joke all you want, but that last ‘little blast’ is the only reason you’re not actually dead.”

“Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence.”  He extends a hand out towards you, and you take it.  “You shouldn’t underestimate what a person is capable of doing to protect someone they care about.”

***

Thankfully, Bakugo at least has the patience to wait twenty minutes–letting you fill in the officers and reporters–before chewing you out.

“Next time, be more obvious with the fucking signal.”

Okay, you understood that he was speaking perfect English, but it might as well have been gibberish, because you had no idea what he was talking about.

“Signal?  What signal?”

“The signal dammit.”  He growls, doing a god-awful job of using his words, as always.  He holds his hands out in front of him like he’s going to set off two explosions from his palms, presumably mimicking your “signal.”  He stares expectantly, growing noticeably more irritated when your confused expression doesn’t fade.

  “That thing you did with your hands that told me to go apeshit!  It almost looked like you were trying to use your quirk.”  

You blink, mirroring his position, finally beginning to understand.  The source of the misunderstanding: He thought that you were smarter than you actually were.  It was an odd problem to have, but then again, everything about your dynamic with Bakugo was odd.

“That’s because I was trying to use my quirk.  Bold of you to assume I had an actual plan.”

The look of sheer disbelief that passes over his face is more amusing than it should be, given the fact that you’ve basically shattered any faith he has in your competence.  Still, when he begins to walk away from you, you follow hot on his heels.

“What?  Not gonna yell at me for doing something so reckless?”  You ask, prodding.  He sighs, but doesn’t respond.  It’s not enough of a reaction for you.  “Come on, this is the perfect opportunity to call me an idiot.”

"You already know you’re an idiot.”  

You pretend to pout, and he rolls his eyes and peers back over his shoulder.  When he sees that the news crews are out of earshot, he runs a hand down his face, grumbling through his palm.  

“But you're also my idiot, and I like you better when you’re in one piece.  So don’t pull stupid shit like that without a plan."

He’d obviously meant to scold you.  You should’ve nodded your head and promised that it wouldn’t happen again–should’ve vowed that you’d stop relying on dumb luck and just run when he said “run.”  But let’s be serious, you couldn’t promise those things; Hero work was unpredictable, and you weren’t the sort to just sit by and watch things happen from the sidelines.  Plus, his little speech gave you something far juicier to cling to.

“Awww, you like me Katsuki?”

The edges of his cheeks flush to a faint shade of pink.  “Drop it.”

“You’re the one that said it first; I’m being perfectly reasonable in asking.”

“You really wanna die?  Keep talking and see what happens.”

“So what ‘piece’ of me do you like the best?”

He clenches his jaw tight.  “Oi, you’ve got a lot of nerve today, don’t you?”

You link your arm with his and grin wide.  He shoots you a dangerous look, those fiery eyes issuing an unspoken warning.  Unfazed, you lean into him, not caring when his sweat dampens the outer layer of your sleeve, nor when the distinctive click of camera flashes starts up from somewhere behind you.

“What can I say, Katsuki?  You make me feel invincible."

[idolizerp]

[ LOADING INFORMATION ON POIZN’S MAIN DANCE STEELE…. ]

DETAILS

CURRENT AGE: 28 DEBUT AGE: 20 SKILL POINTS: 15 PERFORMANCE | 05 VOCAL | 15 DANCE | 05 RAP SECONDARY SKILLS: B-boying

INTERVIEW

SHITSTARTER.

only in not in such strong terms –– it’s no secret that steele believes actions to speak louder than words. sometimes it’s as if his main mode of communication is dance. but aside from that, aside from his lifeblood and everything that’s made him who he is today, it’s glances from the background. freakishly tall ( 6’ 5” towers over heads everywhere in asia ), you’ll often find steele standing in the back. to occupy his time ( and to earn that blessed attention ), he makes faces at the camera, rolling his eyes at certain things and giving incredulous ‘ are you kidding me ? ’ expressions at unsympathetic lenses. this wordless candor is what builds him up in the early days.

