#he's been a frequent white boy of the week for a whole decade at this point you picked the wrong person to talk to

[mooremars]

Shout-out to the woman sitting next to me at a show last night who saw my Hadestown sweatshirt and innocently asked me if I had seen it and talked about knowing Reeve Carney for his whole life, not knowing that I had spent that day listening to the Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark cast recording and a video essay about its failure.

[geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde]

@stinastar got Eskel on my brain so I had to throw some love (see also: whump) his way

Here darling, have some suffering... as a treat.

(As always, I didn’t bother editing so if you see anything ridiculous, please let me know)

________________________________________________________________

Humming a melody, Jaskier was contemplating his next ballad. He had some good material from the last of Geralt’s hunts he had snuck along on a few weeks back, right before the two parted. Jaskier was feeling this one should be nothing short of epic, a wonderful, and maybe slightly annoying, surprise for his favorite witcher upon their next run-in.

Smiling while he tried to think of a good rhyme for “reckless”, Jaskier let his eyes roam over the village he was approaching. It seemed like a small settlement, but large enough to have an inn. He was in a fairly remote part of The Continent, but he was hopeful that his charm would serve him well, even if there weren’t an inn.

As Jaskier got closer to the village an odd sight made him lose his train of thought. In the middle of the main road going through the village it seemed that most of the residents had gathered round in a loose circle, and in the middle Jaskier could see two poles that looked to be made of metal sticking up. Perhaps it was some sort of festival or ritual in the area, thought Jaskier as he tried to get a better look.

When Jaskier finally got close enough to hear the villagers, he still couldn’t quite see what they were circling, but the snippets of conversation he heard weren’t particularly encouraging. Jaskier slowly waded through the crowd, concern growing as he heard the villager’s whispers, “monster” “it’ll be good to see it die” “it deserves to suffer”.

Finally, Jaskier was able to push through to the front of the crowd, getting to see what it was that had the villagers so excitable.

He let out a sharp gasp, his eyes widening in shock.

Before him was a man, his arms chained to the metal poles, stretched high above his head, his knees on the ground, his ankles chained to the bottom of the poles. His knees were bloodied, and the man was entirely bare, save for the chain he wore around his neck.

Well, more like a medallion, really.

A medallion in the shape of a wolf’s head.

Jaskier felt panic run through him as he realized he was staring at a witcher, just as broad and scar covered as his witcher, wearing the same medallion. The man’s head was bowed as he sagged in his chains but Jaskier knew that his eyes would be that same golden amber that frequented his dreams. The only difference between this unknown witcher and Geralt that Jaskier could see seemed to be their hair, this witcher’s hair a dark brown color so very different from Geralt’s white.

Before Jaskier realized what he was doing, he had taken a step forward, closer to the witcher. Jaskier felt a sharp pull to his arm and turned to see an elderly man with a severe face holding him back, “Best not get too close, son. We’ve weakened the monster but he’s not close to death just yet. Got another week or two in him at least.”

“Right. I’m sorry, I’m a bit confused. What, exactly, is going on?” Jaskier pulled his arm out of the old man’s grasp, quickly righting his doublet.

The old man smiled, revealing far fewer teeth than he should have had, “We tricked the blasted mutant, that’s what! Weakened him and tricked him and now he serves his penance for his sins.”

Jaskier’s mind raced, trying to process what was happening. The witcher had been captured by the town, it seemed, and now was strung up and being left to die.

Having travelled side by side with a witcher for nearly a decade, Jaskier had seen more than his fair share of intolerant people and towns, but never had he seen the malice in this man’s face. The old man was clearly proud of his accomplishment, happy to watch the witcher in front of them suffer for weeks on end before death.

Well, Jaskier certainly wouldn’t just sit around and let this happen, no sir. But what to do? He wouldn’t be able to fight the entire village, and any village willing and able to do what they had done wasn’t going to be swayed by pretty words and a catchy song. No, Jaskier would have to be clever, he had to find a way to sneak the witcher away with none the wiser.

“I must admit, good sir, I’m very impressed. How did you manage to catch a witcher unawares?” Hopefully, he would be able to get the old man to give him information.

The old man let out a laugh that made Jaskier’s stomach roll with disgust, “It came asking after a contract and I was able to slip it a special mix in some food and drink while we spoke. Family recipe - helped do in four other of these monsters, though this’ll be the first since I’ve taken over as alderman, only the second in my life time. A very exciting day, all around. Sent the mutant into the woods and ambushed it.”

“And you’re still poisoning him? To keep him weak?”

“No, no. No need, those shackles we had special made for an occasion like this. Dimeritium. The beasts are weak to it, it’ll stay weak just from that ‘til it finally dies.” The alderman was beaming at Jaskier, clearly delighted with his accomplishment.

Jaskier wanted to beat the man bloody. “That’s very impressive, and do you have the town guards keep watch over him? Or hunters?”

The alderman laughed, “Needn’t waste the resources. The dimeritium does the trick and it’s locked in. I keep the key with me so there’s no need to go guarding it.”

Jaskier smiled, “You’re clearly a brilliant man, tell me alderman, did the witcher have any belonging you’ll be selling? I was accosted by some bandits on the road and lost my weapons and my horse. I’d be happy to pay.”

“Ahh, we’ve it’s things in the stable still. A brilliant stallion. We’ve no real need of it in the village but some coin wouldn’t go amiss! All it’s other things are in the stables as well, if there’s anything you want I’m sure we can work out a fair price. Follow me, if you will.”

Jaskier let his gaze fall to the witcher again. The alderman claimed the witcher had at least another week but Jaskier wasn’t convinced, the man looked close to death. Hopefully, he would be able to acquire the horse and he would be able to use the stallion to get the witcher to safety.

Dusk was approaching when Jaskier finally left the stable, his purse lighter, but now in possession of a horse, two witcher’s swords, saddle bags full of various potions and clothes and other witchery things, and an invitation to join the alderman and his wife for supper.

Jaskier hurried to the small inn the alderman had mentioned and quickly purchased a room for the night, hurrying into it, thankful it was on the ground floor.

The only thing keeping the witcher imprisoned were shackles around his wrists and ankles, shackles that simply locked with a key. A key the alderman kept. Although Jaskier was hesitant to sup with the alderman and his wife, particularly considering they apparently have a poison that, not only isn’t detected by witcher’s, but also is enough to subdue them, he figured that it would be his best chance to get the key.

With any luck he would be able to unchain the witcher and get him to his horse and then get him to safety.

Jaskier knew very little of dimeritium but Geralt had mentioned it in the past, mentioned it weakened him, made it impossible to use signs. Jaskier wasn’t sure how long it would take for the witcher to recover from the dimeritium bonds and whatever poison was still in his body, but he hoped it wouldn’t take too long. Jaskier wasn’t sure where they would be able to go that was safe so they would have to stick to the woods for a while at least. Until the witcher was well enough to defend himself. And Jaskier, hopefully.

Letting out a long sigh, Jaskier sat heavily on the bed. He wished he had a quick way he could contact Geralt, some back up would be nice. Although bringing another witcher into such a dangerous place might not be a great idea when Jaskier wasn’t even sure what poison they were using on witchers or how exactly they administered it.

Poison. Right, Jaskier needed to go to the alderman’s house. Surely supper would be ready soon.

Gods willing, he wouldn’t be poisoned too.

-

Attending supper at the alderman’s house wasn’t Jaskier’s favorite experience, what with the concern of an undetectable poison and the looming threat over the witcher outside, but it was helpful to his plans. As the alderman bragged yet again about capturing and subduing the witcher, he gestured to the heavy key ring with one sing key on it, hanging just beside the door leading to their back garden.

The alderman had also made it fairly apparent that the village as a whole didn’t concern itself far too much with security. Being so remote, they got very few travelers, and the villagers themselves would never do anything to risk the ire of their poison-happy alderman. All of these things boded well for Jaskier’s rescue attempt. He should be able to sneak out of the inn, into the alderman’s house to get the key, and back to free the witcher if he was careful.

Returning to his room, Jaskier started packing his bags, mind racing with his plans.

He would need to get the horse ready to leave town before doing anything else, a quick get away would be very important to the pair’s survival. Jaskier wasn’t sure how long the inn keep would be awake cleaning so it would most likely be best to sneak his belongings, and himself, out through the window.

Ideally, any stable boy would be asleep and Jaskier would be able to tack up the horse and strap all their bags and his lute to it with no one the wiser.

And then things would get trickier. He would need to get to the alderman’s house without being noticed, get inside, get the key, and run.

If the alderman or his wife noticed the key was missing too soon, then they might not make it out of the village.

-

Sometime later, Jaskier was lurking in the back garden of the alderman’s house, trying to make sure he and his wife were soundly asleep before he snuck inside to get the key.

After a while of waiting, Jaskier still hadn’t heard any movement from inside or seen any lights so he crept to the garden door and made quick work of the lock, thankful that he hadn’t forgotten how to pick a simple lock. He pushed the door open slowly, looking around in the dark kitchen, satisfied to not see anyone awake, grabbed the key, and pulled the door shut again.

Sticking to the shadows, Jaskier hurried as quickly as he dared to the center of the village where the witcher was chained. Hurrying up to the weakened man, Jaskier grabbed at the shackles on his left wrist, trying to will his normally steady hands to stop shaking. Jaskier made efficient work of the shackles on the man’s wrists, the man collapsing on his hands with a grunt. Jaskier hurried around the witcher to undo the shackles around his ankles before he grabbed the witcher by his shoulder, pulling his off his hands, “C’mon witcher. We need to get out of here before anyone notices you’re free. C’mon, your horse is saddled and ready to go, we just have to make it to the stables.”

“Wh’re you?” The witcher groaned in pain, his head finally lifting, his golden eyes meeting Jaskier’s. Jaskier quickly took in the man’s face, he looked remarkably like Geralt, save for the deep scars marring the right side of the witcher’s face.

“Ahh yes, I’m Jaskier, and I’m trying very hard to keep the both of us from dying, so if you could cooperate, I would appreciate it.”

The witcher slowly raised to his feet, leaning dangerously to one side. Jaskier quickly ducked under the man’s arm to provide support, hurrying the man toward the stable.

Once inside, Jaskier threw a set of clothes to the witcher, letting him dress while Jaskier led the horse from his stall. Jaskier mounted the horse quickly and held his hand down to the witcher. The witcher gave him a skeptical look before mounting the horse behind Jaskier, leaning onto him.

Jaskier urged the horse forward, heading west, “I’ve no clue where to go around here that will be safe so I thought we should stick to the woods for a bit until you’ve recovered some.”

The witcher behind him hummed and Jaskier decided it must be in approval.

The two rode hard, putting the awful village behind them before Jaskier veered off the road, leading the horse into the wood and finally stopping in a small clearing.

“Tell me, witcher, do you hear anything nearby we might need to worry about attacking us?”

The witcher slowly dismounted the horse and closed his eyes, “Nothing close enough to worry about. Fire should keep anything away.”

Jaskier jumped off the horse and walked to the witcher, ushering him to sit, “I’ll get started on a fire now, you rest.”

The witcher watched curiously ask Jaskier puttered around the clearing, starting a fire and setting out bed rolls.

“Eskel.”

“I’m sorry?”

“My name. It’s Eskel.”

Jaskier’s smile was blinding, “It’s lovely to meet you, Eskel.”

-

Sequel is here

[namjoonchronicles]

tumble | yg

↳ genre fluff, established relationship, slight smut at the end

↳ words 5k ↳ summary preparing for close friend’s wedding gifts is a given for young married couple. an unexpected encounter with an old flame led to an unwanted rekindled feelings but karma reminds you who your heart truly belongs to, because it’s all about the actions, not words.  ↳ notes this i wrote during first week of university of my final year, trying to run away from responsibility. midway, my friend @hellotherehoneybee​ was having a difficult week at hers too, so i wrote this extra fluff for her, i hope she noticed. thank you for working so hard! (i wish someone would comment on the work i put on the banners of each of my stories, but nevermind) ↳ warning attempts of infidelity (not by you) ↳ song ‘happiness is a butterfly’ lana del rey

Nimble fingers punched the numbers on the passcode pad, just outside the door. Crumpled papers on the floor. Supreme skateboards stacked on the wall. Yoongi walked in, greeted by a line of guitars at the corner of his studio. His attention was on the phone, preferring to text over calling. His face was shone by the light from it. His feet kicked away the crumpled papers on the floor to get to his computer. There’s a frame of baby breath on his table next to his stationery. A picture of you next to his desktop. Bothered by the melody he endlessly replayed in his head, he plans to record the notes in digital form. He hasn’t decided which work of his he wanted them in, but any of it would be just fine. Today, he is expecting a guest that will contribute to the guide. Jimin springs in first, as usual.

“Why do you lock the door knowing that I’m coming?!” Jimin groaned outside the door. He is leaning against the frames, knocking repeatedly.

This is exactly why he had those locks put up. Several young producers lined up. Yoongi is teaching them how to make music. With a wry look and dry greetings, Yoongi invited them in and started the meeting. The project is rather simple. Yoongi has provided a raw sample to the aspiring producers who will try to make lyrics. These melodies are then sung by Jimin. Yoongi whipped out his sample from his computer and he will give exactly 30 minute for the producers to think of ways to make the music a song. The young producers wrote down notes given by Yoongi. They write and they erase. They wrote and erased. Write. Scratch. Write. Scratch.

Noticing this, Yoongi gave a soft smile. It reminded him of himself when he was just starting. The uncertainty, the overwhelming feeling of not knowing if the lyrics are good enough, or just plain dumb. As an underground rapper with social anxiety, he was afraid to be ridiculed the most, and he is pretty sure that these producers have the same fear. What he is about to say is nothing new. In fact, he advises it frequently in his lectures. Clearing his throat and with the aura of a seasoned lyricist, he said,

“Go with your gut feelings. Understand the feel of the sample and what you could derive from it. Let your mind run wild. First rule of writing music is that there are no rules.”

He emphasizes on creativity. Jimin was trying to write the lyrics too. He wanted to learn to write faster. “Jimin, your problem is that you’re a perfectionist…” Yoongi spat, “Your mind goes haywire at the possibility of writing everything, you have no clear direction. That’s why it’s so hard. You select a theme, and you stay on it…”

“But Namjoon…” Jimin began.

“Namjoon is a genius. His diction is out of this world, and he has been writing lyrics for years. Don’t compare yourself to him or rather, learn with him rather than coming to me, uninvited,” Yoongi swivels in his chair as the three other producers hang their head low.

Jimin puckered his lips and muttered curses under his breath.

Yoongi reaches for the journal he kept by the book rack. When he opened them, a warranty card fell out. He crouches down to get them. It was from the phone you bought. He caught you buying a phone on an online store when he returns to the studio, earnestly picking a good one. You even asked him about these specs and technology terms you don’t know about. Some of it was written down as notes in this journal along with his own scribbles of song lyrics. You wanted to buy a phone for your mom and pretend that it was from your dad. Your mom always complains that your dad never gave her gifts and is reluctant to spend money on her. Yoongi didn’t need the extra information but you gave it to him anyway. Yoongi learnt from you that your mother had been using the same phone for a decade, and nothing can be updated anymore. And because your father isn’t doing anything about it but think about himself, you decide to buy your mom a good new phone. Saving your father’s face by pretending it was him who bought it.

You didn’t know this but, Yoongi fell in love with you once more.

That phone comes with a warranty card that is now made its home in his old journal. You know he wouldn’t throw any of his journals away.

Glancing at the digital clock on his shelf, he wondered, just how his favorite person in the world is doing…

Yoongi entertained questions from his students. Explaining the build up, the body, climax and ending. Sharing what is fun and what is not, in writing music. What’s cliché and what’s attention grabbing. But his explanation was cut halfway when his phone vibrated, and swiped his thumb over the caller ID and answered with a small, “Hello?”

Jimin and the students studied his face. At first, Yoongi seemed pretty laxed, and then he stood up, abruptly. Instantly and visibly tensed.

“Where are you?” Pause, “Okay, stay right there, I’ll be right over…” He grabs his coat from the hanger and his tongue glides along his drying lips upon ending the seemingly urgent call. He appears distressed but it is masked by his calm exterior.

“Is something the matter, hyung?” Jimin asked. “I have to leave, I am sorry because I  have to cut the classes short. Make sure you email me the verses by noon tomorrow. I will deduct marks for late submissions…” Yoongi said in one breath and yanked the door open, had them leave the studio at once and locked them.

Namjoon was standing outside the hall, watching Yoongi as he trudges through. The older one was putting on his jacket albeit roughly and as quickly as he could. Namjoon couldn’t even get a proper greeting in return. It seems Yoongi is troubled by something.

Troubled by something is indeed accurate.

A few hours ago.

You thought you made a great choice. It’s what you wanted when it was your wedding, and you’re sure that Jungkook would like it too. Knowing just how obsessed he is with having everything the same color code, the sapphire blue kohiki plates would have fit in right into his kitchen like it’s one of the built-in. Yoongi always thought that Jungkook’s gifts are the hardest to choose because he is picky, but also not very picky. He has specified interest but also not very specified. You know more than anything that Jungkook is neither of those things. Ever since you knew the boy, he had always been grateful for any gifts he was given. It didn’t matter how expensive or how rare, it’s the thought that counts. Many years ago, Jungkook came to your house, when you and Yoongi were still dating, and he frequently used the kohiki bowls you have. He said he liked it. That's how you came to decide that his wedding gift would be just that. For his wife, you don’t really know her well, but you had Yoongi book a Swarovski perfume after recognizing that she frequently carries the fun sized bottle around when she’s out.

“Would you like to also see the latest collection of our Kohiki plates, Mdm. Min?” the salesperson politely addresses you and you thought that simply looking wouldn’t hurt. You after all had time to kill today.

Your hands glide over the impressive finishing of the white kohiki plates, truly in awe of the time and the craftsmanship involved in making this. They came in many sizes and as you narrowed down to the end of the gallery, you recognized a collection so similar with the one at home. You turned to the salesperson with a beaming smile, almost child-like. The man bowed at you and explained to you how this particular collection was especially sought after and high in demand, they decided to keep it in collection. Yoongi’s personal family collection had been imitated countless times in the past centuries, they eventually trademarked the design to be named, Empire Min’s timeless collection. It had served countless royalties in the whole world and the tableware was of grand prestige. Sometimes, it dawns over you that you married quite an incredible man with a lineage of such esteem, comparable to those of aristocracy.

Min Yoongi’s family may have stranded far from the royals now, but the traces are there. His delectable face, porcelain skin and honey-succulent voice, are as good as a blue bloods’. His family registrar was kept in the national museum and you had a glimpse of it during Chuseok every year, where they pay homage to his ancestors and it’s quite unbelievable that something from centuries ago was still available today. You didn’t ask a lot about how his family branched off the King, but you do know that the surname Min belonged to four most important Queens in the Joseon dynasty. Is that where his beauty originates from?

You smiled to yourself as you saw his signature underneath the gallery as the last few descendants of the Queen.

“The gifts are wrapped up, we will have it shipped personally to Mr. Jeon Jungkook as per addressed…” the salesman ensured you with an assuring voice.

Kohiki plates aren’t cheap to say the least. But Min Yoongi doesn’t like you worrying about it. Much less, he’d rather have you spend his hard-earned money because he doesn’t always know what you like. One last thing, a visit to the gallery with your trustee art enthusiast, Kim Namjoon.

He stride over as he ended the call. He looks everly dashing in those turtlenecks and grey blazer. His pectorals and buff body looks great in it. He wore those glasses that made him look like he was a postdoctoral student. Only he isn’t. He shoves his phone into his breast-pocket and his face shifted from a serious one to a cheeky expression. He presented his arm for you to take and embraced in a small talk with you.

“You just ended your lecture?” you asked him. “It took a little longer than planned, sorry about that…” he chuckles, handsomely.

“This gallery better be lit…” “You won’t be sorry. I promise.”

Namjoon guides you into an exhibition, guarded by several men in black suits and ear-pieces. The whole way there, you realized that there was no one around. It is only given, because Namjoon owns it. It seems he had it shut down for the day, because the most important painting is arriving from Versailles, and he wants nobody to have a look on it. Except you, of course. And it’s easier to do painting shopping without people hustling in and out trying to catch a glimpse of the ‘Kim Namjoon’. Namjoon talked to you about the randomness of things as he introduces to you his favorite works. He was talking about his sudden trip to Paris and how he regrets it, then talking about a wrong purchase and the books he is currently reading. All in a quiet voice, the kind you give to your lovers.

But you know that’s just Namjoon being flirtatious like it’s his second name.

Suddenly, you stopped in your tracks. This section of the gallery feels like it’s cut off from the rest. It has been endless modern art since the entrance until a few paintings back. This one felt like it was Rome or the Renaissance. The sculptures and dramatic scenes, the skin tones and flesh, it was a whole other world. You turned to Namjoon, questioning him with your eyes. You know him well enough to know that he doesn’t like this type of art.

“I had a change of heart… while trying to understand yours,” he confessed. And it sounded strange because he let those words glide out as if he had no control over it.   He stepped back, pressed his lips together for saying more than he thought necessary, dropped his shoulder and turned to the art he loved.

“I understand it now,” he added, speaking to the frames, “Why do you like them so much… There’s so many stories to tell from each of these characters…”

You remember explaining to him about eyes in realistic paintings. How you wonder what they’ve seen, and what they have experienced. These endless thoughts usually trouble Namjoon, up to when he was about to sleep. You look beyond the surface of this painting and put feelings in them. That’s when he realized that emotions can be painted. Namjoon owed it to you, to having understood himself. And as he explained just how your art classes changed his perspective in life, he introduced to you the painting he thinks fit Jungkook the most. When you saw this painting unveiled before your eyes, you couldn’t agree more. It would look best in his spacious living room. Namjoon watched you as you signed the insurance paper to deliver the artwork. Watching you from afar like this felt foreign. With the history you both had, who would have thought that he would spend his life dreading the future he could have had with you.

It is all too late now.

The ring around your finger isn’t his. Maybe it’s for the better. He couldn’t have cared for you better than Yoongi does.

The most difficult thing about this relationship is, getting stuck between caring too much, and not caring at all.

“So you’ll deliver them to Jungkook’s house soon?” your eyes darted up at him as he approached the table.

“Leave it to me…” he said with a broad smile and dire confidence from a seasoned seller. A billion dollar man like him, could get away with anything with that smile.

Namjoon hooks his finger around the flaps of the door handle of your car and watches you climb in. Winding the window down, he rests his elbows and fixes his eyes on you, a coy smile on his pretty lips. You darted at him a look. A look you’d give to your malice doing little brother to warn him.

“Go on dates, go meet people, Namjoon… How long will you live this way?” “How would you know I’m not meeting people?” “You stacked books in my online bookstore, and still use my Netflix account to watch movies…” “Books and movies are better companions.”

You looked at him through your lashes and in those particular moments of silence, glances were exchanged and feeling somehow attempted to rekindle, however, before it could, you looked away.

“I’m going to Yoongi’s office, I’ll tell him you said hi…” “But I didn’t…” “Goodbye, Namjoon.”

The white Mazda CX-3 glides away, seamlessly. Stopped at the junction, and entered the main road. All these while, Namjoon kept watching. And it seems like, all his life, he had been watching. Because that was all what he was courageous enough to do.

“‘She loved him too early, and he loved her too late…” Namjoon muttered to himself.

At the junctions, your car pulls to a stop as the traffic light turns red. The building you were in were kilometers away but the scent of Namjoon’s body lotion hasn’t left. You always refrain from reading too much anything Namjoon does because you’re not who you were anymore. Your loyalty is with Min Yoongi now and it should be. Rather than feeling like you used to feel for Namjoon, it actually narrows more to pity. Namjoon had it all. He had your endless support, you had been his emotional anchor, and he had taken you for granted for many years. Eventually, you pick up your worth and search within yourself what you’ve given him. What you found out when you peel yourself away from everything that is Namjoon, is the fact that he had given you nothing but his concerns. There was no give and take. All he does is take.

Finding yourself, led you to finding Yoongi.

Yoongi was nothing easy to have. So it daunts you that difficult men might have been your type. Yoongi is rash and dry on his best day and even more harsh and unapologetic than anyone you have ever met. It came to a point where you exploded, thinking that even as life swallowed you whole and his arms was the only thing that could save you, you’d rather be swallowed whole. When Yoongi heard such a damning insult to his being, he got even. As harsh as Yoongi appears to be, he was a softie right under the flesh. Under his blank expression and inattentive eyes, he is all soul and bones. The more you know him, the more you realize that you both are strikingly alike. From the way you solve problems to the way he speaks, you both are a lot more common than you are different.

He is so intelligent and witty and blunt. You can ask him about literally anything and he always has an opinion about it. Because of his wide arrays of interest, you can never run out of topics to talk about. He is a great fun, and always adventurous although he prefers to whine about it at first. He said he hates camping but when you forced him to come with you, he looked like he has been camping his whole life. Lit the bonfire within seconds, adapted the forest life and just casually calm. The kind of calmness you hadn’t felt in awhile, you felt in Yoongi’s presence. Camping nights are always so romantic with him playing the guitars and you requesting songs you know he doesn’t know. There will be crinkles around his eyes before he looks down, embarrassed for not knowing that song. Once you give him a listen, he could play by ear.

He is adorable when he is confused or terribly tired. One night, he asked if you would come over his studio’s rooftop to spend time together. He spoke two sentences and fell asleep while you were talking. He unknowingly leaned his head on your shoulder as he dozes off. You brushed his hair away and thumbed his cheeks. His lips pouting cutely as he slept. You sat awfully still for hours, hours that he is still paying off with himself. To this day. It is astonishing how he could look like the cutest little kitty and also looked like he could swallow you whole.

His dangly multi earrings, gorgeous eyes and veiny arms, his multifaceted talents are as endless as his sweet words. Yoongi could make you feel heard without you saying a word.

The pedal planted to the ground, screeching tires and loud crashes. The windows on the driver side shattered and the airbag deployed. Loud ringing in your head as you try to gather your thoughts. What’s happened? You drove ahead a little more, because if you didn’t the road would have been congested. You pressed the hazard light on and parked on the side of the road to avoid other cars.

Hooking your fingers around the car handle, the door was pushed open. The car that collided with you stopped behind you. Your Mazda could continue driving but you don’t want to risk it because the shell of the tire was a little dented. The sharp ends were grazing your tire if you continued. The driver whose car you collided with was eerily quiet but he kept staring at an interval. You gathered your purse and fished for your phone.

“Please don’t get mad…” you huffed, “I got into an accident…” The back of your wrist on your forehead as you looked around in worry.

“I am at a round-a-about pass on Samsung Building 77 street… I’ll send the location,” you breathed, oddly a little calmer than he expected you to be. It all happens too quickly. You weren’t sure who was in the wrong. The last thing you remember was using the signal stick to turn to the right and the car on the right wanted to head to the left, surreptitiously ignoring the signal you gave. It seemed ages for Yoongi to get there, but when he did, he parked a little further and got off the car, jogging to where you are. Your eyes stung and got watery as he came to get you. You were so grateful that he wasn’t angry and in fact, just wanted to know where you were so he could be where you are. He held onto your hand as he went to inspect the car and its damages.

“What are you going to do with my headlight?” the owner of the other car came over, uninvited. Yoongi instinctively pulls you behind him at the forwardness of this man.

“Take it easy, let’s check the dashcam to see who was actually in the wrong, let’s take this to the police station…”

“What police station, it is more than obvious that she was driving recklessly and not paying attention!” The man tried to go over Yoongi to get to you but Yoongi held his palm outward at this rude man.

“Like I said, we will take this to the police station and they’ll decide who is in the wrong and needs to pay for the damages…” Yoongi once again marched against this man and stared dead into his eyes while dialing on his phone. He placed his phone on his ear and continued to warn the man with his body language.

“The insurance company? Yes, I have a car you need to tow. We’re along Samsung 77th Street by the roundabout, how long will you take to get here? 10 minutes, okay…” Yoongi spoke on the phone. You held onto Yoongi’s arm tighter. One hand in his tight grip, the other clawing on his sleeves, slightly below his elbow. Your eyes unfocused. You were biting your lips. Chewing on them.

Yoongi climbed into his car after you. Pressed the car engine on and thumbed your knee. You weren’t as calm now.

“What if it is actually my fault? What if I was the one driving foolishly…?” You stuttered.

“We will let the police decide okay? We hadn’t even seen the footage from the dash cam yet, he could just be manipulating you to think that you were in the wrong, just by the look on his face I know he’s the type to drive like a drunkard and blame people for his mistakes…” Yoongi’s large palm covered your entire knee.

“You want jellies?” he tries to console you. “What about the car?” you looked over the car seat to the view of your stranded Mazda.

“The insurance company will have it towed, don’t worry… It’ll be okay,” he smiles and chuckles lightly, “This isn’t a big deal, accidents happen all the time, honey.”

The car pulled to a stop at the red traffic light, and he extended his arm to gather your hand to kiss your knuckles. You looked at him with watery eyes, full of guilt and despair and you said to him in broken voice,

“I’m so s-sorry… I’ve troubled you,” you bursted into tears, “I just went out to get gifts for Jungkook’s wedding and it all happened so fast…” Yoongi gathered your head in one hand, pulling your face into his nape. He plants kisses on your head and fondly smiles against your hair. . . . .