steele is no - nonsense, but he can have a dry sense of humor. often times you’ll see him lifting his brows at a group member, engaging in a slight chuckle. other times he’ll poke and prod within his group and spark play - fights between members with just a look, his face holding a treasure trove of inside jokes.

so, he is wordless. but even when very little noise leaves his mouth ( and people never seem to get enough of the rich depths of his voice ), steele has a lot to say. or, at least, that’s how it was in the beginning.

over time ( after a single scandal ), though, his snarkiness becomes a detraction. critical and scathing glances are amplified. every single movement is read too far into. why did he cross his arms at that specific time ? is there some beef between them ? did he yell at that person for getting into his light too ? really, he blows up at ONE PERSON and the whole world seems to think he’s a ticking time bomb ready to explode.

the truth is, that’s the old steele. he’s almost thirty; he understands that screaming at people isn’t productive or acceptable. and he also doesn’t believe letting such anger and resentment fester within him is worth his time. the way his face sits coolly unmoving now says as much. no longer is he the funny background guy. steele is the handsome man with the big brows who doesn’t say much. who scowls, but that’s only because that’s how his face is built. forgiveness is a slow and long time coming, but 99 is convinced that keeping his mouth shut and his expressions blank is the key to resetting it all.

“ don’t comment on anything, don’t even blink in someone’s direction because it’ll be taken the wrong way. ” they don’t yank on his chain, instead leaving rather forceful suggestions, but he lets the ‘ or else what ? ’ die on his lips nevertheless. steele / jieping / everything in between knows the answer : “ or else we’ll send you packing. ” they don’t need to squish him like a bug like midas would, because they know that they can just drop him instead of offering to renew his contract, leaving him flat on his ass. and isn’t that just the single worst thing in the known universe ?

so, nowadays, it’s less. ‘ oh my god, look at steele’s face ! ’ and more ‘ who’s that really hot guy with the chin in the back ? he’s so good - looking but he doesn’t say anything. ’

and steele preens at being called hot / sexy / et cetera, et cetera. so, all in all, it’s not so bad.

BIOGRAPHY

PART ONE: PHANTOM BLOOD

keep your head down. don’t start any trouble. we’re tight on money as it is. just finish school. get a good job. help mama out with the bills.

an easy five - step plan enacted on august 17, 1990, 9 : 36 am cst after a difficult birth and an extremely large baby boy. only a mother and father are in the waiting room, waiting to take their daughter and grandson home to guangzhou. the father is a potter, the mother a seamstress, and the daughter a secretary. the not - son - in - law is nowhere to be found, and he never reappears in their lives after the grandson’s birth.

three incomes are still just barely enough to keep the grandson ( jieping, “ hero of peace ” ) fed and clothed. so the boy starts to help out where he can, bouncing to an inaudible tune on his mother’s lap as he helps her sort through letters and take down messages for her boss with shocking accuracy for a boy of seven. this intelligence is never developed further, his free time spent more on menial chores than stimulation and socialization.

at the very least, they indulge his passion for dance, scrounging around enough to send him to classes for a few years from the ages of five to eight before they run out and he has to drop out. jieping never begrudges his family for that.

he never lets what few friends he has know that he does not, in fact, own seven pairs of the same pants –– but, in fact, two that he recycles over the week. it doesn’t even matter, anyway. once he’s done with step five, he’ll have all the pants he wants.

PART TWO: BATTLE TENDENCY

have nots like jieping tend to hold a lot of resentment. bitterness. once his mother manages to wrangle enough money to ship him off to a private school in beijing, he starts to see just how much he really does not have. rolexes on the upperclassmen, his peers deciding to go out for milk tea every other day while he sits in his lonely apartment counting his monthly allowance and stretching it as thin as it can possibly go. while the others get to avoid the oppressive smog either by being driven everywhere or from the safety of their own vehicles, jieping invests in masks and filters.

he walks everywhere, even through the seedier parts of town late as night as long as they get him to his destination quicker because he knows the only place he’d really be understood is the underground dance scene. there, he’s nameless, but his talent is admired. self - taught, crew - less, he spends more time than he expected giving vague non - answers when his identity is questioned. dancing is his priority ; he’s not the type to show up to an underground club hoping to get recruited, though the interest is, at least, flattering. jieping isn’t there to make a name for himself. he’s just there to move. and if he puts on a good performance, trapped in his own world as he is, that’s just negligible.

back at school, it doesn’t improve matters that he’s something of an unkempt lad, often yelled at by administrators to start tucking his shirt into his pants and to wear a normal belt or else insert - empty - threat - here. if people look at him long enough, they’ll start to see his father in his face. if they’re malicious enough, they might even use his existence to blackmail a high ranking official who has yet pay a hefty fine for secretly siring another child. but then they see the way jieping’s thick brows draw together and his fists clench and decide that it’s better to be on the good side of a young boy who’s too tall to be only thirteen.

he has no qualms with punching out fellow students, though this only happens three times in his entire career at beijing huijia private academy. the knuckles on his left hand catch on the cheekbones of rich kids that are too proud to admit that they’ve been beaten up by a dirty commoner. the so - called ‘ charity cases ’ start to look up to jieping. their accounts of his bravery and heroism are inconsequential when antis dredge up this part of his past.

see ? he was always aggressive. what a prick.

PART THREE: STARDUST CRUSADERS

“ it’s a vacation, ” he tells his mother. “ you’re supposed to relax. ” they stand in front of her estranged elder sister’s daunting apartment complex in gangnam. he’s fifteen, scrawny with long hair and an underbite, bruises all over his arms and legs from failed attempts at b - boying. he’s learning, getting better, but he just doesn’t have the upper arm strength to hold himself up very long before crashing down. his mother thinks he’s getting into fights again instead of hanging around with underground dance crews, and, frankly, that’s a little hurtful.

jieping’s never met his aunt before, the woman leaving six years before he was born. all he knows is that she’s something of a socialite ( ex - trophy wife ), and she’s friends with lots of powerful people. when he meets her, he notes with some distaste that she doesn’t seem very fond of his mother. but when he tells her he likes to dance, her eyes light up and he’s taken off - guard.

as if his mother is a nonentity, jieping’s aunt starts interrogating him, nodding as he drops some names from the chinese underground scene that he’s sure she doesn’t know, and after an hour of probing, she eyes him, and asks, “ you know, i think you’d thrive in sopa. ” she knows people, she can get him an interview and audition and is even willing to help him take care of the costs.

jieping blinks. “ what ? ” he barely speaks korean, his elective language being english. jieping’s only experience with korean was being his friend’s study buddy, whereupon he picked up a few basic sentences. to say nothing, of course, of the fact that he wasn’t even intending to pursue a career in dance. and that … he wasn’t expecting his mother to seem so enthralled by the idea. his aunt tells him that sopa’s not planning on accepting new students just yet, but if he’d like to enroll for the next school year, he should let her know by the end of the week. seeing as they’re staying in her loft, he’s probably going to be pestered until the day they leave.

he mentions it off - handedly to his mother as they’re preparing to go to bed that night and is taken aback when she tells him to consider it. “ how do you know she’s not lying to us ? ”

didn’t he know she used to be a dancer, leaving home because their parents thought her dreams were too frivolous ? that her career came to a screeching halt when her relationship with an idol was exposed and she was ( publicly ) cast to the wayside ? she probably sees some of herself in him.

( not like that’s troubling. no, not at all. )

“ if you really like dancing, baobei, ” his mother tells him, her hand cupping his cheek, “ if you really love it like you used to when you were young, then you should take her up on it. she’s even willing to pay for everything. ” oh, and it always comes down to money.

if he stays with his aunt, his mother won’t have to send him red envelopes anymore. she can use her meager paycheck on herself. purchase some new clothes, finally fix those clunky heels. maybe even break out the hotpot all for herself. jieping chooses to think of it this way rather than acknowledging the fact that it sounds like his mother’s just trying to get him out of her hair –– or, her wallet, as it were. he makes his decision that night. it’s the day before new year’s eve. a little early to be making resolutions like this, he thinks, but it doesn’t hurt.