The police decided to hold the man accountable. He was clearly changing lanes without signals, and he was also ignoring your obvious signals. Not only was he driving past the speed limit at a roundabout in broad daylight, he had the audacity to shift the blames towards you. The dash cam was proof that he was a reckless driver so he had his driving license suspended and he had to pay for damages you faced. Yoongi laced his fingers into the gaps of yours as he turned around from the man. Yoongi smiled smugly and took you out of the police station. With the reports done and you were acquitted from any traffic misconduct, the car insurance company will cater to all the repairing. Yoongi will have to drive you everywhere for now but it wasn’t something he minds doing.

You let go of his hand and proceed to walk to the car, hugging yourself while he watches you from behind. Your steps weren’t hurried, rather they were a bit slow but for some reason you thought it was far better to not hold him. In your head, you are still scolding yourself and knowing you as far as he did, he understood it. He climbs into the car, avoiding eye contact as his index finger sunk into the engine button. You were dazed, looking out the window at everything on the outside. Noticing this, Yoongi stops by your favorite mall. He said he wanted to get some tools and appliances for the sink at home. Every three months, Yoongi would have the sink maintained by pouring cleaning liquid and have it stay there overnight so it won’t clog anytime soon. Usually, when this happens, he would buy dinners outside and take you out for breakfast the next morning.

Both of you once experienced the sink clogging before, and the whole kitchen was flooded with foul-smelling liquid. To make matters worse, Yoongi was away for business in Tokyo, and you had to handle them alone. Some plumbers walked in to help, and even if Yoongi was grateful for their help, he would rather his house be under his maintenance. That's why he keeps a schedule for every heavy duty appliance in the house. This is to avoid unnecessary over spending and inviting unnecessary people inside the house. He has a yearly check for the washing machine, the refrigerator, the electric stove, the air-conditioners and the oven. He is always making sure that everything is safe for you to use.

With the car parked so swiftly, Yoongi joins you in the mall's lobby. There aren’t many people around since it’s weekdays. And as if you remembered that you needed a conversation, you jerked your head up and to the side, at your husband.

“Oh right! You have a class today?” “Sent them home early with an assignment to mark later…”

He pauses, momentarily. Lifting his left wrist for the time, he yanked his sleeve up. He then, out of a sudden let out a sigh,

“Should we have dinner here or…” his voice drawls, “I plan to start on the sink right away when we get home…” “That sounds great, I don’t feel like cooking…”

You lifted your eyes at the elevator door opening before you. Yoongi lets you step in first. You move to the back of the elevator at the corner, by habit and Yoongi joins you. He could see from your face that the accident hadn’t left your mind. So when the elevator arrived at the second floor, instead of the fourth where the hardware stores were, he took your hand and walked out. You didn’t question him right away but you thought it was odd.

“Ice-cream…” he beamed at you.

He ordered your favorite. Waffles, drizzled with chocolate syrup and some fruits. Then you talked about Jungkook’s wedding gifts and plans on that day. He asked you about the venues since you were the one that booked them. You excitedly say that it was in great shape. The venue was a garden, it has this magnificent backdrop of a man-made lake and Jungkook’s fiancé loved the idea of exchanging vows at the view. However, your smile swept away when you spoke about the wedding dress.

“Why?” Yoongi spoke softly. “Because she seemed conflicted to follow what her friends’ recommended instead of what she truly wanted. She texted me yesterday, saying that she hated her wedding dress,” your shoulders dropped. “Why did she hate them?” “Her friends basically forced her to get this dress from a designer they know. From what I heard he was pretty famous, but she originally wanted her old classmate to make one for her. So now she regrets it, because the dress was not her style,” you sighed yet again.

Yoongi looked at you through his bangs and a small smile formed in the corner of his lips. Always taking in other peoples’ problems as your own, always thinking of others and always solving other people’s problems like your own. Yoongi could feel how devastated you were to hear that story first hand, and he is certain, as you were scooping those waffles into your mouth, you are thinking of ways to fix it. Typical. When you make a folded taco, you would take the ugliest one so he could have the prettier sets. When you buy medical supplies, you always make two purchases, one for him. The bigger portion of cake is for him, the larger piece, the better half. Even when you ate something you think is tasty, you would buy one for him at home.

In one ways or another, you are constantly thinking of him. It gives him butterflies. How lucky was he to be able to find you. How can someone look past such a genuinely beautiful person. Inside and out. Whose love is this true and this devoted. Only a dire fool, that is.

From the ways you love him, he is most certain that you haven't changed any part of you.

“Oh!” you exclaimed, “I bought you something… I saw this at the bookstore, it's a moon and star water globe and I thought it would look good on your studio desk…” You rummaged your bag for the item while your husband sat there, staring at you with a fond smile. Literally, a woman’s bag is a wonder. There’s all kinds of things in there. Receipts from 5 years ago, set of cutleries for travelling, hand sanitizer, tissues, a notepad, a glue gun and candies. Coins.

He picks the old receipts up between his index finger and middle finger.

“Why do you keep these things?” he chuckles. You looked over at him and snatched them.

“Are you worried that a cop may come and ask you, where were you, four years ago at 2:53 pm so you can whip out that receipt from your back and be like, ‘I was at the Hunts Restaurant sir, I had a bento and tea. I have receipts to prove it?’ For your alibi?”

“I might…” you dashed. Half of your head disappeared into the bag, still looking for the globe.

Yoongi picks up Band-Aids, some unopened menstrual pads and coupons from your favorite pizza place that expired four months ago.

“Honestly…” he comments.

“Aha!” You exclaimed, “The globe…”

The globe, like its name, has moon and stars on it. His nimble fingers examined it, closely. You were so expectant of what he’ll say.

“It’s pretty…” he said. “Isn’t it…” you gushed.

You return them into your bag because Yoongi don’t have one. Once again, you reminded him to put them on his table later on. He assures you he will, he even kept it in the car’s dashboard, so that when he returns to the office, he’ll make sure to take it with him. On the ride back home, you fell asleep. He made sure that he went over the bumps on the road gently, making his turns like a grandma on the wheel. He parked the car and waited. Fishing out his phone and he took pictures of you sleeping. He scrolls down messages from work, check on items he bought online, read a few emails...

Then you inhaled sharply, awake. Stretching your fingers.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” you mewled sleepily. “Based on experience, you take 10-15 minutes to wake up when the car stops... “ he nonchalantly passed. You smiled at his bluntness. He endured 10-15 minutes of silence with his sleeping wife despite the turmoil he went through today. You couldn’t have married a better man. Even if there was a better man out there, if it isn’t Yoongi, you don’t want him.

Yoongi wasn’t lying when he said he wants to work on the sink immediately. You held the torch while he examined the sink. He wants to change the tap and clean the drainage hole. While he was struggling under the counter, you can’t help thinking that you were so fortunate. From how he handles things, to how he comforted you in times of need, to how he is made of husband material, you are certain, that God made this one, especially for you.

When he rolled out from underneath the sink, he caught you daydreaming. And he threw a sheepish smile at you. His thin white shirt is now drenched with spots of sweats on his chest and along his back. And he snarkily say,

“Wanna shower?”

You bit your lips at his remarks, playing coy at his forwardness. When in all honesty, you were down for it. And all the showers you will have in the future. . . .

Deep in you, knees dug into the mattress, between your thighs. His veiny arms gripping hard on the bed sheet. The sounds of heavy paintings, squelching cascaded in the room. He hovers sloppy kisses along your jaws like he was possessed and he said in his husky voice,

“That guy Namjoon… don’t feel right…” “I’ve been meaning to…” hisses in the delectable pain, “Talk about him…”

You propped your elbows up, leaning against it, brushing sweaty skin with Yoongi, you spoke is rasps,

“He said some strange things, so I am going to… delete him.”

Yoongi bit his smile, his porcelain skin glistening with the sweat that drenched him. His hand glides down your torso, with touches so hungry and starved kisses. He drew out a long deep moan, dove his face into your neck, chanted your name like a mantra--like a man standing on the verge of sanity, licking on the taste of infinity. .

.

.

.

.

Copyright © February 8th, 2021 namjoonchronicles do not repost, and thank you for reading! Likes and reblogs makes me happy!

[themanicmagician]

Shipwrecked [2/4]

[AO3]

Summary: When Redd’s boat crashes upon the shore of Bastion Island, Tom reluctantly takes him in while he recovers. Tom despises Redd for his past deceit, but when he has no choice but to spend time with him, Tom is reminded why he fell in love with the wily fox in the first place.

Tom felt a knot loosen in his chest. Relief washed over him. Redd was awake and lucid, and feeling well enough to quip.

But then Redd kept talking.

“This is your bedroom?” Redd shifted, leaning his back against the mattress. He scanned the Spartan room, and his nose scrunched up in distaste. “It’s so....basic. Not your style at all.”

Tom hated the small speck of him that still yearned for Redd’s approval. He crossed his arms. “You’re hardly the expert on what I like.”

Tom’s words landed—he saw Redd wince—but the fox brushed it off, and changed tack.

“Where’d you sleep, then? Futon?”

“Couch.”

Redd patted the bed, and leered. “Could’ve shared with me. It’s plenty big enough. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Enough, Redd. You’re only here in my home because I possess common decency. Nothing more. As soon as your arm is healed, you’re gone.”

Redd clutched at his chest with his good arm, in mock agony.

“Oh babe, you can be so cold!”

Tom ignored him. “What possessed you to attempt to sail a ship, of all things? You don’t have any experience.”

“Don’t worry about it. It was simple enough to figure out.”

“Obviously it wasn’t.”

“Hey, the storm wasn’t my fault.”

“You could have died—and for what? Another stupid scheme of yours, no doubt.”

“I resent that remark. Scheme! Scheme, he says. I’m out here because I’ve developed a new business venture. The art on my boat is real.” Brief alarm skirted across his face. “Wait, what happened to my things?”

“They’re in Blathers’ custody.”

“That featherbrain can’t keep them. They’re real, you know. I had this whole plan. I was going to go island to island. Animals are so suspicious these days. They actually want to inspect the merchandise before they buy, can you believe it?”

“I don’t want to hear about this.”

Redd plowed on, as if Tom hadn’t spoken. “—and once they placed an order, I’d say oh, you can’t take it right away. I have to ship it to you.”

“And you’d mail them a fake.”

“I’d mail them a replica. The copies that I paint myself are flawless,” Redd bragged. Greed and delight glinted in his eyes. “You’d never be able to tell the difference. I’ll wager you 5,000 bells your pal Blathers wouldn’t, either.”

“I can’t believe you,” Tom snapped. “You haven’t changed one bit.”

“Why tamper with perfection?”

“You—ugh!”

Tom stomped out of the room.

Timmy and Tommy were right outside, evidently listening in. They jumped guiltily as Tom caught sight of them, and tried to look busy; Tommy folded a blanket and draped it over the back of the couch, as Timmy collected up used cups to put in the kitchen sink.

“I’m going out for a bit.” Tom told them, as he pulled on a jacket. “Stay here, and make sure he does too.”

The Nooklings chirped an affirmative.

May was cold and rainy this year, and today proved no different. Tom zipped up his jacket to ward off the worst of the chill. It was misting out, but not badly enough to justify an umbrella.

Tom didn’t have a destination in mind, exactly. He wasn’t going to Resident Services today. Isabelle was certainly capable of taking the reins for a day or two. Tom just needed fresh air, just needed to clear his head.

Redd hadn’t changed at all. He hadn’t grown, he hadn’t learned anything. He was still the same as he ever was—greedy, selfish, conniving. And utterly, absolutely, insufferable.

There had been moments, before, when he had lived on the mainland, when Redd frequented his town. He’d considered reaching out. But he’d never scraped up the nerve to do so. It wasn’t his responsibility either, he’d reasoned at the time. Tom was the wronged party. Redd should have been the one to approach, not him.

And now the decade-long silence between them was shattered at last, and Redd acted as if there had never been a massive fracture in their relationship, as if nothing at all had changed. No apologies, no remorse, not even a thank you for the rescue.  

“Mr. Nook!” Flurry trotted up to him. “I’ve heard the news. How is your friend doing today?”

He supposed there was no hope of keeping it quiet. Any speck of news spread through Bastion like wildfire. Isabelle, bless her heart, was an incorrigible gossip.

“Redd is doing much better today, thank you.”

“I wanted you to give him something from me. Just to borrow, powderpuff!” She took out a book from her pockets and handed it over. It was an old leather-bound book, a collection of fairy tales. It was worn with age, but evidently well cared for. “I don’t know if it’s to his taste or not, but I always read it when I’m sick and it cheers me right up!”

“Thank you, Flurry. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.” Redd wouldn’t, but Tom would never let the sweet hamster know that.

He continued his walk, and soon found himself on the beach. He followed the shoreline around the island until he reached the outcropping of rocks by Del’s and Lucha’s houses.

Tom knew what to expect, but the sight was still jarring. The hull of the boat was gouged on the rocks. Half of the vessel gaped open. The mast was snapped off at its base, and the sail, long lost to the tides. Tom stepped on the rocks to get a closer look. The remains of the boat had been secured to the rock by rope; Alex and the others, presumably, had been the ones to anchor it.

Tom peered inside the exposed hull. The boat was tilted at an angle. Barrels had rolled to one end of the ship. Several had smashed apart in the impact. Tom winced. How badly had Redd been thrown in the crash? Had he been above deck, or below?

There didn’t appear to be anything of value left inside the ship. The villagers had done well removing all the fragile artwork.

Enough of the boat remained that they wouldn’t have to build Redd a new boat from scratch, at least. The boat would have to be patched up for Redd to travel. The seaplanes weren’t built to transport someone from Bastion all the way out to the mainland.

Tom swept a critical eye over to the wreckage. Yes, they could rebuild it in several weeks, once the necessary supplies were gathered. He resolved to speak with Alex about it. If she could gather the needed materials, he’d reduce the price for her attic expansion as compensation.

He returned home with the intention to cook breakfast for the Nooklings and their guest. But as he removed his shoes in the entryway, he overheard Redd’s drawling voice. And the twins were conspicuously absent from the living room. He padded quietly over to the threshold of his bedroom.

The first thing Tom noticed was that Redd was now wearing one of his spare shirts. The floral patterned green and white flattered the fox’s fur. It was a size or two too large on him, and not his usual type of outfit. Something warm and possessive tightened in his stomach at the sight of Redd wearing his clothes.

Redd was back in bed, propped upright with the support of pillows. Timmy and Tommy were sitting on the bed as well, listening raptly to their guest. Redd was in his element as entertainer, gesturing enthusiastically with his unbroken arm as he spoke.

“...it was our third pitch of the day. Tom had persuaded me to paint wallpapers for high-end clientele, so the meeting was at this real swanky place. Very stylized lobby we waited in, minimalistic in style but in an expensive way, you know? Your Uncle Nook was sweating so much his fur looked a shade darker than normal. We were sitting there, waiting for half an hour after our appointed meeting time. And finally, finally, someone shows up. It wasn’t even the investor! It was some scrub, some assistant of an assistant. Tom was so nervous, he promptly bent over and spewed his lunch all over her expensive shoes.” Redd laughed.

Tom flushed. It hadn’t been his finest moment.

“But then, do you know what your uncle did?” Redd whispered, conspiratorially.

“What, Mr. Redd?”

“...Redd?”

The boys leaned in closer, eager not to miss a single syllable.

“Tom still managed to salvage the situation. He went right from wiping off her shoes to pitching her a new concept—scented wallpaper. Smells like lemon, pine. So if something like this happened again, at least no one would smell it!”

“Wow! Did they invest?”

“...vest?”

“Even better—they bought the concept and patent from us. All the reward, with none of the work!”

“Boys, wash up for breakfast.” Tom broke in.

The twins broke into beaming smiles at the sight of him. They sprang off the bed to crowd Tom, both talking a mile a minute.

“Uncle Nook, is it true that you won a manufacturing contract by arm wrestling the CEO of Cozy Couches?”

“—did you really start a new city fashion trend wearing your scarf as a belt?”

“—have three drinks named after you?”

“Redd likes to embellish.” Tom explained, exasperated. “Don’t believe a word he says.”

Redd pouted.

Once the boys reluctantly filed out of the room, Tom shut the door. He crossed over to Redd and offered him the book of fairytales.

“For me? You shouldn’t have.” Redd inspected the book. He grimaced at the faint mug stain on one of the pages. “Not a first edition. Far from excellent condition. You  really  shouldn’t have.”

Tom grit his teeth. “It’s not from me. A villager has loaned it to you. If it goes back to her with so much as a dog-eared page…”

“Alright, sheesh. Just messing around.” Redd set the book on the bedside table, evidently uninterested.

“Listen to me, Redd.” Redd looked up in surprise at Tom’s low, serious tone. “You cheated me. You deceived Lyle. But if you think—”

“Hey, Lyle wasn’t—”

“If you think,” Tom spoke over him. “For one second, that I’ll allow you to manipulate Timmy and Tommy, you’ve got another thing coming. I have resources now. More bells in the bank than you’ll ever see. If you ever hurt them, I’ll make you regret it. Are we clear?”

The boys were guileless, innocent. He would not stand for Redd swindling them.

Redd deflated, his previous energy visibly dimmed. His ears flattened back on his head. He looked away from Tom, and nodded.

~*~

“Where are we going?”

“Like I told you the last twelve times you asked, it’s a surprise.”

“I’m going to trip on the sidewalk and break my nose.” Tom grumbled.

“You won’t.” Redd promised, with a rumbling laugh. “I’m here. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

It had been six months since their first meeting, in that sketchy motel. Ever since, they’d hardly left each others’ company. Tom’s ambition was to build a furniture and home goods store. It would be unique in its approach, in that stock would be limited, and rotate daily, so animals would feel compelled to go to the store every day, just in case there was something they needed. Redd, an entrepreneur himself, was on board. But before they could begin such an enterprise, they needed bells, and loads of them. They’d taken the past half a year to build up their finances together. They’d done so not through conventional jobs, but through countless pitch meetings, patent sales, and even art commissions. They’d amassed enough now that their dream was looking more achievable by the day.

Tonight Redd had tied a black bandana around Tom’s eyes and led him from their apartment. Tom’s heart was doing somersaults in his chest throughout their entire walk. Redd had been furtive, secretive the entire past week. He’d been planning something, and Tom had a big hunch on what it could be.

“We’re here.” Redd announced, at long last. He unknotted the bandana. The cloth fell away from Tom’s eyes, and he gasped.

It was an older two-story building, wedged in between a pair of larger, newer ones. It was built of ruddy red brick, with floor to ceiling windows for display purposes. Tom glanced around. They were in a nicer part of town. Not the wealthiest neighborhood by any means, but one fairly busy, that had animals with bells burning holes in their pockets.

“It’s ours.” Redd withdrew a keyring from his pocket. “If you like it.”

“You—how?”

Redd winked. “I have my ways.” He held out the keys and gave them a shake. “Why don’t you do the honors?”

Tom took the keys with reverence. He felt as if he were drifting through the clouds as he glided to the door. The front door key was newly cut, firm in his palm. Tom unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

“The register could go here.” Tom circled around the corner of the back wall, nearest the door. He paced around the cavernous empty room, imagining as he went. “Heavier furniture in the back as well. Some eye-catching, lighter things near the front that can be rotated daily. Things like wreaths, tapestries—oh, and what if we hang strings of lights from the ceiling? It’d create a real welcoming, homey look.”

He turned back to Redd for his input. His face was flushed with enthusiasm.

Redd had been watching him from the doorway with a complicated, unreadable expression.

Tom’s grin faltered. “Redd?”

The strange look fell away from Redd’s face, replaced by his customary smirk. He sauntered closer.

“Your instincts are excellent as always, Tom. I was thinking of a mural, too, for the back wall.”

“Oh, that’d be great! What are you thinking? A city skyline? Or something more nature-inspired?”

Redd’s arm slid around Tom’s waist with easy familiarity. His paw squeezed Tom’s side. Tom barely muffled his squeak. They’d been together for five months of the six, and Redd’s casual displays of affection still flustered him. Back home, no one had ever looked twice at the plain, chubby raccoon.

Redd’s muzzle brushed his ear. “We can hash out the details later. This calls for a celebration, don’t you think?”

~*~

The doorbell jingled overhead as Tom stepped inside the Able Sisters’ store. Sable took a single look at Tom before she was bustling him into the back room of the shop.

“Keep an eye out for customers, Mabes.” She called over her shoulder.

Mabel mock-saluted her eldest sister.

“Sit.” Sable all but pushed him into a rocking chair. He remembered this old thing from the sisters’ first home. The quilt draped over the back of the chair was familiar too, if a bit more threadbare than he remembered. Tom was struck by a wave of gratefulness that all of his dearest friends had been so amenable to picking up their lives and moving to Bastion with him.

Sable placed a gray kettle on the stove, and retrieved two mugs from a cabinet. The mugs were lumpy things, rather sloppily painted. Mabel had made them by hand when she was young. Tom had his own original Mabel creation stored in a cabinet back at his home.

“I wanted to speak with you as soon as I heard, but I had too many shirts to sew, I couldn’t get away. I know that’s not much of an excuse, though.”

“You don’t need to worry about me. I’m handling everything just fine.”

Sable raised one eyebrow.

“I am.” He insisted. Redd had been subdued after Tom had warned him off about the twins. He ate the food Tom cooked without complaint, allowed Tom to check his injured arm without any protest, save the quiet hisses of pain he couldn’t quiet. They’d lived together in uneasy harmony for a week, now. Redd spent most of the day in front of the TV, or idly flipping through the book Flurry had lent him.

“How have you been?”

“Fine. Redd hasn’t been putting up too much of a fuss.” She was staring at him, too keenly. “What?”

She took a moment to muster up the words, paws twisting in her lap. “Tom...I don’t want to see you like that again.”

Tom waved his hand, as if to banish the ghost of that awful moment. “You won’t. He can never hurt me again.”

Sable’s doubt was palpable.

“I don’t care about him anymore. I don’t. And I...I used to hate him, I admit it. I used to loathe him. But I’ve moved on. I don’t trust him, and I pity him, but I don’t feel anything strong for him, hate or love, anymore.”

“You don’t sound as convincing as you’d like to be.” Sable said.

He was saved from having to respond as the kettle whistled. Sable rose to fetch their tea. She added the sachets, a drizzle of honey to her cup, three lumps of sugar to Tom’s—after all this time, she hadn’t forgotten how he liked it—and carried the mugs over.

Tom held his mug between his paws, waiting for it to cool enough to be drinkable. The pleasant scent of Earl Grey wafted up to his nose. He inhaled.

“If Redd tries anything, I’ll punch him in the nose.”

Sable, gentle, demure Sable, spoke with such a steely assuredness that Tom started. She smiled shyly at him.

“I mean it.”

“You’ll have to get in line. I have first dibs.”

Sable giggled.

~*~

Tom headed back home, feeling lighter than he had since this entire thing started. He and Sable swiftly left the topic of Redd behind them, and spent the better part of an hour catching up.

The boys saw him through the front window of the Cranny, and waved enthusiastically. He returned the gesture, albeit with less energy.

Tom then climbed the stairs and let himself into his home. Redd was no longer where Tom had left him that morning, slouched on the couch. The TV was shut off, the house almost eerily silent.

“Redd?” Tom eased open the door to his bedroom. The fox was absent, but the bed was neatly made. He checked the twins’ room, the bathroom—both empty.

Redd was gone.

[kenzieam]

Beauty and the Blackheart - Chapter Three

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I know I’m forgetting people, sorry. If you want in, hit me.

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Rating: M

Warnings: Language, general nuttiness, smut

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It was too much; his proximity, his scent, the heat he generated and most importantly, the feelings they all sparked in Lev. Ducking and spinning away at the same time, Lev all but launched herself away, her ass smacking against the far counter of the elevated desk.  She gripped the edge behind her and fought to control her breathing, staring at Bucky with a mix of fear and confusion.

What was it about Bucky that twisted her up in knots like this?

Bucky straightened, leaning against the opposite counter with much less urgency. Crossing his feet at the ankles, chains clinking, he folded his arms and regarded her.

“What is your problem?” She stuttered, still not even sure if her heart was racing because she was scared or because she was aroused.

Bucky tilted his head, staring at her with an intensity that made her skin burn. His eyes raked up from her feet to her face and he swallowed.

Although still dressed conservatively compared to her sister-in-law and the women who frequented Blackheart, Lev had made attempts to branch out her wardrobe since she’d started helping out at the shop. She hadn’t worn khakis or a pencil skirt in weeks and while the jeans Nat had urged her to buy when they’d gone shopping a few days before she’d had to leave felt painted on, Nat had only laughed at her and said they were ‘fitted’, cut to show off Lev’s curves, not hide them. Paired with Nat’s knee-high boots and one of Blackheart’s logoed tank-tops, Lev was dressed far more scantily than she ever had before and right now, she felt naked under Bucky’s scrutiny.

Her bare shoulders hadn’t seen the light of day in years, for Christ’s sake and you could even see the swell of the tops of her breasts.

She never showed cleavage. Never. Even her graduation dress had covered up to her neck. Lev wished she had her Blackheart’s hoody to throw on, but it was draped over the chair, at least five feet away.

Bucky licked his lips, then wiped at his mouth with a decadent slowness, as if savouring something. He opened his mouth to speak and Lev felt her control begin to snap.

With a musical tingle, the door to the shop opened and Steve stepped inside, breaking the thick tension in the air. Lev whirled towards him almost dementedly, ridiculously grateful for his distraction.

“Steve! Hey.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Bucky turn to face Steve as well, albeit much more calmly.

“Hi…. Everything alright?” Steve replied, eyes flicking between Bucky and Lev, brow raising in question.

“Never better, brother.” Bucky grunted then, before anyone could speak further, turned and disappeared into his room, the familiar thrash metal filling the air after a moment.

Steve stared after his friend for a beat before returning his focus to Lev. Silently he moved to stand behind the counter and put his hands on his hips.

“Was he bothering you?” There was a faint sadness in his voice, as if he was disappointed and Lev shook her head, deciding a half-truth was better than a full lie.

“No, he just did the most amazing tattoo on this woman, these incredible violets that looked so realistic, and her story…. It was so beautiful and sad. It was a memorial tattoo for her late husband and it just kind of hit me, you know?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah, some of them do…. And Bucky’s really damned talented. It looked like a picture, right? Like you could just reach out and touch them?

Lev nodded back, almost giddy with relief that Steve seemed to have accepted her excuse. The last thing she wanted was to make trouble between lifelong friends. “Uh…” she clamoured for a change of topic. “You’re early but your 3 o’clock appointment mentioned that if you were able to start earlier to give him a call-”

“Sure,” Steve agreed, gifting her with a gentle smile. “I’ll give him a call.” He paused, scratching at his neck. “It’s looking like it’s going to be a slower day, so if you had anything you needed to do, or wanted to get out of here early-”

Lev almost felt guilty at how fast she agreed, but she was so goddamn twisted up inside right now, so fucking confused that she needed space and time to think, to try and sort through her head. “Yeah, sure. That’d be great. I was going to… yeah.”

Snatching her backpack and hoodie, Lev forced herself not to run out the door.

***************************************************************************

The music pounded, throbbing through the floor and Lev glanced around, so thoroughly out of her element that it was surreal, like a dream around her.

In the few days since Lev’s strange encounter with Bucky, she’d gone back to invisible with him. Whether Steve said anything she didn’t know, and didn’t have the balls to ask, but Bucky had returned to all but ignoring her. She couldn’t say whether she liked it anymore or not. There had been something, a warmth almost, while under his hypnotizing gaze that was gone again, and Lev was surprised to realize she missed it.

Now, she was wedged into a booth beside her brother, with Steve and Bucky across the table, a steady stream of girls parading by for the two of them to feast their eyes on. Bucky seemed to be dividing his time between paying attention to the girls and glowering at Lev, still not able to believe what for him seemed an outlandish claim, one Lev had let slip at the shop earlier when Clint was still trying to convince her to go with them.

“I’ve never been to a bar before.” Lev confessed, when Clint had commented on her obvious nerves.

“Wait, what?” Apparently, her complete lack of coolness was enough to break Bucky’s indifference to her, and he’d almost dropped the set of clamps he was setting in the autoclave.

Steve stepped closer, peering at her. “Really, Lev? Not once?”

Lev shook her head, regretting saying anything. Bucky’s glare burned like acid at the side of her face.

“I know I could never get you to come with me,” Clint replied. “But you never went once in university?”

Biting her lip, feeling like a thousand different kinds of fool, Lev shook her head again. “I was too busy studying.”

“Jesus,” Bucky grumbled, shutting and securing the autoclave. “Have you ever had any fun?”

Although this was as foreign an experience as Lev had ever had, even more so than her first cadaver class, she made a conscious effort to relax and pay attention to her surroundings. The white wine spritzer she’d ordered sweated in her hand and she’d barely made a dent in it, even though all three men were working their way through their second beer each.

When one of the girls, a willowy brunette, took the opportunity to perch in Bucky’s lap, throwing a covert catty glance at Lev as she did, Lev decided she needed a break.