living with his aunt isn’t as bad as it seems at first, culture shock –– which she helps with –– aside. he thought he’d profoundly dislike her, but it turns out the woman actually gives good advice. in addition to whipping his korean into ( amorphous ) shape, she teaches him actual technique so that he doesn’t end up hurting himself, and she even takes him out to eat with a bunch of her b - boy friends when his acceptance to sopa is finalized. it sparks the start of a very close kinship, expressed by wandering into her room in the middle of the night to ask what a certain word means in this one context or by massaging his calf after a long day of practice.

when jieping actually starts to get some real instruction, he skyrockets. one of the “ best damn dancers in this school ” according to the chair of the department of practical dance, most likely to succeed, his teachers all rave about his potential. the other students grumble about the fact that a non - native –– a boy from across the yellow sea –– is their superior. his area of focus is singular, they gripe. he’s not even interested in pursuing anything else. the only reason the faculty likes him so much is because he could’ve gone to hanlim, and all they expect him to do is dance, anyway. the man can hold a tune, but that’s not exactly difficult to do. so what if he’s actually pretty steady even when dancing ? his rapping is average, and that’s mostly because his grasp of the language isn’t as strong as it could be. a singular skillset and the vestiges of natural talent in other areas aren’t worth all that attention. a lump of clay could become a beautiful vase, but jieping’s never seemed interested in metaphorical pottery. maybe the praise will actually start to seem merited when his grades in everything other than dance stop being terrible.

jieping doesn’t care much when they relentlessly mock his accent, but it does drive him into fluency if only to stop that avenue of attack so he can have his peace and quiet. it’s a pity about his looks, the frequent chin jokes tossed his way, but braces have cleaned him up quite a bit and when he cut his hair ( enough that you could finally see his eyes ) he really wasn’t too bad looking. maybe that’s why he never really gets anywhere until after graduation. in the end, it turned out all the attention he received from the faculty was only meant to keep him from transferring schools when he figured he could get a better education elsewhere. they were waiting for him to seek out companies on his own and leech off of that ( “ we knew he had what it takes ! ” and other -isms thereof ), but when he kept to himself and instead looked into jobs in teaching dance, the favoritism all but vanished in his third year. from “ one of the best ” to “ a very good dancer. ” if only they’d told him how they really felt from the get - go.

“ have you thought about what you wanted to do ? ” his aunt asks him almost a year since he’s been out of school. he helps out at her studio in the meantime, his pockets still lined with her money. it makes sense that she, too, is trying to boot him out of her life –– or, she’s just trying to get him to reach maximum potential, if he wanted to be optimistic. which he didn’t. “ i think you’d do well in the idol circuit. you’re intense. it’s fun to watch you dance, and it’d be a waste to keep it to my studio or the underground when you could have this massive audience. you’ve got that flare about you, y’know ? ”

he thinks of her old boyfriend, the one who almost ruined her life, and makes a face.

“ oh, come on. don’t tell me you didn’t think of it ! you went to school with at least a couple of trainees, didn’t you ? and they didn’t pique your interest at all ? ”

if he shook his head, he’d by lying, but … he’s also something of a realist. him and idol life probably wouldn’t mix –– though not exactly a wild card, he’s got something of an independent streak. he only plays by the rules he likes, and that’s not the most desirable thing for companies looking to hit it big with their next boy group. even the phrase boy group makes him feel a little weird.

his aunt rolls her eyes. “ i know what you’re thinking. you’re too cool or whatever for it, they’ll spend every second of every day trying to control or contain you. i mean, that’d probably be true if you were in midas or msg. but 99’s pretty lax in comparison. koala.t is a maybe. kjh is too new to be reliable, in my opinion, but you could definitely go for the two other ones i mentioned. it’s just something to think about. i can probe around to see who’s currently casting, if you’d like. ” then, as an afterthought, she compliments his shower singing, ruffles his hair, and then flounces away.

jieping scowls at the kitchen counter, sighs, and then makes his choice. he might as well shoot for the stars, right ? even if he misses, he’ll land near the moon.

PART FOUR: DIAMOND IS UNBREAKABLE

99 gets him by chance, a coin that landed on heads leading to him attending two rounds of auditions and an interview.

being added into the company in april of 2010, in the midst of planning poizn out, doesn’t leave him a lot of room for bonding. so he doesn’t really do it. his skill as a dancer is acknowledged by the others, and he’s fine with that. his height intimidates a lot of them, and choreographers grouse about where they should put him in formations so that he doesn’t block people who are ear - height and below. his fairly average performance in rapping and singing is something of a shock, though it’s generally acknowledged among the teachers that he’s nowhere near good enough at either to be given a ‘ lead ’ anything. “ a little boring, ” the vocal teacher says. “ uninspired. but it could be something, if you tried. ” ‘ if ’ being the operative word.

all they know is that he’s a main dancer, through and through. impeccable technique, electrifying ( and just the perfect amount of terrifying ) stage presence. the name of his aunt’s studio sitting prettily at the top of his resumé definitely helps matters, as do his actual good looks once the stylists get their hands on him. he’s got the makings for poizn, they declare. he’s a little surprised. he’s not really friends with the other boys in the lineup, and he’s still something of a greenhorn in 99. to have them push him so far so soon is a little nerve - wracking, and no amount of arm pinching is waking him up from this dream.

what is he going to do when they offer him the spot ? say no ?

and so that’s that.

being an idol is an … acquired taste. he doesn’t expect everything about him to be so relentlessly marketed. his dry humor, which he’d been using to endear himself to his group mates, is suddenly now his shtick. his name ? steele ? some reference about how he’s a tough guy, unbendable, and flashy and shiny all at the same time. sturdy, holds the group’s performances together with his undeniable skill. it’s all coming up roses.

their reputation starts to take a few hits because of scandals before long ( what does 99 expect when looking for bad boys to fit the concept, anyway ? ), but jieping pays it no heed. he likes to think of himself as a good friend, offering support where the others need it, but he also manages to keep himself afloat by 1. ) staying out of trouble and 2. ) looking as if he doesn’t approve of his members’ choices in public. widened eyes as someone dodges a question about a past scandal and stretched lips that indicate a level of ‘ oh jeez ’ are enough to make him go viral for brief moments at a time. for a while, he’s the ‘ good ’ member ( if not the condescending foreigner ), even when cures realize he’s prone to somewhat malicious teasing. he does a good job of masking the slight resentment and weariness of being around constant fuck - ups.

but this good faith doesn’t last long.

2016. dumb and dumber. jacket shooting. he lets his temper get the best of him, becoming one of those rich idiots he hates the most.

( all because of a missed phone call. if he’d slept at an appropriate hour instead of practicing all night, he might’ve been able to catch his mother one last time. semi meets sedan. who’s going to win ?

the public never finds out about this. )

“ what do you think you’re doing ? ” it’s not so much of a roar as a boom. everyone freezes, even his group mates look up at the normally pleasant and quiet man with shock. “ you’re in my light, you idiot ! how is the photographer supposed to take pictures of me when i’m drenched in your shadow ? no, don’t walk that way. knowing you, you’ll just trip over the cable and take out the thing entirely. do you guys just fuckin’ hire anybody these days ? jesus christ. dumb and dumber. guess this song’s about you, huh, moron ? ”

shaky cell phone camera. shaken production assistant. jieping goes viral again. for all the wrong reasons, of course.

at least he realized he’s messed up. every comment that calls him out for his shitty treatment of this particular staff member is absolutely right. he shouldn’t have snapped like that. no matter how tired, no matter how stressed, no matter the deep grief paining his heart, nothing warranted taking it all out on someone who was just trying to do their job. it would have taken less than ten seconds to politely ask the p.a. to move. he might’ve received a smile and apology in return, rather than a young woman bursting into tears. he hates that there are cures that come to his defense. he wants to call them out, but after posting a handwritten apology on instagram, 99 strongly implies that they’d like him to keep mum, more consequences forthcoming.