“Gotta use the bathroom.” She elbowed her twin to move, scooting awkwardly along the seat, feeling like a warthog next to the potential model across from her. Of course, Bucky had to wrap his arm around the bimbo, his fingers toying idly with the bare skin of the woman’s back, and Lev felt an unexpected surge of… jealousy as she gained her feet and moved past the booth.

What the everlasting fuck?

Well, her language had certainly transformed in her time here, she thought bitterly, slamming her hand into the bathroom door a little harder than necessary to make it open, still reeling from the unexpected emotion.

Jealousy, what the hell? Why the hell would she be jealous of one of Bucky’s sluts?

She wasn’t, she decided, jealous that is. She was just sick of Bucky parading his manwhore ways in front of her. She’d treated plenty of gonorrhea and chlamydia in her ER rotation, she knew what Bucky was really flirting with, and when his cock suddenly sprouted oozing blisters, she would do her best not to laugh in his face.

Her business done; Lev studied her reflection in the cracked mirror. She’d never been unhappy with her appearance before, but then again, she’d never really paid attention to it before either. Her hair was a unique auburn shade, that one of her roommates had spent a whole semester trying to match as she moonlighted at a beauty salon, and she’d never encountered anyone else with eyes the same shade as hers, the same electric violet, like trapped galaxies but she didn’t have the confidence or presence of these women, the lady-balls to wear practically nothing and strut around, sure in the knowledge that all eyes were on them.

The tank top she wore now was the most revealing and risqué thing she’d ever worn and it still made her look like a nun compared to some of these girls, Bucky would never look her way with those other options, not that Lev wanted him to, right?

Goddammit, she was no closer to figuring out her feelings towards that man than she had been a week ago; and not being able to think her way through something both pissed her off and terrified her.

Whatever. Sometimes things just needed to sit, the diagnosis would come when it wanted to, not when you wanted it, that much she’d learned as a resident.

As she made her way back towards the table, praying that the girl was gone, Lev’s ears caught her name and she froze. She was close to them, able to see them but was not yet in the boy’s line of sight and they had apparently decided to discuss her in her absence.

“Lev’s cool, she’s trying.” Clint was saying.

“Yeah,” Steve added. “I mean you can tell she’s nervous, but she’s got courage, I’m proud of her; she’s always making herself face new things, ever since she got here-”

“She’s a princess.” Bucky’s voice was flat. “It’s hard to believe you’re even related. Wouldn’t know a good time if it bit her in the ass.”

Clint and Steve’s strident disagreement were lost in the rush of blood through Lev’s ears, the instant heat to her face. Shame boiled hot in her throat and something low in her chest snapped.

I’ll show you. I do too know how to have a good time.

Changing direction, Lev headed straight for the bar and claimed a stool. Glancing to her right, she saw a woman hold up a few bills and order a number of shots and she followed suit, barking out a brusque ‘tequila, shots’ when the bartender looked her way.

As a row of six was placed in front of her, the stool beside her was suddenly occupied and Lev glanced over, seeing an unfamiliar man smiling shyly at her.

You’ll do.

“Tequila?” She offered, gesturing to the line.

His tentative grin widened, and he turned, searching down the bar for something before facing her again, holding a saltshaker and plate of sliced lemons.

“Tequila.” He agreed.

Lev shivered, which was apparently the point, as the man licked a stripe up the side of her throat. Shaking salt at the wet patch, he licked her again then grabbed a shot glass and winked at her, slamming it in one go. The lemon wedge he’d pushed into her mouth bit her tongue with its acid and then he was kissing her, tonguing the wedge and making her head swim. She swayed slightly as he pulled back, proudly displaying the citrus chunk he’d take from her before pulling it out and setting it on the plate.

The first two shots each they’d taken normally, but for the last one, her new drinking buddy had suggested trying using the salt and lemon, and the smirk on his face as he’d described the procedure should have clued Lev into what was coming next.

“Okay,” he grinned widely at her, taking a fresh wedge. “Your turn.” His last words were slightly muffled around the lemon, but the sight made her giggle and, taking a deep breath, she reached for the shaker.

Hesitating only a moment, Lev leaned forwards and the guy obliged, tipping closer and offering his throat. She closed her eyes and ran her tongue along the cord in his neck, tasting hot skin then pulled back, hand shaking only slightly as she dusted him with salt, then licked again.

The tequila burned and she started coughing, but then the guy was grabbing her by the back of her head and yanking her close, capturing her mouth and forcing both his tongue and the lemon wedge into hers. She struggled, overwhelmed and suddenly dizzy as the three rapid shots of tequila hit her virgin body. Sure, she’d drank before, but only small amounts and never Patron.

The guy’s other hand was suddenly climbing her thigh and Lev squirmed, realizing she’d walked into a potentially dangerous situation and was going to have to figure some way out.

Dammit, she wished instantly that she hadn’t left the safety of the table, because while Bucky was an absolute prick to her, at the very least Steve and Clint would have looked out for her. Now, she was trapped and alone, with no idea if her brother was even looking for her yet.

Unexpectedly, her shot-mate was yanked roughly away, crashing against the counter with a garbled squawk.

“What the fuck are you doing?” A deep voice all but roared and Lev wasn’t sure if the question was aimed at her or the guy still flailing against the bar. She peered blearily upwards, heart sinking when she recognized her nemesis himself towering over her, glowering impressively even for him.

Bucky reached for her, face still twisted with fury and Lev flung her arms out, her tequila-soaked brain slow on the uptake and in no control whatsoever over her limbs. Whether she was trying to ward Bucky away or keep from losing her balance and tumbling over was impossible to say but her hand suddenly connected with his cheek in a sharp backhand.

Bucky’s head snapped to the side, the sound of striking flesh loud in Lev’s buzzing ears. He staggered slightly, either in surprise or from the force of Lev’s hit then turned storm-cloud eyes her way, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth were in danger of shattering.

“Hey- wha da fuck?” The guy he’d pushed away had found his voice, stumbling to his feet, reaching to pull Lev away from Bucky like some favored toy and Bucky exploded at him with an inhuman snarl, fist connecting with the man’s face, throwing him back again. Dimly Lev registered blood flying in a rather interesting arc as the man flew and then her arm was on fire as Bucky dragged her away, literally dragged her, towards the door.

Lev struggled and fought, fists striking Bucky’s torso and arms and maybe even his head as they hit the sidewalk, finally gaining her feet, fury beginning to roar in her veins. She wrenched herself out of his grip a few dozen feet down the sidewalk then whirled to really let Bucky have it when a sudden wave hit her, and she staggered, reaching blindly for support. The railing of a wheelchair ramp hit her hard in the belly and she folded over it as she opened her mouth, letting the tsunami of vomit boiling up her throat escape, flinching as it splashed wetly in the dark. Another wave hit her and she wretched again, gagging and then a hand touched her, soft and gentle, gathering up her hair at the nape of her neck to pull it away from her mess.

Clint, her heart sighed with relief. Her brother was here at last, saving her.

She groaned as the fierce pangs ceased, leaning heavily over the railing, all her strength gone. An arm snaked between her body and the metal, carefully pulling her back upright and Lev swayed, staggering a step to collapse against her brother and tuck into his chest, clawing at his shirt to draw closer with relief, tears threatening then lifted her head to focus on Clint, wiping at her mouth before she thanked him.

Bucky gazed down at her, brow drawn. Faint red showed on his cheek where she’d hit him, but he didn’t look mad anymore, he looked…. concerned.

“Are you alright, doll?” He rumbled. “Did that fuck hurt you?”

A riot of emotions crashed through Lev and, even sober, she wouldn’t have been able to make sense of them and react appropriately.

“Did he hurt me?” She sputtered, absolutely gobsmacked. She slammed her hands against Bucky’s chest and staggered away; pushing away his arms as they reached for her again, to either pull her back to him or at least steady her. “He didn’t hurt me at all, it was you!!”

Had this man not just been a raging beast, punching a man in the face and dragging her away from the bar like some sort of caveman? Where was this sudden gentle concern coming from? Why the hell had he risked touching her while she was sick, gathering her hair back like he had? It was a strangely considerate, intimate thing to do, especially when you despised the person.

Bucky flinched, as if she’d physically hit him and her mind noted hazily how he’d reacted more to her words than either of her strikes. He stepped closer, still reaching for her and Lev smacked his hands away furiously, throwing up a finger accusingly. Her mind was a chaotic, screaming mess; adrenaline coursing painfully through her veins and a detached, clinical part of her mind noted how much she probably resembled the patients she usually treated on wild Friday nights.

“It’s you!” Her voice was almost a shriek now, tears falling freely down her blotchy cheeks. “You’re the one that grabbed me! You’re the one who’s treated me like shit right from the first time I met you! What did I ever do to you? You look at me like I’m dogshit, you IGNORE me! I’m not a princess, I DO know how to have a good time!!”

Bucky’s face went instantly pale and he froze, eyes full of regret. She’d heard him, he realized, that’s why she’d ran to the bar, put herself in danger the way she had, she’d heard him say those hateful things.

Lev stumbled, ankle bending sharply, and fell to one knee with a cry, hands slamming onto the sidewalk. A pained groan spilled from her lips and she collapsed to sit on the curb, burying her face in her hands, rapidly sinking into misery.

A deep, unsteady sigh hit her ears as she registered a heavy form drop beside her, one of Bucky’s wide shoulders bumping against hers as he did. Lev scooted away, glaring briefly at him before dropping her gaze again, struggling to rein in her tears. The only thing that would make this night worse would be if she continued to cry with Bucky seated so close to her.

She tensed to stand, not sure if she was going to try and stumble through the parking lot, searching for Clint’s truck, start just walking, or turn and storm back into the bar and drag her brother out.

“Wait,” Bucky choked, reaching for her but not touching. Something in his voice made her pause and she glanced cautiously back towards him, sniffling, her bottom lip trembling. He sighed unsteadily and dared a glance up at Lev’s face, wincing at the pain and mistrust there.

Lev waited, in truth too dizzy to leap to her feet like she wanted to but also curious as to just what this man could possibly have to say, what was making him look like he himself might start crying.

“I’m sorry.” He finally whispered; eyes lowered. “You’re right, I’ve hurt you and I’m-” he swallowed and, when he spoke again, his voice was lower still and resigned. “I wish to God I’d done different.”

“Like how?”

His eyes flicked to hers, a tiny spark of hope there. He drew in a breath, seeming to search for the right words but then a bellow broke between them.

“Where the hell have you been?!” Clint yelled, storming towards them. He looked genuinely angry, almost violently crossing his arms over his chest and planting his feet, glaring between Lev and Bucky. Steve was right behind him, frowning and his glare seemed to darken as he took in the scene, eyes flicking from Bucky to Lev and back.

Lev stumbled for an explanation and Clint lost patience, reaching for her arm with a huff, but pulling her gently to her feet when she squeaked.

He peered at her, pushing her hair off her forehead and winced. “You puked.”

Lev nodded tiredly. “I just want to go.”

“’Kay.” Clint muttered, glaring momentarily at Bucky again before turning his back to him and ignoring him fully. “Come on, little sister. Steve?”

“Yeah, I’ll take him.” Steve answered, slapping a hand on Bucky’s shoulder when he moved to follow Lev, fixing him with a glare, silently telling him to back the fuck off then pulled his cell phone out to call an Uber.

Lev stayed quiet on the ride home, mind whirling and twisting around itself. She’d finally burst, finally let out the hurt and frustration Bucky’s treatment of her had fostered and, rather than reacting with his usual scorn or indifference, he’d looked chagrined and…. sorrowful, like this was one of his great shames.

Now she was hella confused.

This would have been the perfect opportunity for him to lay it all out, shut her down completely with only a few well-chosen words and instead…. he’d looked like he was about to cry himself. And he’d said he was sorry. For what? His treatment of her just now in the bar, or ever since they’d met?

Clint turned into his driveway and put the truck into park, turning it off but not exiting. The silence built between them, squeezing Lev’s chest.

She caught Clint glancing worriedly at her, hands clenching and unclenching on the steering wheel as he fought with himself, obviously wanting to ask but hesitating and Lev felt a rush of sympathy.

She’d messed everything up, her coming here had triggered something in Bucky and now her brother felt like he had to choose between her and one of his best friends.

She needed to leave. Nat wasn’t back yet, and they would now be short a runner at the shop, but they’d manage.

“Did he-” Clint sounded so torn that Lev almost started crying again.

“No,” she rushed to reassure him. “I was stupid, started doing shots at the bar with some random guy and he got handsy. Bucky stopped him and then I got sick and started puking.” Again, a half-truth rather than a whole lie.

Clint studied her. He was no dummy, for all his wild ways he was a smart guy and he was as capable of connecting the dots as anyone else. “You heard him, at the table, didn’t you?”

Lev shrugged, fighting fresh tears. “It’s true-”

“Lev-”

“I don’t know how to have a good time; I’ve wasted so much time.”

“Hey.” Clint’s voice was sharp, pulling her attention to him. He glanced outside before glaring back at her. “You have not wasted time; you have been working your ass off and making something of yourself. You’re a doctor, Lev. Do you have any idea how proud I am of you? I’m the one who’s wasting my life-”

“No!” Lev sobbed, reaching over and grabbing at Clint’s arm. “You have your own business. You’re a fucking talented artist, don’t you dare say you’ve wasted anything!”

Their mutual outbursts seemed to have cut the tension and, despite the tears still running down her face, Lev felt like she could breathe again.

Clint swiped at his cheek, then chuckled wetly, glancing at Lev. “Did you really just say ‘fuck’?”

“You’re a bad influence.” Lev mumbled, forcing a smile, eyes boring into her brother’s, desperate to convey her sincerity. For all his free-spiritedness, Clint was Lev’s rock and to hear him doubt himself was one of the scariest things she’d ever heard. “But seriously…. You have not wasted your life. Clint, you are amazing, alright? You are a master tattooist with your own business and people love you. I… just wish I knew how to… go with it like you do.”

Clint snorted quietly. “And sometimes I wish I could buckle down like you.” His hand reached to her, the back of his fingers brushing her tears away. “Seriously, little sis; I brag about you all the time, I am so fucking proud of you and the way Bucky is acting-”

“That’s my fault.” Lev broke in. “And the best thing I can do is go home and let everything calm back down.”

Clint looked at her, sorrow bright in his eyes. He hated to hear it, hated the fact that two of the most important people in his life couldn’t seem to co-exist peacefully, but Lev was right.

Still, that didn’t mean he had to like it, or needed to speak more about it tonight.

“C’mon. Let’s go in the house, get some sleep; we’ll talk more in the morning.”

[junidrabbles]

Everyone in my family has a soulmate

One of my earliest memories is sitting on my mother’s lap as she brushed my long, dark hair. I couldn’t have been older than four or five, but I remember staring into the mirror and knowing without a shadow of a doubt that I was beautiful. The bright blue-green color of my eyes stood out against my honey skin and I remember looking up to my mother’s reflection above me. We looked so similar, even though I was young. Her eyes were a bit more green than mine, but other than that, I was almost a spitting image of her.

“Don’t stare in the mirror too long, sladkaya,” she chided gently, running the brush through my hair in another long stroke. “You could fall in love with your own reflection. It has happened to many a Yakhontova woman who was not careful.”

I remember nodding and turning my gaze down. Even at such a young age, I knew the power the women in my family had. Yakhontova women were known for their beauty and the intensity of their love. It is a point of pride within my family that no Yakhontova woman has ever had a divorce. It simply isn’t done. The love of a Yakhontova was so deep and passionate that each woman always knew their soulmate the day they laid eyes on them, and they were never wrong.

I was fourteen the first time I fell in love. That was the first year I wasn’t homeschooled. It was tradition for Yakhontova women to be kept at home until they were old enough, otherwise they may find their soulmate, their vozlublenniy, too early. She said the love would grow too intense too quickly if found too young, and it would dwarf every love around it. The world would become cold and jealous. That was why it was important to give other women a chance first.

I realized what she meant the first day I went to school. People stared at me, boys and girls alike. I saw jealousy, admiration, lust, and it all made me realize how special I was, and how lucky I was to have been born a Yakhontova. I felt bad for all the regular girls who had clearly dressed up and put on makeup and were trying so hard to flirt. Mama was right; it wasn’t fair. I could turn the head of anyone I wanted. Of course, I wouldn’t. It wasn’t the Yakhontova way. We never wanted to steal a man from another, we only wanted to search for our true partner, our vozlublenniy.

I found mine in second period. We were supposed to be learning math, but the minute our eyes met he was transfixed, and so was I. His name was Daniel, and he was beautiful. He had chiseled features, but his eyes were soft. They were a darker blue than my own, and so kind. His hazel hair swept over his forehead and, to this day, I can remember every detail of his expression as our gazes met. I knew then he was my vozlublenniy and I stared into his soul, trying to let him know. He seemed to understand, because he asked me out immediately after class.

He proposed to me two years later, though he had wanted to earlier. He told me time and time again that he had wanted to marry me the day we met, but I told him it was improper. Yakhontova women did not wed until after their sixteenth birthdays.

He respected my wishes. His present for my sixteenth birthday was a ring, and we were wed the next year.

Our marriage was beautiful, magical, just like my mother had described. Our passion for each other was always present, a constant force between us, pulling us together like a magnet. We could hardly stand to not be by each other’s sides, always touching, always staring, so enamored, so in love. To be apart was torture. Every second we were away was absolutely excruciating, like part of my soul was being torn from my chest.

This feeling was part of what made the week my grandmother died one of the worst of my life. I had to leave him, to go abroad, back to our homeland for our funeral. Her death was painful on its own. Only eighteen, I was lucky to have never experienced such loss before, but the fact that our matriarch was the first was all the more horrible. My grandmother had always been such a role model for me, even though she was very far away.

As hard as being apart was for that week, coming home was worse, because of what I found when I got there.

My vozlublenniy was in our bed on top of another woman. When I walked in, he startled and looked at me with eyes that I had never seen before. At that moment, he was a stranger, someone I had never met, someone who had never met me.

He opened his mouth to speak: “Who—” 

But as our eyes met, his whole face changed to become the one I knew and he immediately pulled away from the girl on the bed and walked toward me. 

“Lada!” he greeted warmly, as if he hadn’t just been having sex with another. “I missed you so much.” 

I glared at him. I didn’t know what to say, what to do. It was unheard of for a Yakhontova to be cheated on, and after we were already married. I was full of emotions: shame, fury, despair. I couldn’t bring myself to speak. I ran from the room and grabbed the suitcase I had brought back in with me. I threw it into the backseat of the car and scream-cried all the way to my mother’s house.

“I don’t know what to do, Mamochka,” I told her as I sat on her couch, my face slick with tears. I buried my head in my hands, trying to hide my face. I didn’t want her to see me like this. With my eyes swollen and my cheeks puffy, I looked nothing like the beautiful Yakhontova woman I was supposed to be. “I thought he was my vozlublenniy, I felt it, just like you described, but just now, I-I walked into our bedroom and he… he was…” I choked on my own sobs, unable to continue.

My mother finished my sentence, her tone neutral. “With another woman.”

Surprised, I looked up and nodded searching her face for the disgust she had to feel for me. I was waiting for her to chastise me for choosing the wrong man, to call me a sorry excuse for a Yakhontova.

Instead she shook her head. “So he has soured. I am sorry, sladkaya, I was hoping you would never have to deal with this. I thought you two had been together long enough that a week away would not turn him rotten, but it seems I was wrong.”

“What do I do, Mama? I don’t want to stay with him, I can hardly look at him.”

She frowned deeply. “Oh no, stchastye moyo,” she asserted. “A Yakhontova woman is the greatest honor, and those who do not treasure it do not get to keep that honor.”

“But… but we’re married,” I reminded her helplessly. “And I can’t be the first Yakhontova woman to get a divorce, I would be humiliated, and I would bring shame to you…”

She laughed, though there was little feeling in it. “Oh, there will be no divorce. Of course not. But really, sladkaya, did you think no Yakhontova has ever had their vozlublenniy sour before? No, it happens. Sometimes our loves are corrupted, our souls torn apart, and we must find our new vozlublenniy. Of course, we can’t do that until we are completely free from the one who has spoiled. We must remove the roots of darkness from our heart so it can find its new, true vozlublenniy.”

“But I thought there was only one vozlublenniy per Yakhontova.” I stared at my mother, always my greatest confidant and ally, and for a second, among all the despair, I felt a sliver of hope. 

“Da,” she agreed. “One at a time. But as soon as old is gone, the universe will create a new.”

“So is he gone now, now that he has broken our bond? He is no longer my vozlublenniy?”

She tilted her head. “He is not, but we must make sure energy you put into him is set free, returned to universe.”

“How do we do that?” 

She smiled and it was breathtaking. Her eyes gleamed. “I will show you, stchastye, do not worry. I will show you. It is a long family secret, a tradition spanning back thousands of years, and I will teach you like my Mamulya taught me, many years ago.”

That night, she accompanied me back to my house. The girl was long gone, but Daniel still seemed different. Once again, he was a stranger, until he spotted me.

“Lada—” he started toward me. 

I looked at my mother for guidance and she nodded encouragingly. I took a deep breath, and I embraced him. I kissed him, and the passion between us ignited a fire, like it always did. That fire was consuming, white hot flames encapsulating us. But I did not let it take me away like I usually would. I let it build and build and build and when it was finally at its peak, I drove a knife into the back of my former husband.

He tried to pull away, to scream, but I pulled him back to me, continuing to kiss him. I stabbed him again, and I would stab him three more times as I kissed him, not letting go until he slumped in my arms.

“Good, sladkaya!” my mother praised. “You did so well. We are halfway done. I will dispose of this for you, do not worry, but you still have one more thing you must do.”

I looked at her, confused, but as our eyes met I understood. 

As she took care of what had once been my lover, I snuck into the house of the girl he had cheated on me with. Somehow, with the energy I had regained flowing through me, I could feel where she was. A white hot ray of fury, of vengeance, drove me toward her.

I slit her throat as she slept. There was no intimacy in it, no ritual. She was not special to me, she was just a lecher that had to be removed. I could not have her darkness tainting my new vozlublenniy. 

She died quickly. I left just as quickly.

That was ten years ago. The next decade would teach me how fickle love was, how cruel the universe could be. I found my vozlublenniy three more times, just to have him snatched from me each time. 

The first time I found him again, he was a beautiful dark-skinned man named Henry. We were married within weeks of having met, and I was sure it would work this time. But Henry was different than Daniel had been. He was less compliant, less agreeable, and frequently when I left for work, he would run away. He always acted like he didn’t appreciate our love the second I was away, but I felt his passion when we were together. I knew the love he had for me, but he wouldn’t stop denying it. It just wouldn’t do. I had to free him to the universe.

The next time he was an older man with salt-and-pepper hair and cunning eyes. His name was Jackson. We stayed together for almost five years before I had to return to the homeland with my mother for a month, as an aunt had fallen ill. When I returned, I found he had cheated on me twice, with two different women. I gave him to the universe, and I found the lechers and returned them as well.

It would be a year before I found him again, a muscular man named Allen. We wed quickly, but I soon learned that Allen was violent. In the times where our passion wasn’t its most active, he would hurt me. He would lash out at me, call me awful, awful names. I know my vozlublenniy would never do that, and I knew his most recent rebirth must have addled him. I had to give him back.

However, it didn’t go as well this time. He survived my attempt to return him, and he escaped and contacted the police. He went to them, as if what had happened was my fault. As if I were not trying to help him by doing what I had done. But it was okay. After I had been taken into custody, I learned that he had succumbed to his injuries, and his energy had been freed.

This is my plea. They say they have sentenced me to death, as if it is something I have earned. They call me awful names, a criminal, a murderer, a serial killer. But I am no such thing. Everything I did, I did for love. I hurt no one who hadn’t hurt me first. All I asked for was loyalty, for love, and don’t I deserve those things? I deserve someone who would never cheat on me, never raise a hand to me, or run away from me. Would you do something like that?

You know, I don’t think you would. You have lovely, kind eyes. Why don’t you get a little closer, let me look at you. And you can look at me. 

Do you believe in love at first sight, vozlublenniy?

[namjoonspiration]

ON [5]

Pairing: Jungkook x reader

Rating: M

Word Count: 10.1k

Warnings/tags: strong language and violence, scary creatures, battle scene, heartbreak, character death (not graphic)

Author’s Note: This is it... the last chapter of ON. Thank you readers for patiently sticking around for the whole thing and showing your support. I hope I did this justice. Put a comment or like the story if you enjoyed it 💜 Enjoy!

Masterlist

Part 5

Year 3062 – 401 years after the Fall of the World

“We should stop here for water,” you suggested, pointing at a little oasis in the far distance. You and Jungkook had been trekking for over three weeks now in the dry lands. Thankfully, the small ponds of water with trees had become more frequent.

Jungkook agreed, his horse trotting forward happily to the water. Both of you refreshed yourselves and refilled your canteens. You took of your shoes and dipped your hot feet into the edge of the water. Jungkook followed your lead, sighing at the pleasant feeling of the coolness. You sat there for a while, giving yourselves and the horses a little time to rest.

You closed your eyes for a bit. When you opened them, you caught the barest hint of a man on a horse looking down at you over a large sand dune before disappearing over the edge. “Someone is watching us,” you whisper to Jungkook. He nodded, having noticed too. Both of you quickly slip your shoes back and mount your horses.

You track the prints from the man’s horse over the sand dune and onward for another hour, the figure a tiny black dot in the distance. As you had predicted, trees, albeit scraggy and dry-looking, started to litter the environment. Sand turned into dirt, scattered with thick grass. You and Jungkook cleared through a forest of those scraggly trees before spotting a dark green truck under a weeping willow. Weirdly… in the truck bed was a giant red drum. Cautiously, you and Jungkook approached the truck, riding around it into a clearing.

A little man in a black shirt and striped pants sat on the hood of the truck, holding a brown drum that was about as half as big as him. “Hello?” Oddly, he didn’t even spare at glance at either of you. “Hello?” Jungkook tried again. He dismounted his horse and walked in front of the man. Although Jungkook faced him, the man’s eyes looked beyond him. “Do you need help?”

“He won’t talk.” A strange voice called from behind the mountain of drums piled under the tree. Another man waltzed from around the drums towards Jungkook. The loose white shirt and brown pants he wore rippled with the late afternoon breeze. “I’ve known him for over four hundred years, and he’s never said more than five minutes’ worth of words to me. I doubt he’d even get a syllable out in the thirty seconds you’ve been here.”

“I’m sorry, and you are?” You ask, not necessarily meaning to sound as sassy as you did.

He turns to you, smirk lighting up his face. The sun made his blue hair shine purple in the light. “Hello, beautiful. It’s been a while since such a lovely thing graced my presence. What’s your name, love?” He extended a hand to caress your face.

“That’s none of your concern,” Jungkook growled, stopping the man’s hand from touching you. You remained steady in your stance, staring down at the man. over your nose.

He merely chuckled. “Oh, is she taken?”

“I asked, who are you?” You replied sternly.

The man huffed, rolling his eyes. “You two are clearly together. I’ve never met a pair of people who are too serious to take a little humor.” He steps back and bows dramatically. “I am Park Jimin. And this little man over here,” he points a thumb, “is my dear friend. I would love to tell you his name except I actually don’t know what it is myself.”

“Oh!” You exclaim. “You’re the last descendant. The one Jin mentioned.” You directed your last comment towards Jungkook. Remembrance dawned on him.

“Jin? Whose Jin?” Jimin questions.

“The last descendant of the ‘all-powerful’ Park family,” you continued. Jimin’s eyes to narrowed at you.

“Are you mocking me?” His jaw set in anger. “I would be careful if I were you. My line descends from the Mother Goddess herself. I have the kind of power that levels cities in the blink of an eye. I may be the last of my family, but I’m more powerful than all of them combined. Those pathetic fucks only sent me away to be ‘watched’ by this monk because they were all threatened by my power, and you both should be too!” With every word, Jimin’s power began to emanate from behind him like a pair of wings.

“Quit with the façade, boy.” Those five words came from the monk sitting on the truck. He was gently patting the top of the drum.

Jimin’s power suddenly shattered, almost comically, like a pane of glass. His mouth opened in shock before spitting at the man. “You! You haven’t said a word to me in decades, and now you choose to? How dare you humiliate me?!” He took long, threatening strides towards the monk.

He simply held up a hand, which sent a wave of magic to knock Jimin flat on his ass. “Learn control and balance. Keep your emotions in check.” Those were the last words you would hear from the monk.

Jimin swiftly jumped back on his feet, dusting off the dirt from his clothes. “Stupid man going on about stupid stuff,” he mutters.

“Enough,” Jungkook said. “While this has been fun, this has also presented a timely opportunity.” Jimin quirked an eyebrow at him. “War against the darkness is on the horizon. We are from a Mage settlement down South looking for anyone who can help us fight it. Would you help us?”

“No,” Jimin retorted.

Anger sparked in your chest at his dismissive answer. “If you are really all-powerful, then you’d help us.”

“Wrong,” he hissed. “The strength of my power does not correlate with my desires. I do not desire to help you, but my magic remains the most powerful there is.”

“Why won’t you help us?” Jungkook pushed.