this isn’t what he wanted. when he calls his aunt for advice, it’s the first time where she doesn’t know what to tell him. she’s disappointed in him, that much is clear in her voice, and he feels even shittier. “ i didn’t think you were that kind of person. ” he’s not, and he isn’t sure if she believes him. but she goes with him, hand in hand, to the funeral back in guangzhou, and it seems like all is forgiven, even if he never ended up explaining himself.

he’s only allowed to be there for two days and he’ll half to spend half of their promotion time benched. nobody recognizes him, mask covering his face, though there’s a slight murmur that maybe tall jieping grew up into this giant after all. he doesn’t make a fuss when he comes back, and 99 pretends that he never left. fans are none the wiser, though jieping’s sure the information is floating around somewhere now.

( his first reappearance on a music show is lukewarm. it doesn’t surprise him that the cheers are quieter than usual. )

poizn looks empty without their main dancer, someone says. if jieping had any amount of sense, he’d leave that empty space for brighter skies. maybe become a recluse like his aunt, teaching other young hopefuls to dance. she really did see a lot of herself in him, didn’t she ?

jieping’s mother didn’t raise a quitter, though, so that kills the thought immediately. it comes to a halt with a crunch of glass and steel.

PART FIVE: GOLDEN WIND

even though it’s two years in the past, 99 still reminds jieping to keep on his toes whenever interacting with anybody. his resting bitch face did him no favors as soon as his snark became an unfavorable mark upon him. he has to be neutral or friendly. no in between. if he can manage to work his way up to happy without looking terrifying, then that’s even better. but any ounce of negative emotion will be read for filth, so it’s in his best interest to stay away from anything pointing downward.

forgiveness comes slowly, given a slight boost when it comes out ( against jieping’s will ) that he personally apologized to the p.a. in question and even took her out to a dinner that went around six figures –– all out of his own pocket. but that’s not enough, because they’re all just waiting for him to scream at someone else.

he’s only two years away from turning thirty, so he figures he should start to act like it. and he does, stopping to think about things from an ‘ adult ’ and ‘ responsible ’ perspective as opposed to ‘ well, i’m doing just fine all on my own. ’ he sacrifices his isolationist tendencies for kindness and encouragement, wanting to show his juniors and the public alike that he’s grown up and decided to show that he really is a good person, just caught at the wrong time.

he tries to pick up where his aunt left off with her vague but pleasant advice, aiming for a wise - beyond - his - years vibe. and if all else fails, then he could at least be the calm respectful one sitting in the back. adult, jieping reminds himself. with a capital a. songs like love scenario and rubber band hinder this a little bit, at least on stage, but he finds that perseverance is the key to everything. so he’ll just keep working at it until he finds himself where he wants to be.

he doesn’t need to hole himself up in a fancy apartment in seoul, waiting for a cousin’s kid to show up and tell him that they enjoy b - boying. he doesn’t have to be a repeat of his aunt. he can claw his way back to the not - top.

it’s not like a guy who stands at 6’ 5” can afford to be scared of heights, after all.

[blacknovelist]

this rattle in my ears (Pyre fic)

Pyre’s got its nitpicks and issues, but by god, I love it so much

i’d literally die for this game and its characters sorry I don’t make the rules

Greg mentioned over on Steam that the language they speak in the game is an actual language he made up for the game itself - called Sahrian - even if just bits and pieces rather than a full-blown language. He also confirmed that when Tariq and Celeste sing, they’re singing in English and therefore, no one can understand them (save the Reader, who learned it due to the fact that all literature is in English). I’m so in love. It’s such depth, how good is that??

I listened to all of the vocal tracks from the Pyre OST on repeat to give myself the right vibes, with the occasional other song on repeat and some plays of King and Lionheart thrown in for kicks. It worked pretty well!

Also. I love Mae, but her dialogue is difficult to get the hang of, and now I can’t get her manner of speech out of my head. I hope I wrote her (and everyone else, for that matter) alright. Spoilers up to the Glade of Lu for characters, but, nothing really plot-relevant specifically. 

[ffnet] [AO3]

Music, often, is a universal sort of message.

Music is an interesting thing among the Nightwings.

Hedwyn tends toward humming old Commonwealth songs and rhymes, from days when the heat and stress of the Bloodborder sun made visions swim and knees buckle. Mae tends towards exuberance in her performances, aimless tunes given shape by her joyful litling voice and Ti'zo’s attempts to sing along, and Gilman is often just as eager with half-remembered ballads from his days as a wyrm-knight of the Sea Dominion. Jodariel and Pamitha both tend to avoid singing, but they still both hum little nursery rhymes and military songs when they think no one’s listening.

As far as instruments go, however, finding something more than a bell (with a tongue that rings a little too loudly for something delicate like music, no less) is as much a challenge in the Downside as finding decent food. Tariq often leaves his lute leaning against the wall by the raiments - not quite where he sat during his early days of dozing - while he goes about his tasks, and he’s given permission to use the instrument at times he cannot, but Mae prefers to perform without the pluck of the strings beneath her and no one else wants to try using the Minstrel’s prized belonging. Which leaves you and Tariq himself the only ones to play.

Your understanding of the instrument is rudimentary at best, but you make do. The few times you played felt as natural as can be, like the lute itself guides your hand and keeps you from fumbling the music too badly. The amount of free time you ordinarily get dictates that you rarely have a moment to do more than look in the instrument’s direction, though, and so usually it sits there, waiting. Unlike you, Tariq knows what he’s doing and has the time to show it; the handful of nights you’ve heard the expert twang of strings are the nights you rest well, the stress of the rites and living in the Downside leaving you and your companions alone, even if just for a moment.

The fact that none of you have ever heard his voice alongside his instrument (and the thought that perhaps he plays too late at night for your fellow exiles have never heard him perform) doesn’t occur to you until Rukey suggests a song to take your minds off the storm raging outside, wagon afloat only by virtue of Big Bertrude’s work.

“Let me see what I can do,” Tariq says, the lute already in hand as he takes a seat. He begins to pluck a handful of notes, testing, and soon a gentle melody floats through the pound of rain and waves. The music is beautiful, reminiscent of the few sailor songs you remember from the Commonwealth, and you see even Jodariel’s untold worries begin to slide from her shoulders as she wrestles with the sea and steers towards the Black Basin under your guidance. The words themselves are unfamiliar but not entirely alien to you, and it’s not unlike the feeling you get from reading the book of rites.

His voice is as soothing as the song he strums, heard effortlessly even over the ruckus of the world outside. You don’t realize just how much so, however, until the wind blows a wave straight up the windowsill you’re leaning on to read the ocean, nearly smacking you in the face and making you sputter. Behind you, Rukey’s little chortle tells you that the others definitely noticed.

Damn.

You get to hear Tariq play more often, after that. Not often enough to become regular, not quite, but often enough nonetheless. He tends to save gentle songs for mornings and evenings when the world is just waking up or barely headed to bed, and the brighter productive ones for when it’s time to get going and for dinnertime, when the only worries are about what to eat and how to distract yourself. The most energetic of songs are played for midday or the rare moments of rest, the rest of the Nightwings scattering to do minor chores or explore or play. It seems as though he has a new tune for every occasion there is.

Songs with lyrics, however, are saved for very special nights.

Much like the day out at sea, Tariq waits until he’s been requested for some music before breaking out the words - unless, of course, the situation calls for it. So it is that the second time you hear his voice is atop the Fall of Soliam, intertwined with the rich tones of the Gate Guardian above you, with your heart thudding in time with an invisible beat and nothing in your focus but the rites, your triumvirate, the sway of their weight and twists of their wrists and determination, the combined thoughts of we will earn this freedom together.

And you do.

The third time you hear his voice is at the Moonlit Alcove, a mere few hours later, up in one of the old tower-rooms away from the blackwagon, as Volfred has requested. It’s a solemn mood that falls over you all, the mixed realization of how real this all is, the fact that if you don’t earn your freedom back one at a time you might never see each other again, how the stars themselves could take near forever before they start turning again…

“Play us something,” you hear your friends ask of him, when this weight threatens to overwhelm them too. “A celebration. Something to keep our minds off some things, if you can.”