“Because I do not want to. I’ve seen the Fall of the World and walked this empty land for over four centuries, and I cannot wait for it to end. The power and immortality of my bloodline prevents me from simply dying, so I figure… Why not let the darkness created by the greed and violence of those living on this wretched earth swallow it whole and end it all? What’s the point of saving what’s left of mankind when it has brought me nothing but pain and endless loneliness?” His tone was despairing, but bitter more than anything.

Tense silence consumed the conversation. Jimin looked expectantly between the both of you like he was waiting for you or Jungkook to say something—anything. Like how that’s not true, or it’s going to be okay, or you shouldn’t think like that. But neither of you said anything of that. Jimin finally turned away from both of you in farewell.

“I’m not going to apologize or give you pity because I know that’s not what you’re looking for Jimin,” you suddenly said.

He scoffed. “Oh, yeah? If you know, then what is it that I’m looking for?”

“A reason to live. Not to survive or exist, but to live,” you continued. Jimin tilted his head, considering your words. “I’ll admit I don’t know what that reason is, but I know this. This is the one and only world we get to live in, and we can’t just sit by and let it be destroyed. There are good people, human and Mage, left on this earth that are fighting for it and the rebuilding of a better world that awaits. Some of these people have gone through hell and back,” you glanced at Jungkook, “but they haven’t given up hope.” Jimin remained unconvinced.

“There’s a man in our settlement. He and his sister narrowly escaped the darkness. He has lived the last thirteen years of his life with that darkness festering in his veins—”

“Sounds like a horrible existence,” he muttered.

You ignored his petulance. “But he doesn’t give up because of his reason to live. To leave his sister in a better world than the one they were born into.” Silence. “Jimin, she’s a Seer.” This piqued his interest; a little bit more than he would have liked to let on. “She’s had visions of a Promised Land. It’s coming soon. I’d say that’s a fair motivator to live.”

“But only if we fight the darkness out there,” Jungkook added, standing right behind you in support.

Jimin thought it over for a few minutes, sitting on a nearby rock. He stared at you and Jungkook skeptically, those ancient eyes practically reading through you both. Finally, “My answer is still no. For now.” He got up from the rock and shoved his hands in his pockets.

It was better than nothing. “Alright. If you change your mind, our settlement is about a three weeks ride South. You will always be welcome there.” You all said your farewells. Mounting your horses, you and Jungkook continued your journey north.

…

Another two months pass before you reached the Scholars Mountain. An early Fall chill has already reached the stone peaks and slopes. When you and Jungkook arrived, you were both sought out by the mountain’s guards. It was anything less than a friendly introduction; nonetheless, with some persuasion, you got inside the Scholars Mountain.

Swiftly, you were escorted to a meeting hall decorated in swaths of red silk that hung from the sling. Rows of scholars, dressed in dark robes, held lit candles between their palms. With their heads bowed, their bodies faced the back of the hall where a man, who wore a white cotton shirt, kneeled before several bright candles beneath a shrine to a deity you knew as the Mother Goddess.

The guards place you and Jungkook to stand behind him before settling back to their posts. After several minutes of silence, the man finally rose and stood in front of you. You glimpsed a flash of orange in his eyes briefly before returning to a brown color. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and scrutinized both of you. You opened your mouth to introduce yourselves, but he stopped you by holding up a hand. “I know who you are, and I know why you’re here.”

“I’m afraid we don’t know who you are.” You quickly felt impatience flare in your chest at his dismissive tone.

“My name is Min Yoongi. I’m the Principal Scholar of the Northern Mages. But you could say I’m the Principal Scholar of all Mages as I’m the last one.” He seemed rather smug with that last remark. You and Jungkook both eyed him suspiciously. Yoongi cocked his head to the side. “What? Whatever ones I didn’t fight to the death were foolish like you, thinking you can take on the Evil One.”

“Why does it seem so foolish?”

“Because you have nothing but your magic and no other weapons. What battles have your people and that irrational General of yours won?” He answered for you before you could even open your mouth. “None. Tell me, is he still releasing doves out onto the battlefield, praying that the dove returns—a sign of hope?” He chuckled at the thought, causing your jaw to clench in anger. “Your entire settlement is running a fool’s errand.” Yoongi said rather petulantly. “As I’ve told your war general before, my people and I will not be involved in your war.”

“Our war? Your people?” Jungkook scoffed. “This is everyone’s war. We all will die if we don’t find the darkness that’s out there. You’re a Mage, too, and I’m sure a number of your followers are Mages as well.”

“My followers are believers, scholars, conveyers of the final prophecy… They are not fighters. We simply wait for the day when the Mother Goddess returns and heals the earth.”

“How do you know she will return?”

“My followers and I can see visions of life and death. We are connected to the forces around us. We know the Mother Goddess is still watching over us. However, we cannot demand her to return. She knows the right time when to return and reveal the Promised Land to us.”

“What if she doesn’t return in time?” you objected. “The darkness is poisoning the land and killing and enslaving those who cannot escape fast enough. You are not protected here!”

Suddenly, Yoongi was nose-to-nose with you, as if he sped through the air in under the blink of an eye. His gaze flared that brilliant orange again. “You speak of blasphemy, Mage.” Yoongi sneered at you. “We are protected here. The Mother Goddess recognizes our devotion and protects us from the Evil One. It’s not wise to question her presence for I can assure you that she will not save you.”

You’ve absolutely had it with this arrogant coward. He had nothing to show for either.

“You’re the fool,” you bit back, matching his challenging gaze. “You’re condemning these people to death if you do nothing. Is that what the Mother Goddess would want? Leading your followers to a slow, cold, painful death shrouded in the darkest materials of this universe? Because that is what’s coming for you and everyone in this room.”

Yoongi looked murderous, but after several tense seconds, the orange faded back to brown. He took a step back. “I guess we’re all fools then. There’s no point in fighting something that cannot be fought with even the strongest Mages left.” He nodded towards Jungkook, “Not even him.”

Jungkook narrowed his gaze at Yoongi. “What do you know about me?”

“I know your magic is still driven by your rage and a need for revenge. Burning the Citadel was not enough for you, was it?” At Yoongi’s words, you looked at Jungkook in surprise. He seemed to shift uncomfortably on his feet. “You need more. You’ve had that fire in your soul much longer than when you were imprisoned as the last Mage. It sparked the day when you were taken away from your parents, and it became a wildfire when you had everything taken from you. It has fueled your desire to take revenge on the whole world. That blaze needs to be fed, Jeon Jungkook. Fortunately for you, the enemy is close, but you may just lose yourself in the process.”

What was he saying? That Jungkook might die in this world? That he might truly not be the Jungkook you know and love after he unleashes his magic on the battlefield? As of immediate concern, why wasn’t Jungkook objecting?

“It seems I’ve seen your past, present and future correctly.” After several moments of silence that sucked all the air from the room, “Are you scared, Jeon Jungkook?”

The old, familiar taste of heavy metallic weighed on your tongue, along with new heavy, rippling waves in the air. “No. Not anymore.”

Yoongi smirked. “Looks like you might have a weapon after all. However, just Jungkook alone won’t be enough.”

“We met Park Jimin on the road. We asked him for the help—”

“Ha!” Yoongi laughed. “I’m sure he said he wouldn’t do it. That loser has been sitting on the same pile of dirt since before the Fall of the World. I doubt he will be of any help when it comes to the end.”

“You get ahead of yourself Yoongi. Are you sure you’re connected with the forces of the future?” You took satisfaction in the jab, especially at his following expression of sheer annoyance. “He said his answer was no for now,” you continued. “But only after we told him of a special young girl in our village and her brother, who will stop at nothing to make sure she lives in a peaceful world.”

“Touching, but what’s so special about her?”

“She’s a Seer.” It was your turn to smirk this time. Yoongi’s reaction was nearly identical to Jimin’s.

The flames on the candles behind him flared to life. He fell to his knees, pressing the heels of his palms harshly into his eyes. A thin layer of sweat glistened on his skin. His breath came out in a low groan.

“Yoongi?” You questioned.

His head snapped up to look at you, hands dropping from his face. Chills tracked down your spine.

Frightening cold pools of silver swirled in his eyes, blinding him from human sight. Just like how Tae described his sister’s eyes. “Oh my god,” you gasped. “You’re one of them, too.”

As quickly as the vision came, it was gone, and Yoongi returned to the present. “Leave us,” he ordered his followers. They filed out swiftly and silently. He took in deep breaths as if he had been drowning moments ago. “I’m only half a Seer. My Sight is only a fraction of what hers was. She could see what the Evil One wanted to do, where he was going at any moment in time. I can only see the aftermath long after a possible scenario of what might happen. My Sight is of no use. But hers…” He rose to his feet. For several moments he seemed at odds with himself—fighting between reason, disbelief and fear.

Jungkook objected. “What do you mean ‘was’? His sister’s not dead.”

“That’s not possible. I saw her die.”  Yoongi explained gravelly.

Panic iced your blood. “What do you mean, you saw her die?! Just now?” Did something happen while you and Jungkook have been traveling? Would you go back to the settlement to find one less Mage and a lonely, heartbroken orphan?

To your relief, Yoongi shakes his head. “No.”

But you definitely weren’t prepared for his next answer.

“I saw her die over four hundred years ago.”

Quickly, Yoongi retreated into himself, becoming withdrawn and distraught.

“She was my little sister. Her name was Ella. She died trying to stop the Evil One from destroying the Old World, but she couldn’t… and no one came to help. She sacrificed herself to give us these last four centuries to figure out how to survive and defeat the Evil One.

“Ella disappeared completely. I never found her body. I couldn’t see her in my past memories. I remember her being there, but I couldn’t see her—interact with her to hopefully get answers to what she knew. I tried for so long to find her, but I couldn’t take the pain of it anymore. I just stopped trying.” He sat on a bench with his head in his hands, fingers gripping the silver ends of his hair.

You moved to sit in front of Yoongi, folding your legs underneath you. Jungkook took a careful seat next to Yoongi on the bench.

“I wondered… for the longest time,” Yoongi continued. “If she went to a happier place; if she and her soul were ripped apart into oblivion by the darkness… or if she was simply waiting in the wings for the right moment to return to the stage. I never knew the full extent of her powers. I learned here that Seers cannot just reveal the future in hopes of preventing tragedy. We can only just set up a catalyst and hope that someday that someone uses it to make the world better.”

“I believe you’re right, Yoongi. Ella has given us that. And, now might be the last chance to finish what she started. Now is the time for you to make her your reason to fight.” You tried to encourage him.

“I just can’t believe that she could be alive. Not after all this time…”

Yoongi kept talking himself in circles for the rest of the evening. Four hundred years’ worth of grief and pain gripped his heart like a vice. It made his magic fade to nothing in his veins. Never did he feel or look more human than he did that evening. He felt every part of his being break down into numbness.

Eventually, Yoongi asked for them to leave him. He was no longer interested in talking or thinking about anything of this.

You and Jungkook decided to head out at first light the next morning, both of you feeling as though all options had been exhausted. You weren’t sure where Yoongi stood. You write a letter to him, telling him about the settlement, the details of Jin’s timeline for the war, and where the final battle might take place if he decided to fight one last time.

…

Year 3063 – 402 years after the Fall of the World

The long three-month journey back to the settlement was miserable. The winter cold came much faster and stronger than you had anticipated. It was a relatively silent three month’s ride back home. You only conversed with Jungkook when it regarded food, directions and how to not freeze to death while you slept. He kept to himself, and it worried you greatly. Was he regressing back to before? He seemed millions of miles away some days, and you had no idea how to reach him.

With the new year and the flesh-biting cold of one of the harshest winters you’ve ever lived through trailing behind you, you and Jungkook arrive back at the settlement empty-handed. Seokjin had met you two at the entrance with a hopeful expression on his face that quickly dismantled into sheer disappointment and disappear. Then, it switched into something empty and emotionless, and he stormed off to direct and finish war preparations.

The settlement only had the rest of the winter and spring before it would happen.

While you and Jungkook were unpacking in your house, you began to ask him about what Yoongi had said to him back at the temple.“It’s hard to explain,” he murmured. You could sense he was teetering between wanting to open up and not wanting to. Even if he did, he didn’t know how.

“Do you want me to go get Taehyung? Or Namjoon?”

He shook his head softly. “No, they… already know.”

You weren’t going to lie to yourself. It stung, but you couldn’t blame him. You couldn’t take it to heart—not after everything that he’s been through. It’s only been a year and a half since he was freed, and he did appear to open up a lot more to the guys. It’s not that Jungkook didn’t trust you, but it was easier to be more vulnerable with Taehyung and Namjoon, who had become his best friends.

“I wanted to talk to you about it.” Jungkook began to explain. “I just didn’t want you to worry about me. I wanted to protect you.”

Tears prickled at your eyes. “Jungkook, you’re so selfless, and it’s so incredible and frustrating at the same time.” Your voice cracked with each word, and it became harder to speak.

He appeared bewildered. “What?”

You rushed forward and wrapped him in a hug, burying your face in his shoulder. “You don’t have to do that for me. I want to protect you, Jungkook. You’ve sacrificed yourself over and over again for me, and I can’t let you be the only one who does that. I want you to be able to feel like you can share your burdens with me. I’m ready when you want to share it.” And you leave it at that. You have no room to pry or force him to open about something that is strongly tied to the trauma he experienced for almost his whole life.

Jungkook wrapped his arms tight around you, pulling you close to him. He laid a kiss on your head. “Thank you, y/n. I love you.”

“I love you more than anything, Jungkook.” You pressed a loving kiss to his lips. “I’m always with you, no matter what.”

…

As the war drew close enough to be counted down in days, everyone became extremely anxious for more help to arrive. Seokjin convinced some more Mage tribes and settlements to join the fight. However, the two people you had asked for help hadn’t shown up. Not even a word from up North.

One evening, Taehyung became extremely desperate. He didn’t think the war could be won. He told his sister she must continue to travel as far East as she could, to the coast, and not to come back until it was safe—if it ever was. He wanted to give her another chance at life. “You must go with the other young children East. It’s not safe here. I don’t want you to be in danger, and I wouldn’t be able to protect you.”

“No!” She protested vehemently. “I want to stay with you!” She hugged her big brother tightly. Never in their whole lives had they been apart.

Taehyung was heartbroken. “I can’t protect you here. I’m… I’m very sick.” In truth, he was dying. The curse inside him finally started to tap at his heart, which puts him through very long fits of vomiting and passing in and out of consciousness regularly.

When sobs racketed her little, Taehyung couldn’t hold back his own tears. He had hoped he could give her a better world to live in before he passed from this world. However, that proved harder than what he was able to do. He thought that if he couldn’t give her that, he could still give her a chance to survive.

…

“Hello again, little Mage.” You whipped around from gathering herbs. Namjoon had sent you on a full day’s run to get surplus of materials to make medicines and salves.

“Jung Hoseok. It’s been a long time.”

“Almost three summers. It’s just in a couple days, little Mage. I believe you owe me something that will make me happy.” He took several steps toward, hands stuffed in the pockets of his dark jeans. His face was tilted in inquiry.

You hadn’t forgotten about your deal with the death spirit. You just didn’t figure it out, much less be able to work towards finding it. Truthfully, when Seokjin had declared that the war would happen this summer, which is less than a couple days away, it had presented a timely opportunity for you.

“Do you have it?”

You took a deep breath. “No. I don’t.”

Rage, frustration and then disappointment flickered across his face. “Why not, little Mage?”

“I have something better.” He quirked an eyebrow at you. “The Promised Land is within reach.”

Hoseok scoffed, rolling his eyes. “What the fuck? How is that better?”

“If we can just win the war—”

“Win the war?!” He shouted. He released a laugh of disbelief and one that was absolutely hysterical. “You’re such an idiot! You think you can bank this deal—a piece of happiness for me—on the most impossible chance that this war could be won?” You felt a shiver travel down your spine at his outburst. He pointed an accusatory finger at you, “I’m not going to feel bad when I drink your soul because you denied me something that could finally give me happiness after four hundred fucking years of sorrow and anguish.” Unexpectedly, Hoseok started to cry. You couldn’t but feel bad for him. He was living a horrible existence as a starving ghost doomed to walk the earth for eternity, watching and waiting for the death of fellow humans so he could get some relief.

“What would bring you happiness?” You inquired softly when he dried his tears.

He was silent for a few long moments before he said the most honest thing you’ve heard from him. “I want to see my sister again.”

“Where is she?”

“In Paradise.” More tears left his eyes. “I couldn’t save her from the Fall. I did everything I could, even selling my own soul… but it wasn’t enough. I’ve regretted that decision every moment of my immortal existence. If I hadn’t done that—if I had realized that there was a better place beyond this one—I would be able to see her in the clouds. But I’m forever bound to this fallen world.”

“I’m sorry, Hoseok,” you said sincerely. “I don’t know how to help you.”

His expression became hard. Suddenly, his tears had dried. “Then, you should expect me to come for your soul in a few days. Because I’m a merciful spirit, I’ll even let you fight on the battlefield for your cause before I collect it. Although, I don’t think that will be a very long time. I guess I’m also a patient spirit.” He said rather bitterly. He shoved his hands back in his pockets and turned on his heel.

“Wait, Hoseok,” you called him before he disappeared. “I know I’m in no position to ask for a favor, but I mean this sincerely. I know the chance of winning is slim, but what if we did win? The darkness would be gone. Things might change for everyone, including you… So, consider fighting with us. Gather other death spirits and help us achieve a different world.” You let your offer hang in the air. Hoseok was still, except for the turn of his head to give you a mournful glance.

Then, he was gone.

You were hopeful for a yes, but at least he didn’t outright give you a ‘no.’ You seemed to be experiencing a lot of that lately. You’ve just come to the conclusion that uncertainty was high and not many promises survived in this world. You just had to be hopeful that the right choices will be made when the right time comes.

…

With the next few passing days, the darkness drew closer, which sent the sun running for cover. It hurried the last of the preparations during the rare hours of light left in the day until there were none left. When complete darkness ascended the sky, Seokjin commanded everyone, except the frontline, to move to high ground. Up there on those several large rolls of hills, massive bonfires were lit in front of newly constructed shelter. When everyone was finally in position, it was a matter of waiting for the signal.

Despite the heavy silence in the air, you heard quickening breaths, hammering hearts and dripping sweat. Chitters even made your unsteady. You wrapped your fingers around Jungkook’s tightened fist, stabilizing yourself and providing a grounding force for him. You stood between him and Seokjin at the front at the top of the hill. Lines of Mages and human soldiers stood tall behind you. You all looked like a rag-tag team of street fighters, not a navy ready to take down the biggest threat in all the world. But sometimes that’s who was needed…

People.

Even people who couldn’t or chose not to fight. There were builders, craftsmen and healers all waiting inside the shelter. Namjoon stood right behind the fighting lines with a bag packed with medicines and bandages to help those hurt in action. Lastly, you still held out hope that not everyone had shown up yet.

Out of the corner of your eye, Seokjin surveyed the men and women he’s about to lead to victory or the end. The weight of it caused his wide shoulders to sag. But he could not show his fear or weakness. He had to be a strong leader for them. He took a deep breath of humid air, straightening his spine.

Below you, a sudden spark of the fire glowed between the thick, quiet trees.

A deep chill ran through the air.

The adrenaline kicked in to awaken still senses, fire muscles into action and rip war cries from dry throats.

The singing of a conch shell boomed in the air.

It left a ringing in your ears that soon muffled the shouts and screams of your fellow soldiers when darkness descended upon you. As planned, everyone broke their red Witch flares on their belts, revealing everyone’s location amongst the oppressing black air. You stuck back-to-back with Jungkook, drawing flames from the bonfire to burn the horrifying shadow monsters that left their refuge in the dark to destroy you.

It was fast and never ending. You swiped fire with one hand and then immediately had to dodge an oncoming attack. You had times where you missed, and the pain sent your blood rushing in your ears that were already straining to hear strategy and commands from various fighters against the screeches of the demons and the screams of the dying.

“ADVANCE!” You heard Seokjin roar. Down the hill, he met the feet of the darkness where they planted themselves on the plateau. You were gaining ground.

But at what cost?

It was hard not to trip over the bodies of the frontline soldiers at the base of the hill.

As you ran forward, everything became more suffocating and a bone-chilling freeze replaced the humid summer air.

And cries of temporary victory soon became cries of last words.

One particular cry made you turn in alarm. “Jungkook!” He clutched his arm, blood spilling through his fingers.

Then, he became absolutely enraged. With the blood that stained his hand and ran down his arm, he created his own white-hot fire, which he lashed out like a whip and ended the demonic being. You stared at him wide-eyed as he just ripped through shadow demon after demon, wielding his bright fire, until he cleared a full-on path behind him.

In your distraction, you failed to notice a disturbingly human-like creature tackle you to the ground. You fell flat on your belly with a yelp of surprise. You felt the wind get knocked out of you. You struggled to flip around, your hands flying out to try to get your magic to protect you. Before you could even feebly attempt to do so, the demon was already turning to ash above you. Jungkook grabbed you by the hands and hauled you to your feet.

“How—how did you do that?” You sputtered out after a shaky apology.

“No time.” He growled. He resumed position back-to-back with you. That’s when you felt how hot he was through his shirt that was soaked with sweat. He was burning up.

“Jungkook, cool it down! You’ll burn yourself out!”

“I feel fine!” He shouts back with a tone that doesn’t sound like him at all. It was so foreign to you that you spared a glance to make sure the words were leaving his mouth.

Any hesitation from the surrounding shadow demons at the demonstration of Jungkook’s power ceases, and they begin attacking again. You try to aid him in clearing the area around you by forcing the demons into Jungkook’s white flames with your magic. Although it appeared that you and Jungkook were making progress leading the front line, you hadn’t realized that your fellow soldiers were not. As a result, more and more demons came up behind you as Jungkook moved forward, effectively separating you from the rest of the army.

“Jungkook, stop!” But he couldn’t hear you. He just kept slashing through each creature with mad swings of his fiery whip. You tried to cover your 6 o’clock and the sides, but it slowed you down as Jungkook got farther and farther away. “Jungkook!” You tried to call for him again.

You lost him amongst the dark chaos. Panic swells up within you at the fact you’re now fighting alone against several demons. Your moment of distraction allows one of them to take a swipe at you. Its claws seared through the skin of your arm. You cried out in pain, clutching your bad arm as you were forced to defend yourself with it. You clenched your jaw in pain. However, your slowness had cost you as another demon hit you across the face. You flew back into the ground, a scream escaping your lips. Fresh, hot blood dripped down the side of your face. You only had a moment more before the demon descended on you again, raising a lethal looking claw to rip your guts out.

Suddenly, the demon withered into ashes with a loud pop. You whip around to see Namjoon flanked by two Mages helping him clear a way to you. “Y/n!”

“Namjoon! What are you doing out here? It’s too dangerous!” You get to your feet, and he met you halfway. Immediately, he dug through his bag and pulled out a salve and generously coated it on your wounds.

“I could say the same thing! You must be more careful. Where’s Jungkook?” He looked around frantically.

“I don’t know. He got ahead of me. Give me some of those grenades!” You demanded, rifling through his bag to grab a few. “I’m going to try to catch up with him. He needs help!” You turned on your heel, but Namjoon grabbed your shoulder to spin you around to face him again.

“Be careful! It’s not safe around him right now. I don’t think he’s in complete control of his power. “

“But I can’t just leave him by himself! He needs me with him! I told him he wouldn’t have to do any of this own,” tears prickled at the backs of your eyes. You looked ahead to the direction you saw him go last. Sure enough, you saw the blindingly white light of his fire in the far distance—so, so close to the center of the darkness.

He was going to confront the master controller of all this, and he was going in alone. He was going to get his revenge, even if it cost him his life.

Your biggest fear of today was coming to fruition. You shouted his name one last time into the air, pushing the waves of sound through the air to him with your magic. It was all you could do left to stop him.

But your effort proved futile. Mere moments later, his white fire was swallowed by the darkness. “NO!” You pusedh Namjoon’s hand off you and surge forward into the cluster of demons. You threw all your grenades to clear an area in front of you wide enough for your magic to be effective in throwing them out of the way or burning them to ashes. Sweat dripped off your face, signaling that most of your magic has been spent. You cursed at yourself for your magic never having as much depth and range as Jungkook’s.

Your hits became less powerful with each one. You could hear Namjoon and the other two Mages calling for you to come back to them rather than fight alone. But it was too late. More demons had already poured behind you and blocked the path like hedges in a never-ending maze in which you can never go back. It wore you down to the bone until you made a futile mistake that put you once again in a vulnerable position.

This was it. You were out of weapons and magic, surrounded by hundreds of horrifying monsters with no one able to help you. Your vision began to grow darker, and for several seconds, you thought you had just entered the deepest, darkest circle of hell.

Then, the sun started to come out. You blinked blearily eyes. The demons began to scurry away from the patches of light shining on the ground back towards their master. You hurried to your feet and dodged creature after creature as they ran past you.

You looked up.

And there was help up on the hill.

Park Jimin was standing in the front. Ripples of magic emanated from him, controlling black tendrils of the darkness from beyond. It twisted and writhed against Jimin’s magic. The monk stood next to him, beating a steady rhythm on his red drum.

Then, there was Min Yoongi, hand-in-hand with Tae’s sister. Around them were hundreds of Scholars dressed in red robes. You couldn’t believe it. They were actually here. You didn’t have much time to think how, but it was apparent enough that Tae’s sister had found Jimin and Yoongi on the road and had convinced them to come.

The way back to the hill became clearer. Teams of healers were dispatched to the wounded and the remaining able-bodied soldiers snuffed out the last of the demons. It invigorated you to keep forging forth. You ran towards Jungkook’s direction and found him lying on the ground. You roll him onto his back. To your relief, he becomes aware of your presence rather quickly. However, it is short-lived after you realize the horrible shape, he is in. Bloodied from fresh wounds, dirt covered his face, and sweat drenched his clothes. His skin was unusually pale, and his lips were cracked from dehydration.

“Hurry, we have to get back to base. You can’t fight like this.” You urge him as you help him get up and put an arm around him for support.

“I’m fine. I’m just a little tired,” he said breathlessly and unconvincingly.

“You’re burnt out.” You hissed at him. “Gosh, you’re so stupid. I can’t believe that you would just go that far alone without anyone to watch your back.” He didn’t have much energy left to fight you dragging him back towards the camp.

Above you, Jimin’s magic kept the darkness at bay. He didn’t seem to be defeating it, but rather buying everyone time to regroup and get back to safety. You crossed the open field back to the bottom of the hill.

“Take the of the injured, eat and rest. Unfortunately, this battle is not over yet.” Seokjin declared to the soldiers, patting them on the back, trying to encourage them. You had been fighting on the field for a number of hours already. Namjoon spotted you with Jungkook, and he rushed over to him to aid you. You refreshed yourself with some water and food as well.

Then, you heard Taehyung calling out his sister’s name, voice hoarse, as he stumbled around the base looking for her. He looked so sick. He was unnaturally pale, which provided a stark contrast against the darkness raging in his veins all over his body. When he finally spotted her, he cursed himself. “What are you doing? You should be on the coast right now! How could you be here?” With every word, he grew more and more upset, and he collapsed to his knees. His sister didn’t say anything; instead, she ran to her brother and wrapped him in a hug.

Yoongi approached them cautiously. Taehyung eyed him wearily and stood shakily to his feet. Yoongi held out his hand, “I’m assuming your Kim Taehyung. I’m Min Yoongi. It’s great to finally meet you.” They shook hands. “Your sister told me a lot about you. She found us. When she was traveling north. But, um… it sounds like she was supposed to go East,” He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “Don’t blame her, though. It’s because of my stubborn ass that she had to come get me so I and my followers would be able to help.”

“Okay, I’ll blame you then,” Taehyung responded with a quip. It definitely wasn’t the politeness Taehyung should have showed to his elder, but also wasn’t a normal day for sure. And Yoongi must’ve also understood Taehyung’s frustration.

“Please don’t fight, Taetae. I couldn’t leave everyone when I need to be here to help win the war.” His sister explained. Immediately, Taehyung’s mood shifted to that of understanding, but concern as well. She has never said something that she didn’t mean or know to be true. “And it requires the help of the Scholars and the last descendant of the Mother Goddess.”

“We also need a vessel,” Yoongi interjected.

“What do you mean?”

“Someone who is willing to sacrifice themselves in order to destroy the Evil One. It has to be a Mage. Humans are not strong enough to handle the integration.”

Taehyung did not hesitate. “I’ll do it.”

“No!” His sister protested.

Yoongi stared at him, surprised that he would volunteer so quickly. “That’s very courageous of you. But you do know that this would mean complete obliteration of your soul? There will be no Paradise afterwards. Only oblivion.”

“I can’t let you do that Taehyung.” Seokjin spoke. “I do not wish for anybody who dies on this field today to go anywhere other than Paradise. There has to be another way.”

“Sadly, there isn’t.” Yoongi said sullenly. “Actually, Taehyung would have to—need to be the vessel. He has the darkness within him. If we are to destroy the Evil One, we have to destroy everywhere he is hiding, even in those that we know.”

“No! I don’t want this to happen!” Tae’s sister cried. “I didn’t want this part to be true…”

Taehyung looked shocked. He felt his heart breaking even more. He bent down to her level in front of her and wiped away her tears. “It’s okay. I’m sick anyway, and this way I can give you what I’ve always wanted for you—a better future. Nothing would make me happier than to have my dying wish for you be fulfilled.” Each word seemed calm and serene.

It only made her sob harder. “I don’t want to be in a world without you.”

“Please… I want to do this. I have to help make it right.” Taehyung pleaded. She didn’t accept it, but you realized she also didn’t have a choice. Taehyung gave her one last hug. He turned to Yoongi, and they headed back up the hill to Jimin.

Seokjin approached you and Jungkook. He spoke specifically to Jungkook, “How are feeling? Are you up for another fight?”

“Yes.”

“Good, because we’ll need your magic for this.”

…

Soon, Jimin’s magic slowed with the beat of the drum until the darkness was allowed to recede back to its master. If this was going to work, Jimin had to redirect his magic. Everyone was prepared this time, however. Soldiers were strategically placed in groups across the plain between the hill and the thunderheads of inky black. Taehyung stood in the center of all of it, chin raised to stare down the enemy. Jungkook was near him, slowly readying his magic for one last spiraling burst of power that could hopefully end this war.

Then, a new beat of the drum began, slow and steady yet more intense than the last time.

The young girl watched the Evil One with careful eyes, and then closed her own beneath her blindfold. She channeled into the depths of her visions until she broke through the bottom-most barrier of her mind into that of the evil entity across the plain. She could sense its unrelenting need to dominate and conquer every living thing it crossed. Everything that it wanted her to see. However, unaware of the true strength of this girl, the Evil One unwittingly revealed everything that she wasn’t meant to see.

Focused and sharp as a new blade, she opened up another channel in her mind—one that would let Jimin in. He saw what she was able to discover about the Evil One and his movements. Thus, began the final plan of attack.

Ever so slowly, Jimin coaxed the darkness away from its master, stealthy like a snake. Except this time, instead of leading it into his grasp, Jimin made it so Taehyung appeared as bait. An oasis amongst endless desert. It should be the easiest part—Taehyung had a piece of them within him. He should seem familiar like an old friend.

Soldiers readied their weapons of choice for when the moment came when the Evil One would soon realize what they were doing. A steady trickle of lesser demons ran out of the shadows but were swiftly defeated.

Everything seemed to be working according to plan. A thought after several tense minutes that sent cold sweat dripping down everyone’s’ spines.

The darkness was close to Taehyung. It curled and slithered towards him, tapping at the air around him until it seemed sure he was safe. It pushed against his chest and began to sink into his skin. Taehyung’s muscles started to tremble at the physical manifestation of evil wrapping around his heart. He tried to keep steady and control his reactions. If he spooked it at all, the plan would go to hell.

But it was so hard. With the intrusion came pain that started out as a deep ache but became so blinding that he couldn’t control his own body anymore.

He fell to his knees.

A forceful disturbance was palpable in the air with a spike of metallic fear that quickly followed.

The earth shook under your feet.

Around you, soldiers looked around wildly, bodies tensed for a fight.

Jimin struggled to maintain control of the hands and feet of the Evil One. Sweat plastered his blue hair to his forehead. The young girl by his side struggled herself to stay within the mind of the Evil One as he relentlessly tried to push her out.

Then, the dark creatures poured out from underneath the cloak of the Evil, and they came back with a vengeance. These were much faster, stronger and smarter—significantly harder to defeat. It took teams of two or three Mages to even take down one.  Seokjin called for everyone’s groups to close in on the center of the formation, where Taehyung was standing. He must be protected at all costs until it’s time. But you were getting hammered out there, much worse than before.

Your fellow Mages fell around you. You tried to help them or see if they could still be saved, but the demons were so aggressive. Each defense you put up they were already a step ahead of you with another offensive attack. It became too much, and you quickly found yourself on the losing side of the fight.

Within the grasp of the demon, ready to be mauled apart by its claws, you watch with wide eyes as a pair of human hands break the monster’s neck.

No. Not exactly human.

“Hoseok!”

“You should be more careful, little Mage. These guys aren’t as friendly as they appear.” He threw the carcass aside and spat on it. “Are you hurt?”

“A little, but I’m fine. Thank you for coming.” Your expression of gratitude was strained as you both work to fight off another demon.

“Don’t thank me. I didn’t come for your cause. My friends and I came here for revenge.” With another trick of the eye and snap of his wrist, he downed another enemy.

“We?”

As if in answer, the air chilled with the presence of thousands of death spirits—hungry for the blood of their masters who hold their souls hostage. “Fall back with the others, y/n. Protect your vessel. We’ll take care of the rest of these motherfuckers.” Hoseok cracked his knuckles and stretched his neck to the side in intimidation.

You fell back, urging others to follow you to form a defensive cluster around Taehyung. The darkness around him kept trying to pull back. Jimin wasn’t going to be able to do this alone. He needed help, and thankfully he had some.

Yoongi directed his followers to grab a hold of the Evil One and bring it to the vessel. Hundreds of red robed Scholars raised their hands in unison and created a force of energy that sucked all the air inward towards the circle around Taehyung like funnel. The dark clouds followed, allowing the sun to shine through.

The darkness became a tornado above you, more and more of it being sucked into the spiral that kept going down, down, down into Taehyung. His body blackened with the presence of the darkness inside him. He was crying out in pain or rage. It could not be distinguished because no one knew if it was still Taehyung or if it was the Evil One. One of them stopped fighting because then the rest of the Evil One rushed into Taehyung.

It was silent for several moments. The pounding sun was a shock to everyone, but a welcome one that helped to invigorate many of the soldiers. Taehyung was heaving on the ground, trying to catch his breath. His breathing slowed, and he stood up. But the eyes that stared back were not Taehyung’s.

“NOW!” Jimin bellowed from the hilltop.

Jungkook let his white fire rage forth towards the Evil One. You prepared for the winning blow, but it didn’t come. The Evil One was quick to react. He threw up a defensive wall of his own, blocking Jungkook’s flames from reaching him. Jungkook pushed harder, willing his magic to overcome the Evil One’s dark powers. You could tell it was wearing on him.

You had to do something.

You ran to him and threw your magic in with his.

“Y/n, what are you doing? Get back!” He urged you.

“I told you you’re not doing this alone because you don’t have to. You never let me fall, and I’m going to return the sentiment.” You grabbed his hand in yours and channeled your magic to him. The white flames got hotter and brighter.

He turned to face you and saw a familiar light in your gaze. He was reminded of that night in the dungeon in the Citadel all those years ago when he helped you express your magic. Suddenly, he didn’t see this war as revenge anymore. No, it was about burning out the impurities in this world and remolding in into something new and beautiful. It’s not about hate—it’s about love.

The world became much brighter, but the flow of magic persisted. The Evil One tried to fight it, but he couldn’t beat something that time and time again survived even the hardest of days. Jungkook’s fire broke through and penetrated the soul of the dark entity. The body that it held hostage roared in fury and pain. The rivers of black ink that covered the body burned away and disintegrated into ash in the air. The Evil One tried to escape the body, but the soul within kept him grounded and forced him to endure every second of his lasting defeat.

Around you and Jungkook, every Mage and human was silent as they watched the long era of death and suffering come to an end. No longer would they have to look West and wonder how long they had to run before they were next.

The last of the darkness left Taehyung’s body. The flow of magic stopped.

It was over.

Taehyung collapsed to the ground. Namjoon and Tae’s sister rush to him.

You barely catch Jungkook as he falls to the ground from exhaustion. This weight caused you to sink your own tired body to the grass. He groans. His skin was burning hot. You used the last bit of your energy left to cool him off. He appears to be alright otherwise.

You’re thankful. He chose not to lose himself or let the darkness take him with it.

“He’s not breathing!” Namjoon shouted. More medical personnel ran to help him. You watch helplessly as they tried to save him.

Yoongi and Jimin descended the hill to assess the situation. Their expressions mirrored everyone else’s of deep sadness. It was as though the war wasn’t won. Tae’s sister tugged on Jimin’s arm and pleaded, “Please, please do something to help him.” Tears fell down her face and soaked her blindfold.

“I can’t. I don’t have the power to bring anybody back.” He replies softly laced with disappointment.

“Ask her.” She begged. Jimin knew who she was referring too.

He looked at her in earnest. “I’ll try.” Jimin sat next to Taehyung’s body and placed his hands on his chest. He closed his eyes and steadied his breathing. “Mother…” He seemed to search for her, chin slightly swaying and turning until he stopped at the sky. “This man is… He’s a good man. Better than good—he is the most courageous and selfless person I’ve never met. He gave up his life for the world you’ve given us… And I think he deserves a second chance to live a great life.” Jimin opened his eyes, flooded with tears.

A tear fell from his face, and with it—

It started to rain. The droplets rejuvenated the life in every living thing around it. The grass perked up from its roots. The leaves on trees became greener. Men and women tilted their heads back to the skies to feel the cool water on their skin.

Taehyung took his first breath for the second time.

“Tae!” His sister was overjoyed.

He blinked blearily towards the sky before he began to focus on the scene around him. He finally saw a big smile on her face—for the first time since he could ever remember. “Hey,” he greets her with his own smile. “What happened? Did I hit my head or something?”

Everyone around him lets out a chuckle. “Something like that,” Jimin smiles at him. “Good to finally meet you formally, Kim Taehyung. I’m Park Jimin.” He shakes Taehyung’s hand. Taehyung returns the sentiment. It puts everything at ease, and the recovery finally can start.

…

A couple days later, after everyone tended to the wounded, buried their dead and began to rebuild the settlement, Tae was walking with his sister to find Jimin. Suddenly, she wandered off. Taehyung found her just outside the edge of the woods.

Standing before a gate that wasn’t there before.

These white walls were nothing like the walls of the Citadel. These walls were more like a white picket fence as opposed to towering giants. Vines crept up the sides of the walls as if nobody bothered to take care of the place. But still, there was something about it…

Then, he knew.

“This is it.” His sister said. Taehyung kneeled in front of her. She looked beyond him towards the gates. Carefully, Taehyung gently tugged the blindfold from his sister’s eyes. And was greeted with warm brown eyes instead of milky ones he saw so many years ago. She smiled at him. It made Taehyung’s heart soar.

She was no longer cursed with being a Seer, and she can now start living a real life. Now she was just another human girl.

A rumbling sounded from the white gates, and they began to open. Taehyung stood next to his sister and took her hand. They watched as a new world was revealed to them.

“Taehyung!” Jimin called from the tree line. Then, he saw the open gates. “What is that?”

Upon hearing the commotion, you, Jungkook, Namjoon and Yoongi emerge from the woods. You saw what was beyond the gates. Untouched earth that was luscious and green. A towering rock guarded over the whole oasis. Other people from the settlement came as well, wanting to see what the excitement was about. Seokjin appeared not too long after, carrying a bird cage in his hand.

He stepped to the front of the crowd and released the dove from its cage. Everyone waited anxiously. And then the dove came flying back with several over doves. No one could believe it. This was it.

The Promised Land.

Cheers went around the crowd. Seokjin, who grinned broadly, waved for everyone to follow him. They ran with him into the new land. You squeezed Jungkook’s hand in excitement. He looked so hopeful, eyes sparkling with happiness. He pulled you into a kiss. Like the first time he kissed you, everything seemed right.

“Little Mage,” you turned to see Hoseok behind you. He smiled at you in greeting, “I wanted to thank you.”

“For what?” You asked.

“For finally giving me something that brings me happiness. You and everyone.” He gazed towards the Promised Land. “I can finally be free.” The way he said free—he didn’t mean just on this Earth. Hoseok walked to the gates of the Promised Land.

And disappeared.

Hoseok’s spirit traveled to Paradise, where he was finally reunited with sister.

“Come on,” Jungkook jerked his head to the open gates, “let’s go in.” He smiled lovingly at you. Hand-in-hand, you walked into a new world together.

A world where Mages live freely and peacefully with humans.

Seokjin decided to retire his leadership position among the settlement. Namjoon took up the mantle and became a great leader. A leader that brought together mankind and the Mages so they would live in harmony.

Yoongi and his followers were released from their vows as Scholars and went on to live normal lives. He lost his Seer abilities just like Tae’s sister, who he realized was not his sister, Ella. However, after the Evil One was vanquished, he felt reunited with Ella in spirit.

Jimin chose to lead a quiet life after the war. He remained with the settlement, finally feeling like he has a family with the other boys.

In fact, even during all the hardship and tough days, all of you gained a new family; and the bonds between all of you were stronger than any force to exist on this earth.

[apple-grass-and-smiles]

A Death By a Thousand Cuts Would Be Easier

Summary: A brief history of some of the moments concerning Bruce Wayne that Selina Kyle will remember until the day she dies.

Author’s Note: So, a bit of an explanation of how this whole thing works. The italicized headers are each things or phrases from the bridge of the stunning “Death By a Thousand Cuts” by Taylor Swift. Under each header is a drabble (none are exactly 100 words, so please forgive me) that is in some way connected with whatever the header is. They are not in chronological order, but hopefully it shouldn’t be too confusing. There are also some shoutouts to some of the wonderful Batcat Fam sprinkled throughout the story as a sort of thank you for being such amazing friends. Also, thank you to Itzel for clarifying what dances Bruce may have actually learned in Mexico.

A Death By a Thousand Cuts Would Be Easier

Looking back on it, Selina gave a lot of things to Bruce Wayne. And when he left, each of those things cut her as they left with him. Her heart, her trust, her love all cut her as he flew away on a plane that didn’t have a seat on it for her. The wound he gave her when he left wasn’t what had nearly killed her. It had been the thousands of cuts those pieces of her had left.

My Heart

Selina’s heart felt like it was about to beat out of her chest. Obviously she knew that wasn’t possible, but it felt like it. She hadn’t even been a tenth as afraid as she was now when they had been fighting that stupid fence to try and get the necklace a hour ago. But making her next request was probably going to be the most terrifying thing Selina had ever done.

“Will you return it?” Selina asks, putting the pearl necklace on the table.

She couldn’t bear to do it herself. The very idea of walking into the house where Ivy had killed that scientist and acting like returning a stolen necklace was the same thing as bringing back the woman’s husband made Selina want to run and hide for the rest of her life. When she weighed the cost of returning the necklace herself against the terror that would accompany asking Bruce for such a personal and vulnerable favor, her fear of facing the woman whose life and necklace she had stolen was just ever so slightly more terrifying. She could trust Bruce to take her heart and not destroy it, but there was no way she would trust herself to return a necklace to a woman whose heart had been eviscerated while Selina took her pearls.

My Hips

Bruce claims he learned how to salsa when he was in Mexico. Selina thinks he’s lying but has no proof to back it up other than that a trip to Mexico does not fit into the timeline she’s working on forming of the past ten years of Bruce’s life since he skipped town. But, his salsa dancing was really good. Like, really, really good. It seemed insane that Bruce had left Gotham a decade ago unable to do much more than a basic waltz and returned a master of just about every style of dance they’ve encountered at galas thus far. Filing away a mental note to interrogate Bruce later about his new found dancing ability, Selina returned to focusing on the mission, searching the room for Penguin.

That is until Bruce moved his hands from her back and down to her hips and any hope she had of looking at anything other than Bruce’s eyes flew out the window.

My Body

Lying paralyzed in a hospital bed as she heard the sounds of Gotham falling to pieces around her was a nightmare so horrible Selina couldn’t even have imagined it. She still wakes up every couple of hours with a jolt and, sometimes, a scream from dreams that seem so real she expects Jeremiah to be the one grabbing her and not Bruce or Alfred or one of the nurses. It had been a week since everything had collapsed in on itself and her world had been torn apart by a bullet and the bombs that blew the bridges and she was only just now beginning to reach a point where she was willing to talk to Bruce. It was stupid to blame her new, useless body on him because he wasn’t the one who pulled the gun’s trigger. He hadn’t made her go to the manor that night. He hadn’t forced them to be friends. He hadn’t made her lie about seeing who killed his parents. But if she didn’t blame him for the bullet that might as well have ended her life, then the only person left in this hospital to blame would be herself. And, at the end of the day, it was better to believe she’d given up her body, her freedom, and her life for the boy who had spent the last 96 hours in a hospital chair next to her than to think about how all the choices that had led her to this moment were her own.

My Love

For a young woman whose entire appeal is that she slinks in and out of people’s lives like a cat with absolutely zero emotional connection to those she interacts with, Selina loves a surprisingly large number of people, places, and things. She loves to play with the cats who frequent her apartment. She loves the little Mexican bakery around the corner from Cornelia Street. She loves her collection of black leather jackets that has only continued to grow. She loves Gotham and punk music and greasy, cheap pizza and the way the sky turns pink as the sun sets and rises each day. But, and this is a fact she buries so deep down inside that it only has a chance to surface when she stays still for more than a handful of seconds, she loves Bruce Wayne at least as much as all of those things combined. She never really told him when he was in Gotham and she swears she’ll never tell him even if he comes back one day, but it’s a small fact she keeps tucked away and it makes her heart just a little bit more full than it was before.

Like a Bad Drug

Selina hadn’t done drugs before. It was a bit ridiculous considering she was 18 and had been living on the streets her whole life. Most kids with stories like hers got their first taste of drugs before they were 10, but Selina’s ability to pick pockets and get in and out of places undetected required her to be sober, so drugs had been firmly off the table. Other kids could be high and still get by, but if she was even the littlest bit not completely in her own head, any attempts she made to steal things would be a catastrophe.

Selina hadn’t done drugs before, but she also hadn’t been abandoned by Bruce Wayne without a good-bye beyond a small note before. Well, there’s a first time for everything, Selina thought as she snorted the white powder.

In a Haunted Club

Rumor has it that Bruce Wayne is in England. No one has any proof, but there are pictures of an heiress named Kayliegh wandering London with a guy dressed in all black who if you look at the picture from exactly the right angle and have no idea what Bruce looks like, could be the missing Wayne. But Selina actually knows what Bruce looks like, has memorized every line of his face and can still hear his laugh sometimes as she falls asleep. But the tabloids with the pictures were everywhere today and she’s tired of hearing his name whispered by Gothamites everywhere she goes.

So she heads to the Sirens and hopes the sound of the club will drown out the idea that maybe he had moved on and maybe he was in London and maybe she wasn’t part of his story anymore. The alcohol doesn’t help her shake the feeling that a ghostly Bruce Wayn is watching her from just outside of peripheral vision, but that’s not enough to dissuade her from taking another shot.

Our Songs

Once upon a time, Selina had tried to learn to play the ukulele. Someone had thrown the instrument in the trash when she was about seven and Selina had picked it out of the dumpster. It had been painted blue with a picture of a flower on it and she had plucked at the strings and dragged it along with her for a couple of weeks. In the end, it had been abandoned one day when she had to run from the police who were very intent on bringing her back to St. Maria’s. It had just been another one of her dreams that got discarded on a Gotham street, just like she had been.

A decade later she’s stuck in a hospital bed and the doctors are talking about how she needs to adjust to this new normal and that there are plenty of new skills she can learn that don’t require her to actually move much. Selina only half listens to them because the other half of her mind is occupied with trying to think of a reason to keep on going. Bruce brings her a ukulele the next day because he figures it’ll keep her mind off of the impending surgeries and that if she can at least learn one song maybe the doctors will stop hovering as much. They learn how to stumble through “Mary Had a Little Lamb” together and even though Selina doesn’t put any of her heart into the song, Bruce is enthusiastic enough for both of them.

Our Films

“You’re telling me you’ve never seen Star Wars?” Bruce is 15 and completely incredulous. Selina is curled into a ball on the couch, completely and utterly unperturbed by Bruce’s impending, Star Wars-induced breakdown.

“When was I supposed to have the time to sit down and watch a bunch of movies? It’s not like I have tons of downtime to spend watching Spock hit people with laser swords.” Selina gestures impatiently for the bowl of imported European chocolates by Bruce’s left hand while Bruce blinks in shock at his friend.

“Well, you have time now. I hope you’re comfortable because you’re not leaving here until you understand how wrong you are when you say that Star Wars is about Spock hitting people with laser swords.”

“Whatever. But if I’m going to be stuck here for eternity you better hand me that chocolate before I smother you with a pillow.”

Bruce hands her the candy and joins her on the couch as the opening crawl appears on the screen. What he doesn’t know is that Selina has a secret: She’s seen every second of Star Wars multiple times before, but she figured that a Star Wars marathon would be the ideal way for her to try every sweet in the Wayne manor. No one could say that Selina couldn’t play dumb when it suited her.

United We Stand

The Year the Bridges Blew always feels a bit like a dream when Selina looks back on it. She can’t quite pinpoint many details from the year and so much of it seems to fade when she thinks about it too hard. Granted, if it were up to most of the citizens of Gotham, that year would be erased from everyone’s mind so that they could all move forward without the looming fear that one day they will be trapped in their city again.

But there are some memories from that time that Selina wouldn’t erase. She likes to revisit the summer evening she spent one day with Bruce, lounging on a rooftop, watching some teens below trying to set off fireworks. Despite the kids' shouts, the claps of the fireworks, and the general noise that always seemed present in Gotham and hand only gotten louder since the bridges blew, the moment felt quiet. She had slipped her hand into his as a red firework had started and sputtered out and for a single, glorious evening she really felt that she had a teammate. Someone who would still be there the next morning and the morning after that and so on until they had no more mornings to wake up to. In that moment, she felt united with Bruce in a way she never had before. You’d have to offer her a fortune larger than the Waynes’ to get her to give up that memory.

Our Country, a Lawless Land

Gotham was Selina’s city. This fact was the only one she knew so well that it felt like it was ingrained in every muscle and sinew and bone and ligament in her body. She had been born here, had grown up here, had been abandoned here, had been killed by Jeremiah here and then brought back to life here. To try and separate Gotham from Selina would be like trying to separate a single thread from an intricate tapestry. It might be possible, but why would you even bother?

That’s why, no matter how hard she tries, Selina can’t understand why Bruce left, why he always kept leaving Gotham. They built their relationship on the sound of their feet running on Gotham’s street. They had laughed together on Gotham bridges. Had shouted and whispered declarations of love with Gotham’s skyline as their backdrop. Every single part of what made them them was entrenched in the city. And, somewhere in the back of her mind, Selina realized that if Bruce could leave Gotham, the city that had made him, then that meant he could leave her too.

Our Paper-Thin Plans

“I think I’d want a house with a window seat.”

“A window seat? Out of all the things a house could have, your request is for a window seat?”

“Yeah. I like them.”

“Do you spend a lot of time in the window seats back home?”

“Yeah, if you and Alfred aren’t bothering me that’s usually where I am.”

“How have I never noticed this? Alfred, did you know that Selina loves window seats? … Okay, how did everyone know this but me?”

“Maybe your powers of observation just aren’t as good as you think they are.”

“Fine. Whatever. I’ll make a note that when we rebuild the manor to add in more window seats.”

“You better or else I might have to find some other billionaire to hang out with because window seats are a deal breaker in this whole thing.”

My Time

Selina’s time is a valuable commodity. Every second she’s spending doing something is a second she could be casing a jewelry store or picking pockets downtown. But, sometimes even a young thief needs a night off. Selina’s plan is simple, she’ll feed her current cats- Isis and Coco- and then take a shower before eating some Chinese from the place across the street that always has just a bit too much food left over come closing time.

At least that was the plan before Bruce Wayne knocked on the door (He knocked. Like she paid rent for the place.) and asked if she was up to anything. Of course, when she planned on a quiet night, Bruce wanted her to keep him from dying on some fool’s quest. She only rolled her eyes once before grabbing her leather jacket and heading out the door. She’d always have time for him.

My Wine

Selina doesn’t usually drink wine. She’s had a variety of them, ranging in cost from a couple of bucks to more than a year’s worth of rent, and she honestly hasn’t liked any of them. But a couple of times a year since she’s turned 21, she gets a small invitation in the mail inviting her to a quiet dinner at the new Wayne manor. Alfred always pulls out a bottle of what he promises her is good wine and they usually finish it by the time dinner is pushed to the end of the table and desert is being savored. Sometimes the invitation is for a special date, like Christmas or Alfred’s birthday, but other times there is no rhyme or reason that Selina can discern for the dinner. This time the invitation comes and is signed by both Alfred and Bruce and a not small part of Selina is bitter that Bruce is trying to infringe on the bond that she and Alfred forged in, and because of, his absence. She doesn’t show up on the appointed date and instead hacks the Wayne bank account and makes a very generous donation to a local animal shelter in Bruce’s name. Alfred sends her a bottle of wine a few days after they were supposed to meet that he claims is spectacular. She can’t taste the difference between it and the box wine she bought one time.

My Spirit

Selina’s birthday is either December 1st or December 3rd. Maria says it’s the 1st, but all her official documents cite it as the 3rd. Selina knows it’s weird to not really know her birthday, but it’s not like she grew up with birthday parties so it never really was an issue. But then she accidentally reveals that she has two birthdays to Bruce when they’re 13 and suddenly these previously mostly meaningless days in December are arriving with more pomp and circumstance than she had ever anticipated.

They throw a party on the 1st with games and food and gifts at the manor. Alfred prepares all the fanciest foods and Selina is asked to wear a dress to the party. (She does, but she complains about it the whole time.) It’s a fun, if strange event, and Selina enjoys herself. But then the 3rd rolls around and she returns to her apartment exhausted from running all over town in the snow to find Bruce with an enormous pile of take out from at least half a dozen of her favorite restaurants. He’s brought a projector and some movies and pillows and blankets. They make a pillow fort before settling down with the food. Snuggled beneath a pile of blankets, with some old movie about a guy in a wheelchair spying on his neighbors from his window, Selina has a shining moment where she truly understands peace. For once her mind, her spirit, her body, her heart, every part of her, feels completely at peace. It’s the best birthday gift anyone could have given her.

My Trust

She doesn’t wear the ring on her finger for a multitude of reasons. It could get lost or she could scratch herself or it could get caught on something or it could be noticed by someone and then the whole world might know about the secret Selina had been carrying around for about two weeks. It isn’t that she is ashamed or embarrassed about the engagement, but she likes the idea that this particular moment is being shared only with the people she trusts to treat it with love and kindness. She knows that the world, that Gotham, will pry and pick at the happiness her engagement is giving her, but if she keeps the ring on a chain around her neck, close to her heart, then maybe she can keep this beautiful moment going just a bit longer.

A Thousand Cuts

The bells ring louder than she had expected but the crowd of people are even louder. Selina’s still not used to the public side of being connected with this new Bruce Wayne, but she loves the private part of him too much to be dissuaded by camera flashes and people shouting his name. As they race from the the entrance of the church (Martha and Thomas got married there, so Bruce felt getting married there was the closest he’d get to having his parents at his wedding) to the open car, she focuses on the rhythmic ringing of the bells, blocking out the shouts and questions and rice that is being thrown at her. And each ring seems to to call out to her:

Bong! Don’t give up on him.

Bong! He’s got you.

Bong! He may have cut you a thousand times…

Bong! But he’ll heal you a thousand and one.

[gendryaweeklyupdates]

All Updated Gendrya work this week (08-Mar-20 to 14-Mar-20)

Note: all dates are in dd-mm-yy

Redemption by LME ( 16/? as of 08-3-20)

Imagining Arya and Gendry's reunion when the Game of Thrones is finally over. This story is focused on the voyage of 'Arya the Adventurer' on her ship Nymeria, after she asks, "What is west of Westeros?".

Rating:M

Even the Darkest Night will end. by @lianria (12/? as of 08-3-20)

Arya reaches out to old allies for help, and the pack begins to reform. Pack doesn't always mean just wolves anymore.

Rating:M

Runaway With Me - Part 2 by @the-end-is-kigh (14/14 as of 08-3-20) (multiple updates this week)

Arya Stark was not happy when her family was forced to move to King's Landing due to her father's promotion. But at the same time, it allowed her to escape her problems back home, allowed her to meet a cousin she'd never known, get a job doing what she loves and there's the issue of a certain mechanic.

Maybe the move would be worth it?

But the problems from back home follow her, her only hope is to keep running, until she can't run any more.

This is the reaction mostly to the letters Arya and Gendry send back home.

Rating:T

One for the road by @obsessivewriter (9/9 as of 8-3-20)

As a survivor, Arya always knew she was living on borrowed time, five years in remission she had done almost everything on her bucket list until her time ran up.

That time is up now and there is only one thing she never got to experience: falling in love.

Gendry will do anything for his best friend, and really how hard could it be to fall for someone you already love?

Rating:E

The Ghost of the Red Keep by TheDameintheRaininMaine (4/? as of 8-3-20)

Lysa never sent her letter. Bran was never pushed. Five Starks make the journey to King's Landing.

And one day beneath the Red Keep, Arya hears a voice she decides must be a ghost.

Rating:T

Evading Capture by @katlyn1948 (9/? as of 8-3-20)

Arya evades the brotherhood, but fails and Gendry can't seem to keep his eyes of their captive.

Rating:M

A Thunder In Our Hearts by hungerwolves (2/? as of 9-3-20)

In which Arya has to marry lord Gendry Baratheon, the legitimized bastard son of the King in the South, to avoid war between the 6 Kingdoms and the North.