“Of course. Allow me, then,” Tariq says, and he does. He sings of cities and soaring through skies, old ghosts and dark seas and standing together, a song more for those left here than for the ones returned to the world above. And if the words only you can understand the meaning of leave you more than a little bit teary-eyed, well, the Nightwings aren’t telling.

(they’re not against a few group hugs, hearts just as moved by the phrases they don’t quite hear and don’t quite understand, but then, no one’s telling that either.)

Mae is the one who asks about it, in the end.

“Excuse me, mister!” She says. “I think I have a question, a question I’d like to ask you, if I can?”

It’s laundry day, much to everyone’s chagrin. Various trinkets and belongings have been pushed aside and replaced by the raiments now adorning the blackwagon floor, the rest of the Nightwings gathered around the stacks of colored fabric and bone-white masks. There’s a nigh-ridiculous number of the things, multiples of various designs because even if most of the triumvirates have never had as many members to choose from per rite as they do now, the Nightwings of old clearly wanted to be prepared for the possibility regardless. Cleaning and folding the things is three chores in one, and then some. Still, her question at least gives the rest of you an excuse to stop working and direct your curiosity towards one of the quietest members of your group.

“Of course, Mae,” Tariq replies, and you all shuffle as discreetly as you can in his direction. “What would you like to know?”

“Well, it’s those songs, the songs you sing for us all the time, you see.” Mae’s gaze is unwavering, and she’s smiling. “I was wondering about the words! Yes, I was wondering about the words you sing, because… the songs, I think I might understand, just a little bit. But the words, I don’t quite know what they mean, not exactly, except, I think they are words that the Scribes know. They are words the Scribes have also heard, long ago, are they not?”

Tariq pauses, then; “They are,” he confirms. “Or at least, some of them.” He tilts his head in her direction, eyes closed as they always seem to be. “It’s a language that, last I heard, was outlawed in your Commonwealth many, many years ago.”

“It sounds much stranger than Sahrian, to be sure,” Hedwyn says. There’s a half-finished patch job lying in his lap, and he sweeps the extra string aside. “What’s it called?”

“English,” Tariq says. “I believe it’s also the language the book of rites is written in, as it’s the language that dominated the Commonwealth during the time of the Scribes themselves.”

Heads immediately turn to you and Volfred, who is smoking his pipe and looking far too amused. For your part, you shrug a little helplessly. You’d never known the name itself before, either.

“So you both know what his songs mean?”

“Indeed, my boy.” Volfred lets out a breath. “And many of them bring back memories for me as well, from my past time being part of the Nightwings. I believe it was you, Tariq, that said most of the songs you know to play are as old as the Scribes - am I right?”

“Aye, that is correct.”

Ti'zo chirps questioningly, wondering if there is a translation into Sahrian for everyone who isn’t a Reader, since he cannot understand English either.

“I’m afraid none of these songs have any, given they nearly vanished along with the language centuries ago, and I’ve yet to try my own hand at it. If they had any, I would perform them without a doubt. Languages are tricky things.” Tariq reaches for his lute. “But if you like, I can explain their meaning while the Reader and Volfred transcribe, if they are willing?”

You are - especially since it’s completely escaped your mind that none of them can really understand a word of Tariq’s songs, which is something you’re ready to fix - as is Volfred. If the look on his face is any indication, even something like this is full of nostalgia to him.

The robes and masks remain on the floor, unsorted for now.

(Later, Mae startles you with a bizarre mix of Sahrian and English in one of her sudden bouts of song, the terms alien to her tongue but flowing through your ears like a warm breeze regardless. Your laugh startles almost everyone in turn, including yourself. You help her through the pronunciations and meanings - Mae is a swift learner, always is, and her smile is as bright as the stars eternally guiding you upward as you do.

If the others listen in turn and prod you about other words, later, it’s hardly a bad thing.)