Unrated

Heavy Lies The Crown by OneMoreNight1996 (7/? as of 13-3-20) (multiple updates this week)

When the truth of the Baratheon children is revealed, King Robert orders the execution of Cersei and Jamie Lannister and exiles the children to Casterly Rock. This leaves him without an heir so he is quickly forced to legitimize a bastard blacksmith brought to him by Ned Stark and, in the eye of the King, his heir is in need of a bride.

Rating:E

The Last Time by @yanak324 (14/? as of 9-3-20)

After a decade away, Arya returns home. Encountering the boy she left behind is not in her plans.

At least she’s always known the Gods have a funny sense of humor.

Rating:E

True Love's Kiss by @prettyyvacant321 (2/? as of 9-3-20)

Gendrya Sleeping Beauty AU with a few twists!

Based off the January (oops I'm late but what's new) prompt from @days-of-gendrya on Tumblr.

Rating:M

Head of the River by @everyl1ttleth1ng (13/? as of 14-3-20) (multiple updates this week)

Gendry Waters, multiple Pan Westeros Games gold medal winning rower, has been the highly successful and well-loved Director of Rowing at the exclusive Riverlands Grammar School for six years now. Ser Davos Seaworth has very recently retired as school principal and been replaced by the much younger multiple gold medal winning fencer from the North, Dr Arya Stark.

One morning Gendry finds himself approached by his new boss. She wants him to teach her how to row.

(In which Gendry is still rowing AND Gendry and Arya spend time in a boat together.)

Rating:T

Gym Daze by @dragongoddess13 (5/5 as of 14-3-20) (multiple updates this week)

For years they worked out together. In high school he drove them to the gym every afternoon after school or after extracurriculars. In college, they went first thing in the morning before classes and after graduation, when they both moved down to King’s Landing, they found a new gym and a new schedule. 

Or how Gendry and Arya learn to use their frequent trips to the gym in ways that were a whole new kind of satisfying.

Rating:E

I Wanna Be Yours by @sneetchstar (15/? as of 12-3-20) (multiple updates this week)

Gendrya one-shot collection.

Rating:E

When Winter Comes by OneMoreNight1996 (2/? as of 11-3-20) (multiple updates this week)

Winter sets in after the Long Night is over leaving everyone stuck in Winterfell and unable to go south. This causes some tension within the group as secrets are revealed and promises are made.

Rating:E

The odd girl who smelled the rain by @blue-nebulae (5/6 as of 12-3-20)

Gendry noticed her the very first week of the semester.

Something about her caught his eye, he didn’t know exactly what it was, perhaps the fact that she was a very pretty short girl or the fact that she was carrying a bright yellow umbrella, and using it almost like a cane, on a perfect summery day and that was odd.

Rating:T

More Than Words by @keepitmovinshawty (6/? as of 12-3-20)

Arry and Steffon first meet on the beaches of Braavos while escaping their responsibilities. Both ignorant of their true identities, it comes as a surprise when they meet again on a more formal scale and try to handle a relationship while the world watches.

Rating:M

Bad Pick-up lines Work Best by JoPoGirlsKickAss (17/? as of 12-3-20)

Gendry's life is suddenly sprinkled with bad pick up lines--at first he ignores them, then he realizes they might all be from the same person and that person might just be the death of him.

In which Arya flirts hard and Gendry is stuck between a rock and a hard place.

[Slow(ish) burn until chapter 15]

Rating:T

The Lost Prince by @psychvamp25 (37/40 as of 12-3-20)

The first Baratheon prince died in his crib, this is known.

Arya Stark comes to King's Landing when her father becomes Hand of King and her sister is set to marry the Crown Prince, Joffrey. Arya journeys to the street of steal and meets a handsome young blacksmith. Little does she know, that her relationship with this blacksmith could change the future of the Seven Kingdoms.

Rating:T

A Dance of Shadows by Faiseuse_d_Histoires (29/50 as of 13-3-20) (significant Gendrya with Jonerys)

It’s been one year since the death of Daenerys Targaryen, called by some "the mad queen", and the North and the Six Kingdoms try to rebuild all that was lost. Jon Snow had disappeared beyond the Wall, his wolf last seen near Hardhome. Queen Sansa "the Wise" is facing unrest in the nearby villages, which leads her to make questionable choices in the eyes of her people. In the South, king Bran the Broken fell seemingly ill and fear for his life makes people uneasy about the succession.

As once again instability risks to break the kingdoms, a hero reappears, with the name of a long-feared enemy, and an old song is beginning to be sung once again, with fire and ice meeting for one last dance.

Not mentioned, but coming: Some news from the iron islands and Dorne, trouble coming from Essos… oh, and some resurrection, perhaps.

Rating:M

The Prince That Didn't Come by @igitnothin (61/63 as of 13-3-20)

On an normal winter day, Hot Pie happily delivered two meat pies and a jug of ale to a waiting table.

There was no interruption from his ordinary work. No happy reunion, no thrilling tales, and no missing Stark girls to steal his food and change the world. There was nothing but another group of hungry mouths to feed.

Or Arya Stark does not visit the Crossroads Inn, and the world of ice and fire is changed forever.

Unrated

then we take berlin by @evax3 (14/20 as of 13-3-20) (equally Theon/Robb)

After Petyr Baelish tragically suffocated on a gigot before he was able to poison Jon Arryn, Westeros fought in united strength against the White Walkers and built up a diplomatic relationship with Queen Daenerys in Meereen after the victory.

So, the land was at peace, the winter was over and 2 years later Theon, Robb and Arya sat together in Winterfell, bored to fucking death.

Fortunately, distraction seemed within reach, as Theon discovered a book in Maester Luwin’s library, maybe solving their problem. Promising the opportunity to travel back in time and experience one of the big battles again, they’d fought in the past.

But mixing the ingredients, something went wrong and instead of arriving back on the field of the second Battle of the Dawn, they found themselves in Berlin of the 21st century, still wearing their thick furs and understanding not a single word.

Putting their hopes in a certain dark-haired goldsmith from California, who kindly takes them in, they tried their best to somehow find their way back home and find a lot more in the process.

Rating:M

Prompts by @psychvamp25 (9/? as of 14-3-20) (multiple updates this week)

A collection of any of the prompts I get. Will be standalone little ficlets.

Rating:G

Through the storms by @nikelaos87 (3/? as of 14-3-20)

The sequel of "An empty shell"

«I won't marry you»

«You can't»

Rating:M

You Feel Like Moonlight On My Skin by @randifrnz (3/5 as of 14-3-20)

After six months in the capital, it is time the future King and Queen of Westeros continue the envoy through the kingdoms of the lands to know and build relationships with their people. Throughout their journey, the crown prince and princess grow even closer and grow up as well. Arya navigates what it means to be a woman grown and what it means to want.

Rating:E

Masterlink for the week: here

[chucksbruins]

author’s note:  First of all I need to say the biggest thank you to everyone who took the time to read the first part, you all left so many amazingly kind messages and I was absolutely blown away! A special shoutout to @seggstars and @psychospeak-blog for being so encouraging <3 If you ever feel so inclined, I’d love to talk to you guys so feel free to drop into my asks and let me know your favorite lines and any predictions you might have for this fic!!

word count: 2.5k

warnings: drinking, swearing

Part 1

c2. Unexpected and Unprepared

I was completely and utterly exhausted as I slumped onto the now familiar barstool of Pel’s Pub. Five weeks had passed since my first visit to the small bar, whose heavy wooden door served to be a beacon of warmth against the bitter cold nights that settled in Dallas during February. Having grown up in Philly,I thought I was prepared for any sort of weather but Dallas was testing me more than I had expected. The cool nights failed to be accompanied by a familiar white dusting, leaving only barren trees and my breath in front of me with nothing to force me to appreciate the time of year.

I’d found myself frequenting Pel’s at the end of every week, finding comfort in the dim lights and murmured conversations of the other regular patrons. Pel and his wife Alice truly fit the mold of what I’d expected from the South, always greetingher with a welcoming smile and a genuine kindness expressed through long conversations over pitchers of good beer. I’d learned the two had met their sophomore year of college – Pel the school’s football kicker and Alice his quiet but feisty English TA. Pel could talk for hours about how lovely his wife was and the girl couldn’t help but always smile goofily, the warm beer-induced flush extending from her cheeks deep into her heart. It was nice, I thought, to be reminded of what true love looked like – a stark contrast to the definition of love that I had believed in for the past decade.

“You seem tired today hon’, everything alright?” Alice asked, sliding a beer across the counter to rest in front of her.

I let out a heavy sigh, “Just exhausted, I knew teaching fifth grade was going to be a hands-on job I just don’t think I realized how hands on it really was.”

That was the truth – I had wanted to be an elementary school teacher for as long as I could remember, and I knew from my years of interning in classrooms as a teaching assistant that teaching meant way more than just being a glorified babysitter, but nothing could prepare me for what it was like to have a classroom all on your own. The twenty-three kids who lined up outside my classroom door every morning were, in my unbiased opinion, just about the best group of kids a first time teacher could ask for. However, that didn’t mean they didn’t exhaust me with their endless questions and energy, and after five weeks of running after them day after day, I was ready to crawl under the covers and hide there until the only way I was setting foot back into that classroom was if our principal physically dragged her.  

There were other parts of teaching that I hadn’t been prepared for either – the complete and utter lack of funding for supplies, let alone decorations meant I had squeezed every extra penny I could find into crayons, stickers, posters and wallpaper to distract from the dismal grey brick walls but the room still resembled a prison cell more than it did a welcoming classroom.

Alice chuckled, “I bet those kids just absolutely adore you, I know I would have loved for our Aiden to end up with you as his teacher – maybe then he’d have liked school a bit more!”

I smiled tiredly and let out a small laugh, “I don’t think I’ll be getting any awards for being a life-changing teacher any time soon”

“Well not with that attitude hon’! I’ll leave ya be, don’t want to sound too much like your mother, I’m sure you get enough of it as is”

I stared wide-eyed at Alice before forcing my face to normalcy, shooting the woman my best attempt at a smile and hoped she hadn’t noticed the momentary freeze, but before I could get too lost in thought I heard the barstool beside me scrape against the floor.

“A teacher, eh?”

Of course. Of freaking course he would show up tonight of all nights when my hair hadn’t been washed in two three days with my face bare and limbs thrown into a pair of leggings and old, ratty Dartmouth t-shirt. Not that I had dressed up all the other times I had dragged myself to Pel’s, but I’d at least made the effort of having showered in the last 24 hours on the off chance that the annoying brunette would make an appearance. I did try to shower daily for reasons other than maybe seeing a boy, but he was definitely at the back of my mind the couple of other times I’d considered showing up to Pel’s a little bit greasy. After five weeks and no reappearance, I figured I was safe and yet here I sat, face-to-face with the bearded not-so-stranger from my first visit to the bar.

“Fifth grade” I responded, hoping short answers would give the boy the hint that I wasn’t in the mood for his flirting tonight.

“Damn, wish I’d had you as my fifth-grade teacher, maybe I wouldn’t have dropped out in middle school if I knew I had you to make proud,” he flashed his eyebrows, shooting me a grin that was growing all too familiar for my liking – as was the feeling in my stomach that occurred every time he flashed it.

“Pretty sure you can’t drop out until high school bud, you must have been a real delinquent if they let you give up that early”

He barked out a laugh, his grin never faltering.

“I’m just kidding, wanted to see if I could get a smile out of you. You’ll be happy to know I never actually dropped out – some might have even called me a star student”

I couldn’t help myself from rolling my eyes, shooting him the most unimpressed look I could muster.

“Let me guess, you slept with all your teachers?”

“Just the hottie in the administrative office who could hack the system and change all my grades.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, a giggle escaping my lips before I could trap my lip in my teeth to stop any more laughter from escaping. He was so obviously a fuckboy it was almost comical, but I had to hand it to him for how easily it seemed to come to him. I’d encountered too many guys to count who were just straight up assholes with such an obvious disregard for the idea of respecting women, but it was clear the man standing in front of me wasn’t like that. He was just a natural smooth talker whose good looks had obviously gotten him through life judging by the expensive watch that adorned his left wrist. Maybe he was a model or something.

“So Eliza Mae, you’re a teacher, I’m guessing you went to Dartmouth which means you’re a real nerd and you like to spend your free time drinking alone in this pub – I’ve heard AA can really change your life, might want to look into it,’ he joked, his grin and gleaming eyes just begging you to get fired up.

“You always insult the girls you’re trying to sleep with?”  I asked, raising an eyebrow as my mouth pulled into a smirk.

“Who said I was trying to sleep with you?”  

“I’m a female, aren’t I?” I shot back, taking another sip of my beer to hide the flush that had erupted across my cheeks.

He laughed again, this stupid loud belly laugh that caused him to throw his head back before settling his eyes on me once again.

“Touché Eliza Mae, touché”

“It’s just Eliza, and it doesn’t seem fair that you know not only my first and middle name and you haven’t even bothered to tell me yours.”

He looked a little bit surprised at my comment, probably thrown by the fact that I would even care to know what his first name was after my harsh response to his attempts to chat me up.

“It’s Tyler,” he said “Tyler uh, Seguin”

“You sure? You seem a bit hesitant about the last name, sure you’re not just trying to pull a fast one on me?”

He laughed again, “Nope, I promise Eliza Mae that’s my real name, trust me if I was trying to ‘pull a fast one you’ I would not have given you that name.”

“What, are you in witness protection or something?”  I asked, slightly confused.

“Witness – no, no” he said before leaning in a bit closer. “I’m a professional hockey player for the Dallas Stars,” he explained, the expression on his face making it clear he expected me to be utterly flabbergasted by this new information. While I had to admit, I definitely respected all the hard work and sacrifice that it took to get to that level, I had never been a huge hockey girl –  I was much more inclined to sit in a cold football stadium than I was any hockey rink. It wasn’t that I was unimpressed with the fact that he played hockey, the news just didn’t exactly entice me to drop my pants for him right there – it wasn’t like the guy invented penicillin or anything.

“Oh, that’s cool I guess,” was all that I allowed myself to give him, smirking at how my indifference caused a look of obvious surprise to overtake his dark features.

“It’s not nearly as noble a profession as becoming a teacher, but most girls would think it was pretty impressive that I made it in the league,” he teased, his surprise replaced by his resting state of overconfidence.

“That’s the whole reason for playing though, right? The girls I mean,”  I teased right back.

“The girls and the free stuff,” he cracked, his eyes playful as they met my own.

For the second time that night, my only response was to laugh as I took another swig of my beer mug, which was significantly emptier than it had been at the start of my conversation with Tyler.  Before I could muster an equally witty response, he opened his mouth to speak again.

“Seriously though, teachers deserve way more credit than they get – I mean all of my school teachers deserve a medal for having to put up with me, your kids are lucky to have you. Although if you’re half as feisty with them as you are with me I bet you’ve scared them all into behaving,” he teased again and I was defenseless against the blush that threatened to creep across my cheeks. After twenty minutes of banter, the contrast of his sincerity made his words just that much more meaningful. No matter how confident they may seem or how many hours they spent shadowing, any new teacher will tell you how terrified they are of messing something up. Eliza believed so strongly in how important a good education was and the last thing I would ever want was to leave my students unprepared and set up to struggle when they moved up to middle school next year, so Tyler’s words warmed my heart – no matter how unfounded they might be.

I muttered a shy ‘thanks’ into my mug as I took another large gulp of my beer, hoping the liquid would wash down the butterflies that had crept into my stomach as a result of his words. Tyler noticed the now almost-empty mug and gestured to Pel to send down two more.

“Oh I really shouldn’t” I protested, “it’s getting pretty late so I should get going.”

The look of disappointment that flashed across his features wasn’t lost on her, although it was probably born more out of the realization he had spent thirty minutes talking to a girl and wasn’t going to get rewarded with sex than anything else.

“Here,” he gestured, “let me follow myself on my Instagram so I can follow you back” he said as he reached for my phone, but I pulled it close to my chest before he could grab it from my hands.

“I don’t have an Instagram,” I explained, shrugging my shoulders with a semi-apologetic look as he dropped his outstretched hand next to my own on the counter. Brushing the tips of his fingers over mine, his eyes darkened and his voice dropped – I recognized it as his attempt to sound sexy and while I wasn’t going to say it didn’t work, it was more amusing than anything else.

“How am I gonna get in touch with you then?” he asked, acting as if he couldn’t walk into any bar in town and instantly get laid by fifty other girls.

“Well funnily enough, Instagram isn’t the only app to exist on your phone – there’s this thing called ‘Messages’ that some people use to text and even a phone app in case you ever, god forbid, need to call somebody. But I don’t like to give out my number to strangers so I guess you’ll just have to wait until next time we see each other to convince me to hand that out”

Taking a final swig of my beer, I stood – slightly more off balance than I’d anticipated, the effect of the beer and adrenaline resulting in me being just a tad more inebriated than I’d planned on getting tonight. As I wobbled his large hand shot out to my waist, gripping through my t-shirt just above my hip bone to steady me.

“Next time, eh Eliza Mae?” he asked, his grip on my waist just barely tightening, squeezing before he dropped his hand back to rest on his knee.

Despite the tangle of flustered thoughts that flooded the lonely horny part of my brain, I forced myself to hold his gaze. Professional fuckboy or not, I was not about to let him know how much his simple touch had affected her.

‘God,’ I thought ‘get it together Eliza.’

My only response was to roll my eyes as I slung my bag over my shoulder and stepped away from him, trying to put as much distance between his hand and the burning skin above my hip.

Giving him one last smile, I strolled away from him until I was leaning against the heavy door preparing myself for the inevitable cold that awaited me outside.  Giving Tyler one last look over my shoulder, I couldn’t help but smirk when I found his eyes still staring after her.

“Goodnight, Travis” I called, finally shoving open the door as I pulled the scarf tighter around my neck before stepping out into the cold.

The last thing I heard before the door slammed shut was the deep, melodic laughter that I knew belonged to only one patron of the bar – and suddenly, the warmth that filled my chest made it so that the night air didn’t seem so bitter cold anymore.

[fmdtaeyongarchive]

↬ the meaning you hold in your eyes, i could write a few poems on them.

date: october 2019 & february 2020.

location: ash’s apartment studio.

word count: 2,197 words, excluding lyrics.

summary: n/a.

triggers: mentions of alcohol as is way too common in ash’s verifications.

notes: creative claims verification. if any of this sounds familiar, no it doesn’t. (some parts of this are reworked from a different verification i did last year for a song that never happened because it fit this one too and i refuse to waste the time i put into that.)

october 2019.

he’d done this whole thing before several times while working on the album that will be coming out any day now and it would be easier this time. or rather, that was what ash told himself he’d be saying when it was all over. it hadn’t been just once, in truth. there were multiple songs written now that had been put into consideration for the first half of the track list of the album ⁠— the sensual and passionate half⁠ — but this wasn’t for that half of the album, or that album at all. the tracklist had been finalized long ago, but, in many ways, he was still hung up on the dissatisfaction that had crept in. so many songs for the album had been discarded and while it never quite felt good to have something he’d worked so hard on dubbed unsatisfactory, he’s still holding on to the lingering remnants of the phase where rejection made him more driven to create something that wouldn’t be turned down. a few more ‘no’s and he might reach his breaking point and want to give up entirely on catering to everything the company wanted, but for now, he was slowly settling in to the new challenge of writing outside of his standard comfort zone.

he’d written sensual songs before, but they were always manageable in their softness. that was the easiest lens for ash to view his own intimate experiences through, but bc had continued to demand something more aggressive, more bold, and ash hadn’t nailed down exactly how he was supposed to wrangle that yet and still remain true to himself.

he’d been surprised his album had ended up being confirmed for release at all with all the difficulties he’d had writing it and he still wasn’t sure what the turning point was where bc decided this was a sure thing. it may have been ash showing his ability to write what they wanted or it may have been a look into the expected profits for the rest of the year. understanding how bc’s employees’ collective minds worked wasn’t an easy feat, and ash had bigger fish to fry. namely, a fish in the form of making a song he didn’t have to worry about getting on the album that would calm the nagging in the back of his head that the company had found his weakness. successfully making one or two songs to please bc’s sexier image desires for fatalism hadn’t made ash an expert on the form yet, but he had learned ways to make it easier on himself than the stress he’d inflicted on himself and the worry he’d experienced when bc’s demands were still new to him. one of those ways was to start with a beat. that wasn’t a frequent necessity when he was shaping out a piano ballad or a folk guitar track, but if it was going to be danced to, it needed a good beat. any good dancer could tell him that the beat was a critical part of a song and, at one point in time, ash would have considered himself a good dancer himself. these days he was more like the leftovers of what was formerly a passionate dancer. he could never rid himself of the years as of technique training and the plentiful experience on stage and in a dance studio, but when he was merely going through the motions ninety percent of the time, it felt like he’d faltered since debut in some way. the worry about the bc-approved choreography for his second title track already had him on edge with concerns he’d be called out for laziness again, his mistakes becoming more glaring when he was the center of attention instead of being able to hide among a group.

that could be worried about later. it wasn’t the concern at hand at the moment.

right now, the song was what was most important and the beat was coming together nicely. it wasn’t all that unique in execution, but he intended the sexiness to lay in the instrumental more than the lyrics themselves. he layered some more interesting percussion into what he envisioned as the chorus as he built more musical lines on top of the foundation to construct a more full song than the basic outline of something sexy.

he started with the main attraction, the chorus, and built out musically into the verses, the bridge, and, at first, the song also included what he had at the time decided would probably be a dance break when the song became a full-fledged performance. 

as he worked, he built the song to be reminiscent of the songs he’d watched performance recordings of when he was younger. american r&b in the nineties and early two thousands had been secondary to the flashy dance performances of pop legends and trendy boy bands of the decade of his birth for much of his youth, if only because his young brain wasn’t ready for the more mature topics and sounds many of the best songs of the time had utilized. still, though, anything with a good voice, a good beat, and an eye-catching dance routine would have little ash’s eyes glued to the tv screen.

ash had never considered too much where his interest in performing had come from. according to his parents, he’d been dancing and singing since he could walk and talk despite neither of his parents being all that inclined toward the performance arts. if he thought about it now, he thought he might owe much of that to all of the awe-inspiring stage performances he’d been exposed to growing up. at such a young age, he couldn’t fully grasp the heartthrob appeal of the young adult men dancing on stage to a thumping back beat or the pretty girls who only needed a stage and a spotlight to shine. he hadn’t wanted to be admired or longed for. he’d wanted to perform and be able to captivate a crowd the same way the music icons he’d seen growing up had. 

that might be a better way to approach this.

ash took a break from writing to revisit a self-curated playlist of his favorite r&b songs spanning the best eras of the genre before he returned to fleshing out the song’s instrumental layers. it was becoming a good track by pure pop writing measure, but it was also becoming apparent something was missing when he set his sights solely on a replication of the nostalgia that other performers brought. being brought back to one’s younger days wasn’t exactly what was going to inspire the type of storytelling environment that had ash was aiming for. ash reminded himself that the song was supposed to have the musical themes suggesting intimacy that the lyrics suggested wasn’t entirely there yet on a conscious level. lust didn’t have to be presented as unromantic to be there, and it wasn’t always as black and white as sex. ash had met the beginnings of many a physical relationship, and the unintentional mind games and the questions were as much a part of the spark of something new as physical touch could

when viewed through the eyes of the adult he now was, those performances he’d watched as a kid had often been alluring in a seductive nature. often times, the words had danced around the literal, kept poetic for the romanticism of it. he’d written that exact kind of romance before, and the honey-tongued poetry he knew himself capable of didn’t have to disappear because he was working with a beat-driven r&b track instead of a rolling acoustic guitar instrumental.

making the instrumental had only taken ash a few weeks of work, but when it came time to put words to it, everything he wrote out only sounded shallow and forced. eventually, he was so stalled that he chose to switch into writing in english to see if a change of language would bring anything new out. he found words for most of the song that way, but they still felt disjointed and, if he were to be honest with himself, embarrassingly try-hard. the only thing that really stood out to him was the water themes he’d come up with, comparing the desire to get to know someone better to taking a deep dive underwater.

he reached out to a few close friends and work colleagues for advice, but nothing set him on the path to anything that could satisfy his perfectionist mind. he remembered being told once that if he was struggling with how to write a feeling, he should ask himself how he’d tell someone else to write it.

if you’re having trouble writing about desire, start with the basis of it all. a feeling. a desire. a question. nothing else. capture those feelings in the lyrics. desire at its best is simple. don’t overcomplicate it.

that gives him an intro that matches the beat well, but he grows stuck again after that, racing at top speed down the path to overcomplicating once again and, with time, he stops coming back to the song.

briefly, he considered trying to sell the instrumental off or asking someone else to write lyrics for him so he could present a full package to whoever he shopped it around to. deleting it off of his computer had been another option. he wasn’t confident enough in his abilities as a producer yet to believe his songs were of much value without his lyrics attached. this one had been created to prove something to himself, anyway, so what use would it be if it had to be finished by someone else?

february 2020.

the song has been abandoned in his files for months when he suddenly recalled it and, out of nowhere, suitable lyrics finally began to form themselves in his head. it was late and he’d had a bit to drink after returning home after a long day. valentine’s day was quickly approaching and it would be the first one he’d be spending alone since his scandal. a few vodka shots had seemed the fitting way to forget that.

tipsiness hadn’t been able to keep him out of his studio though and he’d sloughed into his chair as the black hood of his hoodie slipped off of the crown of his head onto his back, on a mission to get some work done before his head started hurting too badly. fifteen minutes into the mission, he had a loose leaf sheet of paper dotted with various phrases, most of which had something to do with the dark bubbly liquid poisoning his veins at that exact moment, but they mixed with lyrics fitting with the aquatic theme he’d come up with a few months prior, shaken loose from his mind by the ever-prying fingers of vodka.

it's like i'm drunk try mixing in another another blue sapphire let me know if there's an island for me in your sea it's like i'll explode the blue spreads through all of me if you want, you can fall into me

drunkenness and desire weren’t so different, he figured, as someone who’d gotten himself in trouble based off of both of those feelings before. his train of thought wasn’t very clear as he worked the rest of the song out, his thoughts veering into the safety of romance-colored interest, but his work came out in large chunks that gave him hope it wouldn’t be hopeless when he came back to it sober. 

when he did come back to the lyrics a day later, more sober and once the hangover had passed. while some of it was painfully clear in being the ramblings of a man under the influence, he’d gotten enough of a start in his state of lowered inhibitions for a less affected ash to fine tune the vocabulary and carefully round the edges into something more consumable, more seductive r&b ballad and less messy musings of an uninhibited might. it might not be the magnum opus of his lyrical career, but it wasn’t bad for such a highly metaphorical song written under the influence. it didn’t push ash too far outside of the walls of his comfort that had already done enough expanding while he worked on fatalism, and some cliches and over-bluntness had slithered into the lines, but it made the tone cheeky instead of taking itself too seriously, as ash was terribly prone to doing.

in a lot of ways, it reminded him of the song he’d written earlier in the month and turned in for his spring release. while woo ah had been colored pink in his mind, this was drenched in blues and purples, and even though he’d needed to drown himself in liquor to finish both of them, this one didn’t tie his stomach up into knots if he listened to it too many times in a row.

this one is a song about the desire, and maybe a little bit of frustration, of a new beginning and ash hadn’t felt that in years now. from that alone, it should have been harder to write, but the distance from the feeling might very well be what made it so easy to write about without ending up a mess by the time he was finished.

but, for some reason, it didn’t feel as distant as he thought it should.

[thetoffeefox]

Heyo, for the drabble thing, how about 103 with nero and male!reader and 98 with reader and vergil?

Hello anon!! I had so much fun writing prompt 103! It was my first time writing a male x male fanfiction and I hope it is to your liking! I tried to put as much feel good emotion and some spice ;) to make up for the horrible amount of angst I put in prompt 98. 

Prompt 103. “Sharing is caring, so give me your fries.” Male!Readerx Nero

“You’re an ass.” You state pouting at your boyfriend while eyeing his food.

Nero looks at you as your brow twitched in irritation. He couldn’t believe the nerve you had to try and steal his fries from him AFTER he asked if you wanted anything to eat. You said no so now here you are in the van trying to steal some of his hard-earned french fires. It reminded him of those stupid memes on the internet about women doing the same thing to their boyfriends. Apparently, it wasn’t JUST a thing with women. He looks at you again a pout on your lips. God, he loved that pout it did things to him. He just wanted to bite that lower lip and pull the most delicious moan from you. He smirks as you scoff turning away to act angry. It wasn’t working you knew that but you couldn’t help yourself sometimes. Sometimes you doubted yourself when it came to the devil hunter. You met him a year and a half ago after saving your life in Redgrave City from a swarm of demons. You and a group of others were some of the few people left in the city after the mass evacuation that was put into place when a strange tree appeared in the city. Later you learned they called it a Qliphoth, a demonic tree that fed on human blood to produce a powerful fruit that could grant demons a great deal of power. After everything had settled down and the town began reconstruction, you made it your mission to find the devil hunter and thank him for saving you. The exchange of gratitude had completely thrown the young devil hunter off guard. While his at the time girlfriend had dashed any hope of asking him out for coffee. Hell, you didn’t even know if he liked coffee. You didn’t even know if he swung that way, but you were the type of person that once you something you wanted, you’d take the plunge and go for it. Just like how you were attempting to go for his fries right now.

“Sharing is caring.” You state turning back in his direction.

“So?” He responds chewing a fry. God, you hated it when he talked with food in his mouth.

“So give me your fries.” You grin ear to ear.

“Nope.” You shiver at the pop of his lips because of his emphasizing of the “P”

He snickers as you turn away with a huff. Cute. Never had he imagined that he would think such a thing about you but here he was. A few months after you had shown up on his doorstep thanking him you guys had become fast friends and his unlikely source of comfort when he and Kyrie split. It wasn’t a messy break-up but it still hurt. That’s what started the attraction when he thinks back to it. It was so odd to come to terms with a part of himself he was just discovering. He thought attraction and love were easy and simple but it wasn’t. It took many more months for him to admit to himself how he felt about you. You were the first man he had ever fallen in love with and it was new territory for him and in some ways it still was. Grinning Nero throws a fry at you making your head snap towards him as he puts another fry in his mouth but this time instead of eating it he wiggles it up and down teasing you. Normally such behavior would embarrass you. Your face would be redder than Santa clause’s suit but something about the teasing look in his eyes made a fire pool in your stomach and go to other areas. Without a second thought, you take the other end of the fry in your mouth making him go stiff from your lips pressing against his slightly. Pulling away you grin wickedly as you chew the fry while Nero turns three shades of red. Maybe you should say you’re not hungry more often.

Prompt 98. “Don’t shut me out.” Reader x Vergil

“Don’t shut me out.” His voice cracks.

Those words echo in your head as you stare aimlessly at the potted plant in your living room. Your head was spinning from everything that had just happened. The past twenty-eight years of your life seemed pointless as you ran your fingers through your hair. Anxiety and dread swelled inside you as you drift back into your teenage years. At sixteen years old you had your whole life ahead of you. You were in high school excelling in all of your advanced classes hoping to go to college to earn a master in English and literature. It was the most ordinary life you could ever lead until you met him. Suddenly he appeared out of nowhere, frequenting the library you worked at after you got off school. He never checked out books, and he was always there before you started your shift. You learned he would come around noon only to leave at close which was 7 pm sharp. None of the adults dared to talk to him, he had an intense air about him. It did the opposite to you though; it drew you to him like the proverbial moth to a flame. His choice in books also piqued your interest and soon you tried to converse with him. As expected he was as prickly as a cactus and gave you a glare that would have made children cry. Looking back it was unfathomable that someone his age could look at a person like that. Then again he didn’t look like most boys, in fact, he didn’t look like any other boy you have ever met. With snow-white hair and frost blue eyes, he stood out. Most boys his age would have been self-conscious over how he looked but in the intense air around him, he also displayed confidence. It was just another trait on the list of things that drew you in.  You persisted in your quest to know him, greeting and telling him good afternoon each time you worked. It was frustrating not knowing his name and after six solid months of simple greetings he began to silently acknowledge and exchange after two months; he stopped you. Questioning why you always greeted him despite his rudeness in not responding. You smiled and said it was because you wanted to. Taking advantage of the situation you formally introduced yourself and just when you thought he would give you the cold shoulder you got his name. Vergil. It was a rather odd name for someone to have but you didn’t question it too much. That was the day that started everything, the day that even lead up to now. Learning he was a half demon was a rattling experience for you, mainly because you were being attacked by demons. The questions you asked were bluntly answered or not at all. Most of those questions were about his family and heritage, so you accepted it and moved on. Before you knew it you had fallen in love with Vergil and for the longest time, you believed your feelings were not reciprocated until one awkward night as you were locking up the library. He had waited out back for you and insisted upon walking you home. Something he had never done before not even after being attacked by demons. A block away from your home he pulled you into a very sloppy and uncoordinated kiss. You hadn’t had much practice yourself but it was obvious you were his first looking back on it. That thought makes you smile, you were the eldest son of Sparda first kiss. You were his first for a lot of things, but that didn’t seem to matter to him later on. After graduating high school you had gone to summer camp and boy was Vergil displeased with the notion of not being able to see you for two months but he accepted it. However, if you had known that an unstable psychotic man would dig his claws into him and brainwash him you would have never left his side because when you returned his reserved nature was colder than you had ever experienced, even when you had first met him he never looked at you the way he looked at you then. It wasn’t just an air of confidence it was an air of superiority. You couldn’t stand it, you couldn’t stand this mindset of him acting as if you were nothing but dirt under his shoe. It wasn’t enough to make you leave, you stuck it out hoping that maybe if he got the power of his father he would go back to the Vergil you once knew and loved. That never happened though and you never stuck around to find out. You didn’t stick around after he disappeared to for two weeks without a word and only to come back with various love bites branding his skin. He cared not for your heartbreak or the feelings you had of being betrayed. He was the hollow husk of the man you once knew. He was the man that you spent a decade trying to piece yourself back together over. You had traded in the idea of a normal life for him by thrusting yourself into the world of demons and that was a life that once you choose it, you could never leave it.  You gave up all your hopes and dreams for him and you could never get it back. Vergil was like a disease and you were infected by him, never had you truly shaken off what he had done to you. You thought you were in such a good place after all these years. That you had dealt with the emotions and even the trauma. That was until now when not even thirty minutes ago he was on your doorstep. Time had been kind to his looks, it looked as if he barely even aged a few years. A moment later those feelings you thought were long behind you came rushing to the surface and it was then you realized there was one emotion one feeling you hadn’t dealt with when it came to Vergil and that was anger. How you didn’t know till now that you were so angry at him was beyond you. The apology he gave was sincere his declaration of love to you was sincere. After all these years you were the one he wanted but it was like hitting a brick wall.

“Don’t shut me out.” His voice cracks.

You stare at him wide-eyed in shock. As kids, you had never seen the man that was before you. He was exhausted, broken, but in some ways hopeful. Hopeful that you would accept his apology and love after all this time. You wanted to, a part of you wanted to latch onto him and never let go. To tell him you forgave him after everything that had transpired, but there was another part of you that was just now welling up to the surface. One that was consuming you more than he or his love ever had and it was new and foreign to you.

“Vergil, you shut me out a long time ago.” It’s all you can say as you close the front door on him as you decided to never look at or speak to him again.

[justforbooks]

Dark Academia novels are some of my personal favorite novels, they are novels that centre on an academic setting. The term Dark Academia, is an unofficial name for the genre, as they, at least in literature, are called campus novels or academic novels.

Dark Academia novels contain elements of both satire and tragedy, and they tend to focus on the humanities and liberal arts, these tend to play a role as the passions of the main characters, which ends up driving them too far. The genre has a tendency to over-romanticize a liberal arts education, and it also generally disregards pock, women, lgbt+ and more. It has in many ways been centered a lot on straight white men, with women playing the role of an innocent, and the token gay man, playing the role of comic relief, and a way for the main character to experiment.

Some of the common tropes found in Dark Academia are:

Murder and death

Strong friendship

An adult authority figure is usually the opponent

Social class differences

These are usually the way in which the author brings forth the actual dark part of Dark Academia.

These strong friendships are usually used as a motivator for the murder in some way, whether it be a positive or a negative friendship.

This opponent also shows the opponent that is the societal norms, as this is also often a huge part of what the main character is fighting against.

The main character often comes from a working class family, while the majority of the peers come from wealthy families. This creates an inert need for the main character to please their peers, as they fear not fitting in.

As Dark Academia takes place in a campus setting, the stories are usually coming of age novels, that tell the story of how one event changed the life of the main character.

When most people think of Dark Academia they think of “The Secret History”, it basically fosters the genre and it is the home for many of the tropes talked about previously, it introduces the event right at the start, the murder of Bunny. This distinguishes the genre from other mystery and thriller novels, as those are usually who-dun-it, the secret history introduced the why-dun-it instead. This creates a thriller based more in the minds of the characters, and not so much in the actual crime committed.

“The Secret History” draws in many ways on the classical world, the main characters in the novel are all students at a liberal arts college, who study classics. This theme of classics also moves into the composition of the novel, as it is in some ways draws on Aristotle’s poetics.

In many ways one can say that the genre of Dark Academia is based in tragedy. In tragedies and in the “tragic vision” there are seven elements, those being:

The conclusion is catastrophic. The ending is perceived as the concluding phase of a downward movement. And the ending is  unhappy as it results in the hero’s or heroine’s fall from fortune and consequent isolation from society.

The catastrophic conclusion will seem inevitable. To the audience of a tragedy, the catastrophe will seem inevitable. Whether grounded in fate or nemesis, accident or chance, the operating forces assume the function of a distant power. 

It occurs, ultimately, because of the human limitations of the protagonist. Ultimately, the instances that we find in tragedy happen because of powerlessness, of undeniable human limitations.

The protagonist suffers terribly. It is because of the human limitations that suffering becomes basic to the tragic vision and the tragedies testify to suffering as an enduring.

The protagonist’s suffering often seems disproportionate to his or her culpability. It is because of the human limitations that suffering also becomes basic to the tragic vision.

Yet the suffering is usually redemptive, bringing out the noblest of human capacities for learning. Despite the inevitable catastrophe, the human limitation, the disproportionate suffering, the tragic vision implies that suffering can call forth human potentialities, can clarify human capacities, and that often there is a learning process that the experience of suffering induces.

The suffering is also redemptive in bringing out the capacity for accepting moral responsibility. Tragic protagonists more frequently have an active role, one which exposes not only their errors of judgment, their flaws, their own conscious or unwitting contribution to the tragic situation, but which also suggests their potentialities to endure or survive suffering, and to attain a complex view of moral responsibility.

These seven elements can roughly be used to describe novels in this genre, as many of them use tropes and archetypes from tragedies. One must always be wary and critical of these theories and models used to sum up entire genres of fiction, as it is never possible to sum up something so diverse and different with just seven elements, but it is a fun thing to analyse the Dark Academia novel with, and to see just how closely they resemble the classic tragedies.

Books in the Dark Academia genre, i have not read all these books but they are books which have been categorized as Dark Academia multiple times:

If We Were Villains by M.L. Rio

On the day Oliver Marks is released from jail, the man who put him there is waiting at the door. Detective Colborne wants to know the truth, and after ten years, Oliver is finally ready to tell it.

Ten years ago: Oliver is one of seven young Shakespearean actors at Dellecher Classical Conservatory, a place of keen ambition and fierce competition. In this secluded world of firelight and leather-bound books, Oliver and his friends play the same roles onstage and off: hero, villain, tyrant, temptress, ingénue, extra. But in their fourth and final year, the balance of power begins to shift, good-natured rivalries turn ugly, and on opening night real violence invades the students’ world of make believe. In the morning, the fourth-years find themselves facing their very own tragedy, and their greatest acting challenge yet: convincing the police, each other, and themselves that they are innocent.

‘What is more important, that Caesar is assassinated or that he is assassinated by his intimate friends? … That,’ Frederick said, ‘is where the tragedy is.’

The Rules of Attraction by Bret Easton Ellis

Set at a small affluent liberal-arts college in New England eighties, The Rules of Attraction is a startlingly funny, kaleidoscopic novel about three students with no plans for the future—or even the present—who become entangled in a curious romantic triangle. Bret Easton Ellis trains his incisive gaze on the kids at self-consciously bohemian Camden College and treats their sexual posturing's and agonies with a mixture of acrid hilarity and compassion while exposing the moral vacuum at the center of their lives.

No one will ever know anyone. We just have to deal with each other. You’re not ever gonna know me.

The Basic Eight by Daniel Handler

Flannery Culp wants you to know the whole story of her spectacularly awful senior year. Tyrants, perverts, tragic crushes, gossip, cruel jokes, and the hallucinatory effects of absinthe — Flannery and the seven other friends in the Basic Eight have suffered through it all. But now, on tabloid television, they’re calling Flannery a murderer, which is a total lie. It’s true that high school can be so stressful sometimes. And it’s true that sometimes a girl just has to kill someone. But Flannery wants you to know that she’s not a murderer at all — she’s a murderess.

She had the look in her eye when you kick and kick at the door and it doesn’t open, when you write a boy letters and letters and he never loves you, not ‘til the day he dies. Not even then.

The Lake of Dead Languages by Carol Goodman

Twenty years ago, Jane Hudson fled the Heart Lake School for Girls in the Adirondacks after a terrible tragedy. The week before her graduation, in that sheltered wonderland, three lives were taken, all victims of suicide. Only Jane was left to carry the burden of a mystery that has stayed hidden in the depths of Heart Lake for more than two decades. Now Jane has returned to the school as a Latin teacher, recently separated and hoping to make a fresh start with her young daughter. But ominous messages from the past dredge up forgotten memories. And young, troubled girls are beginning to die again–as piece by piece the shattering truth slowly floats to the surface. . . .

Yes, he had been preoccupied, but hadn’t that been what I was looking for–someone who wouldn’t pay too much attention, someone who wouldn’t look at me to closely?

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

[jamsque]

Bitterness in the Age of Fighting

I was excited when the first episode of Fighting in the Age of Loneliness appeared in my youtube feed last Monday, I’m willing to watch anything Jon Bois puts his name on right now. Most of his content is centered around American football and basketball and baseball, which is great, those are all sports I have watched at least semi-regularly at some point in my life, but for the past few years I’ve followed Mixed Martial Arts more closely than any of them. Felix Biederman, the writer and narrator of the show, was a new name to me: I know Chapo Trap House by reputation but the most I have ever heard of it is a few clips out of context.

That first episode did some strong establishing work to set the tone and context for the series, and then got to work telling the fascinating story of Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu and the Gracie family. It’s a story I know decently well, I think Felix did a good job of picking out the interesting characters and especially the moments of class struggle, and of course his words are backed up by the datawave audiovisual stylings of Jon Bois that we have come to know and love. The political ideas were more familiar and less interesting to me than the bits about fighting but I was curious to see how the show was going to try to draw connections and parallels between the rise of MMA as a spectator sport and the socio-political environment in which that rise took place.

I was engaged and I watched each episode as it came out through the week and by the end of episode four on Thursday I was starting to turn a little on the series. In this era of Youtubers with healthy Patreon support and good microphones I’ve gotten used to clear, smoothly edited, well recorded voice work and for me Felix’s narration falls short there, especially for a project with a major media company behind it. More than that, though, I was no longer on board with where the show seemed to be going, and I was worried that it would end on a sour note. I found myself agreeing with Felix’s political commentary but disagreeing more and more with his thoughts on MMA and the way he was choosing to frame the history of the sport.

The final installment disappointed me more than I had feared it might, enough to motivate me to make some kind of response to or critical reading of the whole series. Re-watching it with that in mind I (unsurprisingly) found more things I disliked. Fighting in the Age of Loneliness does an excellent job of telling the story of the ancestry, birth, rise, fall, second rise and anticipated second fall of the Ultimate Fighting Championship, but along the way it makes some pretty big missteps and takes some positions that I strongly disagree with. I’m not going to break down each episode individually but I do want to lay out the issues I have with the series and in particular dig in to the problems with the last episode. Towards the end I think I might even call Felix Biederman a fascist.

First, I want to provide some context for my own thoughts about MMA, and make some inferences and assumptions about Felix’s history with the sport that I think go some way to explaining why we see it quite so differently.

*

I am absolutely not a long-time hardcore Mixed Martial Arts fan, until relatively recently I didn’t have any interest in combat sports at all. Growing up in the UK around the turn of the millenium I was aware of boxing but only from a distance, it was already well on its way to fading from the forefront of the popular sporting consciousness, and my pacifist socialist middle-class parents certainly weren’t watching Mike Tyson fights. The first contact I had with what I would later know as MMA was a grainy video I remember watching on some pre-YouTube video sharing site as a teenager: a highlight montage of a man wearing black, red and white shorts kicking various different people in the head in various different boxing rings, with the same concussive effect each time.

I became more aware of the modern sport of MMA when I started noticing the UFC in mainstream sports media headlines around 2014. Three names kept appearing in those headlines: Jon Jones, for running into things with cars, Conor McGregor, for running his mouth, but most of all Ronda Rousey, for running through every challenger the UFC put in front of her. I suspect that there are a lot of newer MMA fans who, like me, were swept up in the hype surrounding Rousey and McGregor during that time, and stuck with the sport after they finally broke their respective winning streaks and came back down to earth.

Three years later even though I watch MMA most weekends and even though I have become almost as fascinated as Felix Biederman seems to be with the history of the UFC, the people who have fought in it, and the things that they have done to each other, I still consider myself a ‘casual’ fan. This is at least partly because when I think of ‘real’ or ‘hardcore’ MMA fans, I think of people like Felix, who have been around the sport for a lot longer and are, at best, skeptical about the results of its most recent jump in popularity.

Felix doesn’t explicitly talk about the genesis of his interest in the sport but there are hints in the text. The general tone of the piece goes from being detached and historical in the first episode to personal and emotional in the last, which I think is both a deliberate choice on Felix’s part and a reflection of his own experience. The third episode, when his narrative reaches the mid-2000s, is when I think it transitions from learned history to memory, and it’s around here that Felix starts making frequent references to goings on in MMA fan culture. If I’m correct then Felix Biederman has been following MMA for at least a decade longer than I have really known what it was. He has had the time to become emotionally invested in fighters and even the UFC as an organisation in ways that I am not, and of course his initial views on the sport were formed a relatively long time ago. MMA fights in 2018 don’t look all that different than they did in 2005 but the UFC has certainly changed a lot in that time, as have public awareness of and attitudes towards a new generation of combat sports stars.

*

That decade and a half of change in the UFC is the real focus of Fighting in the Age of Loneliness, but it presents itself as something much broader. The first episode is titled ‘The Invention of Fighting for Money’ and in it Felix makes a lot of sweeping statements about the past that don’t hold water. He very much tells the winner’s version of history, the narrative favoured by the UFC and the Gracie family, who would have you believe that they invented not only the modern sport of MMA but somehow the very idea of fighting itself. Felix remarks on the marketing and promotional skills of Rorion Gracie in the second episode without seeming to realise quite the degree to which he has himself fallen prey to them, and he also comes across as having the slightly fetishistic attitude towards East Asian martial arts that has become common in the USA over the past half century or so.

As he transitions out of the prologue, Felix says “the true catalyst for MMA as a sport, business and spectacle go back to Japan”, and when he goes on to describe the spread of Jujutsu from Japan to Brazil he says “after hundreds of years, Martial Arts had finally broken containment.” At the end of the series he proclaims that the “fourth era of fighting itself” is currently beginning and that the previous two ‘eras’ only lasted a handful of years each.

These generalisations don’t stand up to even the lightest scrutiny. The history of Martial Arts or combat sports or fighting or whatever term you care to use goes back much farther than feudal Japan, and some of the other things Felix says imply that he is at least partially aware of this. As he is giving his starry-eyed take on the life of Judo’s inventor he says “As long as there are people, they will at some point want the ability to keep someone from kicking their ass, no matter how unlikely it is that they will ever get into a fight.” It strikes me as particularly American that his argument in favor of combat sports being inherent to human society is based on the concept of self-defence. I prefer a line of reasoning that is similar but based on competition: As long as there are people, they will at some point want to test their wits and skill and strength against each other.

Indeed, the story as we know it of unarmed combat sports is as old as recorded history: there are images of wrestling in four thousand year old Egyptian tombs, and the classical Greek Olympics included an event called Pankration, which could be roughly translated as ‘fighting with all of your power’, that had an almost identical ruleset to early Ultimate Fighting Championship events.

Felix oversimplifies the history of fighting as a whole, but even if we just look at what he says about Mixed Martial Arts he gets it wrong. In episode one he says “The entire sport of Mixed Martial Arts owes its existence to Mitsuyo Maeda” and then in episode two he alleges that “A world where proto-MMA existed outside of gymnasiums in Brazil seemed pretty unlikely in 1976.” A corollary of my earlier statement might be that as long as there are people testing their wits and skill and strength against each other, there will be other people who think they can do it better. People have been pitting different schools of fighting against each other and amalgamating them long before the Gracie clan existed.

A decade before the date when Felix claims that mixed martial arts were confined to Brazil, Bruce Lee was blending Wing Chun with other styles to formulate Jeet Kune Do. A decade before that a Japanese Karateka was devising a ruleset which would eventually become Kickboxing to facilitate competitions between karate and Muay Thai. In the 40s the Kajukenbo school was founded in Hawaii with the goal of rigorously testing multiple fighting styles against each other to determine which elements of each were the most effective. In the 30s a Czechoslovakian Jew was refining the boxing and wrestling he had been taught in gyms into Krav Maga in brawls against anti-semitic thugs.

In Victorian London the Bartitsu school taught gentlemen a blend of five different fighting styles from around the world, while in the music halls exhibition matches pitted boxing against Savate. Savate was itself developed over the preceding century by efforts to find a middle ground between the heavy-booted street fighting style spreading from French ports and the Queensbury rules boxing that was popular in England.

Even the legend of the birth of Muay Thai, a fighting style which has had arguably as much influence on the modern sport of MMA as Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, is a story about mixed martial arts: when the Konbaung Dynasty of Burma captured a famous fighter during their battles with Siam in 1767, they offered him the chance to win his freedom if he could demonstrate the superiority of his Siamese boxing style against the Burmese school, which he promptly did by knocking out ten Burmese opponents.

Felix contradicts himself on this topic in the first episode when he describes Jigoro Kano studying western wrestling and sumo to augment his Jujutsu training and develop Judo. In the second episode when he says “In 1993 no one knew anything, and most people still thought that if you did karate the right way you could blow up somebody’s heart” he is obviously being facetious but he is also projecting his own ignorance outwards. There has always been fighting, all over the world, and there have always been evolving schools of thought about the best ways to fight and the best rules for fighting as a sport. The story of Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu and the Ultimate Fighting Championship is captivating but it is not, as Felix presents it, the only story about fighting. In this regard, as with others, he seems to have internalized the some of mystique that the UFC has cultivated around itself and its history.

*

Once the history lesson is over I think Fighting in the Age of Loneliness hits its stride and Felix’s passion for the Pride FC and UFC fights and fighters that drew him into the sport shines through in the writing and the narration. His criticisms of the ways that the UFC continues to underpay and otherwise mistreat its fighters are spot on and if anything he could have gone into its anti-union policies in more depth. Before I get to the final episode, there are a few smaller criticisms I want to get out of the way.

Firstly, I would like to have seen more about modern women’s Mixed Martial Arts in the show. I largely chalk this up to the difference in perspective on the sport between Felix and myself: a female fighter was what drew me to watch the UFC in the first place so my image of the sport is one that has always included women, whereas Felix got his start watching Pride, which had no female fighters, and an all-male era of the UFC. There were women competing in MMA at that time and a few exclusively female promotions but if Felix ever watched any of them he doesn’t mention it. In the end, Ronda Rousey gets a minute and a half, Joanna Jędrzejczyk gets about 30 seconds and Cristiane Justino gets a name check.

Rousey is the only female fighter to be mentioned outside of the quarantined WMMA portion of the show, and she comes up during a rather odd accusation of nepotism that Felix levels at Dana White, one which I have heard from other longer-standing UFC fans. I am no supporter of Dana’s and I’m not seeking to defend his character, but it seems far more likely to me that the reason the UFC put so many promotional resources behind Ronda Rousey and Conor McGregor is not, as Felix supposes, simply because Dana White personally liked those two fighters, but rather because he saw the opportunity to make a lot of money off of them, which he did. Dana is a fight promoter, he is notoriously fickle in his affections and the warmness he displays towards any given fighter is directly correlated to their ability to drive pay-per-view buys for his promotion.

I also think that there are some more straightforward explanations for the UFC’s success than the poetic ones that Felix understandably focuses on. The ideas of the UFC as a refuge for outcasts and the alienated, both as fighters and as fans, and the honesty of single combat in an age of uncertainty are clearly very thematically important to Fighting in the Age of Loneliness as a project. For me the series places too much importance on the role those things played in the current popularity of the sport and doesn’t put enough emphasis on, or even mention at all, some more mundane but more significant contributing factors.

The vacuum at the top of combat sports that was created when boxing all but collapsed under the accumulated weight of decades of corruption and promotional malpractice, and the brief but significant success that the WWE had with a grittier presentation of professional wrestling in the late 90s both set the stage for the rise of modern MMA in the USA. That rise was helped along by things like the value of the walk-off head kick knockout and the fourteen second armbar victory in the age of the highlight clip and the animated GIF, and the mix of astuteness and good fortune that led the UFC to put out a reality TV show featuring actual physical conflict at a time when programming was being dominated by reality shows based on exaggerating and continually re-hashing interpersonal squabbles.

*

At the end of episode four, titled “As the world fell apart, the only magic was in the cage”, Felix’s rhetoric about the things that happen during UFC fights reaches its most florid, mythological heights. Against a montage of post-fight embrace photographs he says “The magic that we wish we saw everywhere else was in the cage [...] At least there was one place where unthinkable things actually happened, at least if you put two weird people with incredible abilities in front of each other their combined experiences and opposing martial abilities would create a beautiful, maddening story.” I am not criticising Felix for being more captivated by the emotion and passion of fighting than I am but the praise and reverence which he lavishes upon his favourite period of the sport’s recent history at the end of the fourth episode clashes brutally with the way he starts the fifth.

“No-one is ever content to just like something, especially not nowadays”, he says. “We’re not just fans of things any more. We declare our media consumption habits to determine the types of people we are [...] now if someone doesn’t like something we like they hate us” These lines and the visuals that accompany them are presented as a barb aimed at the legions of TV personality and pop star fans bitterly defending their territory on social media. Although there is a hint of self-deprecation about this segment I don’t read much self-awareness here, mostly just old fashioned middle-class punching down at the popular culture of the working class.

In the way he frames what he views as the best period of the UFC’s history, Felix is himself engaging in, as he puts it, “battles that our millionaire entertainers will probably never give a shit about or even find out about”. He has taken to the field of the culture war to defend his memory of a past version of a massive, sinister entertainment company against the changes that he perceives to be ruining it.

Here is where the bitterness begins to creep in, and build. Felix starts talking about the insecurity of modern MMA fans and the sport’s image problem, but then he abruptly dispenses with those concerns and starts arguing that MMA should remain insular and niche. A this point he also waves a huge screaming red flag by describing Jon Jones as a “weird person” who is “actually pretty fascinating once you get to know him” and who has “more depth than most would know”, but we’ll get to that later.

“Who gives a shit if we don’t have hundreds of millions of people watching with us every time, and why do we care if people think we’re fucked up or weird for watching it. We know what our sport is, and we know who we are [...] It’s our stupid violent insane spectacle sport for freaks and assholes that’s as legitimate or illegitimate as any other sport in the world. Well, at least it was ours at some point.”

I recognised this argument the moment I heard it. It sounds almost word for word like an insecure gamer defending video games as an art form and as a hobby that is just for real nerds and not the masses. I know that argument very well because I have been that insecure gamer in the past. In complaining that MMA is not “ours” anymore he has jumped from “if someone doesn’t likes something we like they hate us” to “if someone likes something we like for the wrong reasons they hate us”.

This is the tone that Felix adopts for the entire final episode, and he proceeds to decry three recent changes he thinks the UFC has made in an effort to bring the sport into the mainstream, changes that he declares as already being “to the detriment of the viewers, the fighters, and ultimately, [the UFC] themselves”.

The first is the Fox TV deal, of which his criticism is that it has led to too many fights and therefore too many fighters, but he doesn’t present any reasons why more fights has been a bad thing. He talks about how poorly the UFC compensates its rank-and-file fighters, which is a great argument for better fighter pay, but is not an argument for fewer paid fighters or fewer fight cards.

The second is the UFC’s apparel deal with Reebok, which he accurately assesses as a disaster for their fighters.

The third is drug testing, and for me this is where Fighting in the Age of Loneliness goes completely off the rails. The first thing he says in this segment is probably the only part of it I agree with: “the vast majority of your favourite athletes use steroids.”

*

Felix is right that the UFC asked the US Anti-Doping Agency to start testing its fighters more to provide an image of legitimacy than because they actually care about fair competition, but his main problem with the policy is that performance enhancing drugs are in fact cool and good. Earlier in the series he celebrates the way that Pride FC’s “loose medical oversight” and “pro-steroid policy” allowed its fighters to “consistently break laws of god and man,” now he gleefully exclaims that “Steroids are actually kind of amazing.”

“The human body is absolutely not designed to fight for 15 to 25 minutes, but steroids help make it work”. Felix provides no justification whatsoever for this claim, and it’s a ridiculous one that springs from the same myopic view of the history of combat sports that he expresses in the early episodes. To present just one counterexample, fighters in classical Greece did not have the benefit of modern nutritional science and training methods, let alone anabolic steroids, but the only time limit on Pankration bouts was sunset. Fights that last more than 25 minutes might not be the most fun to watch but they’ve certainly been happening since long before the steroid era.

Felix doubles down on this position. While he acknowledges that steroids “have their side effects” he asserts that “it is impossible to compete at the highest levels of fighting without some chemical help.” This is another absurd claim, he does try to back this one up but in doing so he immediately undermines it: “Talk to any retired fighter, and they’ll give a number anywhere from 75 to 90 percent of their former training partners juicing.” Rather than proving his point, this statement suggests that it is not at all impossible to compete at the highest levels of fighting without chemical help because at the very least ten percent of fighters are doing it. This scaled-back version of his original pronouncement does make the prospects of success seem pretty bleak for clean fighters, but Felix doesn’t care. He is happy to accept that if most fighters are doping then fighters need to dope to compete and therefore it is OK for fighters to dope.

USADA testing in the UFC has, in Felix’s opinion, fucked things up. There are a lot of very valid criticisms that he could make about the inconsistent way that the policy has been applied to different fighters or the odd ways it has conflicted and overlapped with state athletic commission testing policies or the lack of fighter engagement in the process of rolling out the program leading to confusion and uncertainty about the rules, but he doesn’t. Instead of talking about the massive unregulated supplement industry in the USA and the habit that some supplement brands have of ‘accidentally��� slipping a bit of the good stuff in their products to make sure that their customers get the gains they crave, he complains that fighters are being punished for “by-products of over the counter substances”. By-products and contaminants are not the same thing, I’m not sure if Felix just misspoke here or if he genuinely doesn’t understand the problem he is talking about.

He goes on to moan that the punishments for breaking the rules of the sport are longer under this new program. He doesn’t say why the longer bans are bad, just that the UFC has been ‘capricious’, and it seems obvious to me that the reason he disagrees with the longer bans is that he thinks PED usage is a good thing. Let’s address that idea.

There are two main reasons why I think performance enhancing drugs should be banned in almost all sports. The first is that PED use is bad for the long term health of athletes. We know that there are permanent negative effects associated with the use of anabolic steroids, and there are scores of other widely used PEDs that simply haven’t been around for long enough for the consequences of their use to be properly understood. It is possible to argue from this position for the regulation and standardisation of PED use in sports, and although I disagree with that line of reasoning I do think it has some merit, but there is no hint of this argument in Fighting in the Age of Loneliness.

I think the most practical way to prevent athletes from being incentivised to gamble with their future health for short-term gain, especially in a sport like MMA which already carries so much physical risk, is to ban the use of PEDs and enforce that ban with testing. Felix talks about steroids helping fighters to recover quickly from serious injuries, but I don’t think that is a worthwhile tradeoff to ask them to make, and I don’t think it would be a bad thing for the health of fighters if less prevalent PED usage meant that fewer of them had to endure the accumulated physical toll of fighting four or five times a year.

The second reason is a purely sporting one. The rules of all sports are arbitrary, but they usually constitute an attempt to delineate a competition that tests one particular set of skills and abilities in its competitors and excludes others. Chess is not designed to be a test of split-second reflexive reactions, 100 meter sprinting is not supposed to challenge your ability to predict the strategy your opponent is going to employ and prepare a counter-strategy, and as far as I am aware there is no sport that seeks to test its competitors ability to improve their bodies through medical intervention. I want the sports I watch to be fair competitions that are about what they are about, and Felix does too: he repeatedly praises the “truth” and “honesty” and “earnestness” of “what goes on in the cage,” but he fails to see how this contradicts with the idea of allowing the outcomes of fights to be heavily influenced months ahead of time by means of one fighter having access to less scrupulous, less restrained doctors than the other.

There is some nuance here around where you draw the lines between sports nutrition, necessary medical assistance and doping, but again Felix does not adopt a position so sophisticated. It’s been demonstrated in almost every popular sport that athletes with the help of an organised and scientific doping program have a significant advantage over clean rivals with similar levels of experience and training, and that’s not a contest I was ever interested in watching. Fighters shouldn’t use steroids any more than match sailors should use outboard motors, it is contrary to the very concept of the sport.

*

Felix isn’t just mad about USADA testing because he thinks steroids are nifty, though. He’s also mad that they took away one of his favourites. “At the absolute highest level of the sport, no-one was derailed by this as much as Jon Jones” This is another part of Fighting in the Age of Loneliness that emphasises the gulf between Felix Biederman’s perspective on the UFC and my own. He watched Jon Jones’ rise through the ranks and his multi-year reign as the consensus best fighter in the world, and was apparently completely captivated by it. In describing him Felix returns to the hagiographic tone of the third and fourth episodes, describing him as “a giant, freak athlete who did moves that he learned off of youtube to humiliate fighters we grew up with”, comparing him to Napoleon, calling him “a genius who can destroy world champions with stuff he saw in a movie, the equivalent to those savant kids who can hear a song once and instantly play it on a piano perfectly”

By the time I was starting to watch the UFC, Jon Jones had already sabotaged his career fairly comprehensively. I don’t know Jon Jones as a legend or a genius or the greatest fighter in the world because I’ve never seen the fights that earned him that reputation. Here are the things that I do know about Jon Jones, things that have happened or that I have learned about since I started following the sport:

Jon Jones is a homophobe. In 2012 Jon Jones crashed his car, plead guilty to driving under the influence, and received a slap on the wrist. In January 2015 Jon Jones tested positive for cocaine in an out-of-competition test and was issued a token fine. In April 2015 Jon Jones ran a red light and caused an accident involving two other cars that left a pregnant woman with a fractured arm, then ran away only to turn himself in after an arrest warrant was issued and eventually plead guilty to fleeing the scene of an accident, receiving 18 months of probation. In 2017 Jon Jones was given a one year suspension after testing positive for banned hormone and metabolic modulators, which turned out to be contaminants in an erectile dysfunction pill he had been given by a training partner. In 2018 Jon Jones tested positive for an anabolic steroid and was suspended again for 15 months.

On the front steps of courthouses Jon Jones is humble and apologetic, and in the immediate aftermath of being caught doing something he shouldn’t have he often talks about how hard the experience has been for him and how much he has learned from it and grown as a person. At all other times he acts as though the bad things that happen to him or around him are never his fault, that he has no responsibility to ever change or even reflect upon his own behaviour, as though in all these struggles he has been the victim of cruel circumstance and conspiracy.

The Jon Jones that Felix describes is not someone I recognise, and the way he describes him is concerning. “As we got to know Jon more, we saw his personal foibles, like his DUI arrest and rivalry with Rashad Evans” I don’t think that having a heated rivalry with a competitor is comparable with drunk driving at all, and in framing the incident this way Felix trivializes it. He does this again with Jones’ hit-and-run conviction, mentioning it in passing but quickly moving on to quip about how awesome Jones got at powerlifting in his year off. He calls Jones “a person with failings who sometimes acted like an asshole, got pissed off and said incredibly cutting things to his opponents”, reinforcing the impression that Jones’ main character flaw is simply being too fierce a competitor, instead of calling him, say, a person with failings who sometimes acted like an asshole, took drugs he shouldn’t and crashed cars.

Felix is constantly making excuses for Jon Jones in this part of the episode. When he gets to the second failed drug test, he says Jones “got popped by USADA”, a turn of phrase that subtly reinforces Jones’ own narrative of victimhood, especially since Felix has already established USADA as the bad guys who are fucking up the UFC. He wraps up the Jones segment with a ‘boys will be boys’ defence couched in another appeal to the glory of days gone by: “It used to matter less if you acted like an idiot. Everyone was a bit of an idiot in one manner or the other in life, but god forbid you now embarrass the sport”.

*

From here, Fighting in the Age of Loneliness whines to a messy conclusion. The segments get more disjointed, it’s at this stage that modern women’s Mixed Martial Arts gets all of two minutes of consideration, and then there is a rather reluctant summary of the UFC career of Conor McGregor, who Felix seems not to like. He certainly doesn’t describe him with close to the same kind of exaltation that he deploys earlier for fighters who had similar trajectories like Mauricio Rua, Anderson Silva and Jon Jones.

After that, Felix goes back to behaving like a fan of an indie band that has started making top 40 hits. He doesn’t like that the one of the UFC’s new part-owners is an asset stripping firm, even though in his golden age one of the UFC’s part-owners was an Emirati war criminal. Back in the first segment of the first episode he references “this modern era of fighting, where all of the things that used to make the sport unusual are mostly gone,” and now he returns to that idea and calls the supposed new “fourth era” of fighting “sanitized and oversaturated,” contrasting it with the “honesty of a fist-fight” and the “cultural haven for strange people” that the UFC offered ten years ago. He complains that there aren’t enough knockouts any more. When he brings up the recent long-anticipated fight between Conor McGregor and Khabib Nurmagomedov he says “sometimes the dam of normalcy breaks and we get momentary bursts of how things once were,” which strikes me as a rather ‘what have you done for me lately’ attitude to take about something that happened the month before this video series came out.

Things drag closer to an end and Felix keeps returning to his golden age. “What was once a weird refuge for those who needed it is now eroding into just another thing that’s as formless and indistinct as everything else. Fighting has rid itself of so much of its magic. It does not transcend the world any more.” The way that he constantly makes references to a bygone era when everything was simple and pure and good and as it ought to be, and wishes dearly that we could return to that era instead of continuing to face the injustices of this current moment in time, reminds me a lot of an ideology that has has a big resurgence in the USA recently.

The episode wraps up with one final spasm of bitterness. “This will happen to everything that you love. Nothing you like will remain untouched, and it will get further and further monetized into meaninglessness. This isn’t just our problem in our idiotic bloodsport. You’re fucked too.” He’s not wrong about the commoditization of entertainment and sports-as-entertainment but he sounds once again like a whiny gamer stereotype or a disillusioned popstar fanboy of the kind he mocks at the start of the episode.

And then the episode doesn’t actually end. The sort-of epilogue about Donald Cerrone fighting Nate Diaz seven years ago is a good little segment, but it doesn’t do anything here. It doesn’t serve to illustrate or emphasise any of the things Felix has been talking about in the minutes leading up to it, it doesn’t follow from them in any kind of narrative. It feels like a piece that some combination of Felix Biederman and Jon Bois just liked too much to cut, even though they couldn’t find a place to put it, so they stuck it here at the end. Maybe it is intended to provide some sense of denouement after Felix’s angry ranting. Regardless, it comes at the end of such an unpleasant half hour that its attempt at poignance failed utterly on me.

*

Felix Biederman likes different fighters than I do, he has a perspective on the sport of Mixed Martial Arts that often seems parochial and outdated to me, and I am puzzled by his obsession with the idea that combat sports athletes are all strange, broken people, but none of these things would bother me if Fighting in the Age of Loneliness did not present itself as an authoritative, comprehensive history of fighting, instead of what it is, which is the story of Felix Biederman falling into and out of love with the Ultimate Fighting Championship. Together with Jon Bois he certainly tells that story well, their collage of tales of societal fracture and political indifference with images of single combat is a powerful one, but in pursuing its thematic goals the series fails over and over to justify or interrogate the positions it puts forward.

If the UFC disappeared tomorrow, or if it had never been created in the first place, fighting would still exist, Mixed Martial Arts would still exist, the “one two path of a punch to a guy snoring on the ground” that Felix claims to adore will still exist. Fighting is exactly as magical and exactly as mundane today as it it always has been and always will be, even if Felix Biederman doesn’t enjoy watching it as much as he used to.

[roseisread]

My Year in Movies: Favorite Non-2018 Feature Films (Part 1)

I watched a LOT of movies this year. At last count, I had logged 229 features and 126 shorts; and that doesn’t count rewatches--only movies that were new to me.

I set a few challenges for myself as well this year. The first one was to watch at least one non-English language/US release per week--this exposed me to so much world cinema and some really amazing filmmakers. Anyone who avoids foreign films because “I don’t like subtitles” is really missing out, and I found myself craving these narratives from voices I don’t ordinarily get exposed to in my everyday life. 

Other personal challenges: Watching as many horror movies as possible in October (with horror defined pretty loosely so I could include entries from silent era and onward, as well as some comedy cult classics that have horror/thriller elements); participating in Noirvember (in addition to attending Noir City in Chicago); crossing off some major blindspots from my list (such as Bicycle Thieves, The Producers, Lethal Weapon, A Few Good Men, Grease, Home Alone 2, Brazil, and Indiana Jones & the Temple of Doom); and trying to watch movies and short films from every decade that motion pictures have existed.

In 2019, I hope to do similar personal challenges with a focus on movies made by women, LGBTQ+, and people of color, in addition to filling in the gaps of my classical/canonical movie knowledge. 

OK, so that’s enough preamble. Let’s get to the list! For this list, I’m excluding movies that were released in 2018--that’s coming but this is for movies released before that. 

50. Linda Linda Linda (2005, directed by Nobuhiro Yamashita, country of origin: Japan)

High school girls recruit the Korean exchange student (Doona Bae, of Cloud Atlas and Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance) to join their rock band a few days before the school talent show. This is just a feel good film, recommended if you enjoyed the likes of Sing Street, We Are The Best!, and The Runaways. Unfortunately, it’s out of print in physical form; but last I checked someone had uploaded it to YouTube so you might want to get on that before it’s removed. You can watch the trailer here.

49. The Blue Dahlia (1946, directed by George Marshall, country of origin: US)

This film noir stars Veronica Lake and Alan Ladd, and like any good noir, it deals with dark subjects including murder, blackmail, political corruption, and PTSD. It’s been on my watchlist for a long time, and thanks to Noir City Chicago, I got to see it on the big screen at the Music Box Theatre. For small screen viewing, you can catch up with it via rental on Vudu, Amazon, iTunes... the usual suspects. 

48. Siren of the Tropics (1927, directed by Mario Nalpas and Henri Etievant, country of origin: France)

My dearly departed Filmstruck had a spotlight on the films of Josephine Baker, and this was among them. I fell in love instantly with the lively, beautiful Baker, here playing a woman named Papitou who deals with some super scummy dudes but manages to be herself in the face of all that nonsense. Silent films can sometimes be tougher to engage with for modern audiences, but this one flies by and contains some unexpectedly racy sequences for the time. Its racial politics don’t meet today’s cultural standards, but considering Baker’s parents were former slaves and their daughter went on to become the first woman of color to star in a major motion picture, this is still a landmark film worthy of our consideration. She broke down many barriers and contributed a great deal to both the entertainment world and the Civil Rights movement, and this serves as a nice entry point into her career. It’s available on DVD through Kino Lorber, and hopefully one day soon it’ll pop up on another streaming service that carries on the Filmstruck legacy.

47. I Don’t Feel At Home in This World Anymore (2017, directed by Macon Blair, country of origin: US)

Here’s a film that goes to some unexpected places. I had no idea what to expect from Macon Blair, who frequently appears in the movies of Jeremy Saulnier; but in his debut feature for Netflix, he pulled out all the stops. Hilarious, violent, and intense, with memorable performances from stars Melanie Lynskey and Elijah Wood, this is a movie about getting in over your head and just going for it anyway. I don’t want to tell you about the plot because it’s best discovered through watching--just go to your nearest device and add it to your Netflix queue. 

46. Song of the Sea (2014, directed by Tomm Moore, country of origin: Ireland)

Absolutely gorgeous animation from the team that previously brought us The Secret of Kells, and a touching story that combines family and mythology. I adored this one. Watch it on Netflix or rent on the usual streaming sources--for a preview, click here. 

45. Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942, directed by Michael Curtiz, country of origin: US)

I always watch Independence Day on the Fourth of July; but in 2018, I decided to mix it up and cross this patriotic musical off the watchlist. I’d seen James Cagney’s gangster movies like White Heat and The Public Enemy, but seeing him sing and dance was a whole new joyous discovery. This movie is entertaining, funny, touching, and full of iconic sequences that other films would go on to borrow from. I absolutely loved it. Pretty sure I saw this on Filmstruck originally, but since that’s no longer possible you should be able to find it at your local public library or you can rent it for a couple bucks on Amazon, YouTube, iTunes, and the like. 

44. The Man Who Cheated Himself (1950, directed by Felix Feist, country of origin: US)

This tightly wound noir thriller pits brother against brother against the backdrop of 1950s San Francisco. Lee Cobb plays an aging bachelor and an accomplished police detective who falls for the wrong dame. His younger brother, played by John Dall (Gun Crazy, Rope), has just joined the police force and idolizes his older brother. Trouble strikes when the dame murders her no good husband and needs help from Cobb to cover it up. Naturally, Dall gets assigned to the case and as he begins to piece together the clues, he doesn’t like where they’re leading him. The climactic sequence is one of my favorite endings to a noir film, and I’ve seen a lot of them. Watch it for free if you have Amazon Prime; otherwise, there are a few versions uploaded to YouTube of varying quality or you could wait for it to pop up on TCM. 

43. Los Angeles Plays Itself (2003, directed by Thom Andersen, country of origin: US)

This documentary edits together clips from movies of every era that were filmed or set in Los Angeles, and explains through voiceover narration the significance of each location and the history of the motion pictures in LA. That’s it--very simple concept but also fascinating. I split this up over a couple nights because it’s pretty long, but if you’re a film fan or a Los Angeles native, this is well worth your time. The voiceover is kind of hilariously flat in its delivery--kind of a Steven Wright sound actually--but that sort of adds to the charm for me. Get a taste by watching the trailer, and then you can rent it on YouTube for $1.99.

42. A Simple Plan (1998, directed by Sam Raimi, country of origin: US)

It’s been almost two years since we lost Bill Paxton; I don’t know about you but I don’t think any other actor can really fill those shoes. This year I caught up with three films that showcased his talent: A Simple Plan, One False Move, and Frailty. He plays very different characters in each one but in many ways they all start off with a similar premise: Ordinary guy dreams of becoming more. What that “more” is for each character is what sets each film and performance apart, but Paxton provided a great canvas to paint these unique characters onto. He inhabited the ordinary man better than just about anyone. 

In this film, which I watched during Noirvember, Paxton plays Hank, a college-educated guy working a blue collar job in a small town, trying to make a better life for himself and his family. He’d like to get away from those small town roots, but his socially awkward brother Jacob (Billy Bob Thornton) relies on him. Unfortunately, Jacob is often accompanied by the hard-drinking loose canon Lou (Brent Briscoe). When the unlikely trio discover a crashed plane in the woods containing a suitcase full of cash, they each have ideas for how to handle the situation. Of course things escalate from there, and the way the movie explores human nature and family ties set this story apart. Available for online rental on the usual platforms.

41. The Iron Giant (1999, directed by Brad Bird, country of origin: US)

Given my obsession with Vin Diesel in the early 2000s, it’s pretty shocking I never saw this movie til now--sure, he and his glorious muscles don’t appear on screen, but he does provide the voice of the title character after all. When the Iron Giant made a controversial cameo in this year’s film adaptation of Ready Player One, I decided it was time I saw the source material for myself. 

This gorgeously animated fable unfolds during the Cold War era, and features an ET-inspired story arc of a young boy befriending an unlikely being that the government is looking for. If you���ve never seen it, this is definitely a must-watch. Currently available on Netflix, but rentable on other platforms too.

40. The Unsuspected (1947, directed by Michael Curtiz, country of origin: US)

I adore Claude Rains, star of this film and supporting actor in Curtiz’s more famous work, Casablanca. Here, he plays the host and narrator of a popular radio show that revolves around tales of murder--basically the Law and Order: SVU of its day. We learn early on that he sometimes draws inspiration for his broadcasts from real life criminals. When people in his own life start dropping dead, the plot thickens and he finds himself at the center of the action. A very suspenseful and well-plotted film noir, which is available from the Warner Archive collection on DVD. I got to see it at Noir City Chicago, and loved every second of it. 

That’s all for this entry--stay tuned for part two of this list, posting soon! 

[pipesflowforeverandever]

Stars

Hey so I regularly harass @thebutchergang and we accidentally got??? Really deep? So I wrote a drabble based on it. Also a bit of a test run if I want to write Edgar into my fic series or not.

It was completely and utterly ridiculous what she had to put up with for the past few days.

Finally the woman trapped in the studio had a moment to sit down, dismayed by the sound of a slight, sloppy noise as the bottom of her soaked pantlegs hit against the wall. Dangling her weary legs over the ledge where this unreasonably tall structure the elevator was situated, the stranger had to actively remind herself she was safe as a firm thud landed recklessly by her side.

Well, she was probably safe.

Indeed, as she looked over Level 14, as of late a monster had joined her as a traveling companion.

What a bizarre story. She hardly believed it herself. How did this happen again?

Tired eyes glimpsed over to the round, multiarmed fiend without turning her head; she had learned from experience that movement around this one only brings about chaos. All the same, the Striker caught sight of her irises flashing his way, and she soon found her shoulders raise and stiffen with a light but disturbed gasp, the creature having leaned that bulbus head of his into her personal space as far as he could stretch.

And as two beings strange in this world in totally different ways observed each other’s inexplicable response- his invasiveness and her discomfort- a flash of recollection swarmed the woman alongside a shiver.

Whether the little gremlin found her or if she found him earlier might as well have been a coin toss. Realistically, they just…bumped into each other. Just as the woman turned a corner, she felt a solid but corpselike cold hit her torso, sending her to the floor. God, that was an unforgiving fall- she could still feel it now as an ache in her lower back- but the pain in her chest from a pounding heartbeat was soon the most prominent feeling to pulse through her.

Because just as she had fallen, the intruder found that she brought someone down with her. One painted cartoon eye stared back alongside a strained human eyeball, seemingly dipping into its eye socket to tie it to its own skull.

A skid along the floor. Her phone- she had been using it for a flashlight-!

They looked at each other for one dreadful second. Shock still wanted to immobilize her, but she had to make a choice. Dive for the phone or turn tail and run. And in the end…yes, neither of them had chosen to meet the other. Definitely, however, it was the monster’s decision to snatch her cell phone right out of her hands as soon as she held it once again.

“H-HEY!” she had screamed. It was a yell intended as a demand this thing return it to her, but her word could have probably better served as a warning. As the twisted human spider investigated the device, its gloved hands jerked the back of the phone towards itself- a flashlight fully shining into that lone real eye. Once again- almost comedically- the cartoony gargoyle fell back on its bottom, leaving the woman standing over the beast in both wonder and disbelief.

Her eyes flashed down to the phone. Yup. She was going to do this. She really was. Alright then.

And so the woman lunged for the device even as it was still in its grasp, hoping against hope it was stunned enough to let her just take it back already-

She saw and felt a dirtied white glove grip her forearm just long enough to allow her eyes to go wide in fear. An eyeball rolled around in that hole in its head. It didn’t seem to blink. Didn’t seem capable to.

She wasn’t sure she could read its emotions anyway.

But instead of tightening its strange, fidgety grip- instead of pulling her down to the ground with it- instead of using this moment to its advantage to attack…the being’s stare fell down to the phone once more. Hesitantly and despite the flashlight shining over half of her face, she looked too. Under it’s abnormally large thumb was a shining screen, turned on sometime in between the two falls it had taken; the lower portion was grey with…keys. Typing keys. Its finger lifted and somehow, some way, the creature’s totally bare eye seemed to widen even more as a smear of the hand allowed letters to appear.

Language.

And they stayed like this for a long time it seemed, that terrible pain in her back only worsening as the intruder of the studio was forced in place, an incredibly uncomfortable lean over the little monster as one hand refused to let go and the other two were pressing at her phone.

Well, maybe “mashing” and “assaulting” would be better words. It even smacked the screen at one point, and she wondered if it was the dread of its life in her hands or the possibility of this violence cracking the screen that made her feel sick.

But eventually, eventually…-

…

“’E…Edgar?’” she read, the monster thrusting the screen into her face.

And he hadn’t left her since.

So that’s how it had been. The quirky walking corpse had figured out just like that that he could, in fact, speak after all these years of silence. Ironic for someone with two mouths. It took a bit to figure out- a few pleading, puppylike gazes and a dash of anxiety that the violence towards the phone to turn towards her instead- but there came to be a unique sort of agreement between the two. He’d follow her around and yell nonsense through text and she’d put up with it or else god knows what. Pretty fair deal, in the end.

And boy was it some sort of nonsense.

“DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE”

“I WILL EAT YOUR TEETH”

“Your liver will be shaped like a carrot when I’m done with it”

It’s understandable that each time Edgar handed the phone back to her to read what he had proudly authored, a nerve-wracked grin of dread fell upon her face like the darkness of death itself.

But that seemed to be…the extent of it. As she walked along these haunted halls, the little thing would tug on her hand every so often like a young boy that needs a bathroom break- sometimes with huge 20-minute gaps of time in between and sometimes beseeching her so frequently the bones in her wrist started to ache. And then-

��!!!!!!!!!!!! YES!!!!”

This verbalization was…different. Still not comprehendible but…not a threat. The surprise of it made her stop in her steps, a cautious but still curiously raised eyebrow facing down at her new shadow. The gremlin almost seemed…proud? Something in its expression; it stayed in place so much that any sort of change was noticeable in a snap. Yes, “Edgar’s” human eye seemed to wrinkle just a tiny bit.

Another glance towards her hand explained why.

“cucumber”

“Oh my god,” she said out loud but to no one, realizing that she had accidentally smudged some sort of series of keys that provoked spellcheck before handing it back down to him once more. A palm hit her face and slid down…and when it left her, she saw another expression on the fiend’s face. Maybe it was her exasperation, maybe it was the silliness of it all, but…the small spider seemed to be beaming. Yes, that was undeniably a smile curving his sausage-like lips.

Indeed, a slip of her own hand accidentally replying to his written screaming was all it took to start a conversation. And so joining insanity seemed to be the correct response to its existence.

“Lime”

“Flavour Taste”

“Slurp the lime gurt”

“I want to eat an abple”

“I have one! It is several weeks old. It has white fuzz and a friend inside”

“Can I eat”

“yes but be warned. You might die”

“okay im eat now”

“yeah sounds good”

It didn’t take long for it to be unclear to a hypothetical observer which of these two had likely suffered decades of head injury and lack of human interaction. Indeed, the woman was having fun. She questioned the actual intelligence of the creature still, but he certainly seemed…very far gone. As amusing as these conversations were, it couldn’t be helped that they were tinged with a very dark sort of humor.

And that’s where she was now with him, sitting together like a pair of siblings.

How long had it been? At least a day it felt like since they became a purposeless duo. And yet…she enjoyed the company. Eventually. And it seemed to be doing him a service. It must have been quite a while since he had a friend.

…

Reluctantly, as they looked face to face in the present, it was undeniable he thought her a friend. How utterly uncanny that she was beginning to say the same. The lightness of their garbled talk- almost like he was just a toddler that knew how to kill someone- had made her laugh more than a few times, and certainly Edgar seemed to jump each time the woman did.

Had she noticed that he had caught on to her smiles, that he was trying to make her do it more and more? She was searching endlessly for an escape, but certainly these little quips were an escape unto themselves.

But now something was…different.

“Wow,” the woman had sighed under her breath. The elevator had fallen and fallen until they stood above a giant pool of ink. It seemed to gaze upon them as they gazed upon it, the glimmers of the waves almost glinting like sets of eyes. Something about the way it shined, something about the way the lights reflected upon them…

As he invaded her personal space, his stitched head only inches from hers, she felt a weight in her hand once again, the communicator placed irregularly gently in her grasp; and as he pulled away, the monster’s aura seemed mysteriously…sad. All the lines on the current note app were his and his alone.

“There are 6 stars in the sky”

“One for me. One for my wife. Two for my 2 kids. And two for me and my wife’s existing parents.”

“Damibly”

Speechless. Beyond the screen, the traveler saw her companion turn his head away and slowly glance towards the stars scattered over the liquid ground. He…He was…

This whole time, the woman hadn’t considered that Edgar used to be a human being. It left a big gaping hole in their conversation; even if their talk was audibly silent, this quiet was inexplicably poignant.

She had to say something.

“Oh”

“I bet they’re beautiful”

That was all she could come up with. After a moment, the phone was passed back to her.

“They’re so pretty and sparkly”

“You think stars can be eaten”

“I tried to eat the alice door star and she punched me”

Inevitably, a snort came from the woman’s nose and her face wrinkled in a grin at the thought of Edgar trying to eat a prop. His head tilt was invocative that he approved, almost as if the gremlin was worried he had sucked her joy away entirely just before. His turn to read now:

“Are you a star?”

“I think you’re a star”

It too was asked in humor, and yet words weren’t needed to see his heart only sank. Soon hers would too, uncovering a whole second lifetime of longing and suffering with three mere lines.

“I wish I was so I can be with my other stars”

“If I die again, I might come back as a star”

“I hope”

And the woman realized she could grasp how but never what it truly felt like to be pushed to the point that one wished to die in hope that maybe the life after the next may give back what had so wrongfully been stolen.

Hair was pushed behind her ear as a silent sigh moved her whole body, revealing that a glitter was with her too; but it felt best to not let the lost soul see her cry. He had already gone through so much. Maybe she was in pain, maybe she was scared and tormented too…but she was fresh to this cartoon hell. She still had a bit left to give for the sake of someone more broken than she.

One last exchange. A shadow fell over the screen as Edgar’s head titled parallel to it. A long pause, as if he was reading it over and over.

Finally, the warped spider remembered that a nod could mean “yes” when not even typed words were easy to make out. The woman’s offer was accepted, and the being who used to be human nuzzled his scarred face into her chest, letting the warmth of her hug wrap around his body in hopes that it would start to hurt just a little less.

“I got ya, Edgar.” Her chin tilted towards the emptiness ahead, unknowing of what power had done this to the man and if it lied in wait for her too. “I got ya.”