#i love how cecile is BUZZING WITH JOY

[thatonekimgirl]

Jordan Chiles finding out she won the Bronze medal on Floor || Olympics 2024

[cecilspeaks]

175 - The October Monologues

[static] [slightly distorted] The trees are dying again. You know it, I know it. The trees know it. They have known it for decades, centuries in some cases. The shiver of cyclic, symbolic death. A rattle in the cold night air. A rustle in the footsteps of a hungry deer. It is October and something is different. It is October and the trees draw the crackling red and orange curtain in the year’s final act. It is October, and so listeners, dear listeners, Night Vale community radio is proud to introduce The October Monologues.  

Faceless Old Woman: I am lonely. Oh, I see people. I see lots of people every day. I see you right now. I see you, Caleb, sitting in your rolling desk chair, hunched over your computer. I am a faceless old woman who secretly lives in your home, watching you download yet another video game, Caleb.

But seeing people and being with people are different things. Different ideas altogether. I miss touch most of all. A father’s hand, a friend’s arms. A lover’s chest. I still touch, am touched, but it is not the same. It is not a mutual touch. My touch is unwelcome, unfriendly, unwanted. Yet I touch because I love.

And I love you, Caleb. I do. I know you don’t believe me after what I did to you tonight, but I do. My love is not romantic nor maternal. It’s not platonic, either. I love you the way a deer loves a cornfield. It is safe, it is nourishing. It is in its DNA to want to be there, to hide, to eat, to play. You’re very much like a cornstalk, Caleb. You are loved and you are benign. Better than benign, you are a contribution to this world. The cornstalk is unaware that a deer loves it so much that it will bend it and stomp it until its edible morsels spill out from its crumpled empty husk. The cornstalks, there are so many cornstalks, do not understand that they are so loved by the deer as to be devoured.

You’ve seen a kitten before, Caleb, I know you have. Sometimes kittens are so cute. So so so so cute that you wanna put them in your mouth. Do you understand that kind of love, Caleb, that kind of touch? You do not, no one does. And this is why I’m lonely. But I think you know that. You’re different. You’re lonely too. That’s not what makes you different, we’re all lonely in our own way.

You’re different, Caleb, because you know I am here. You see me even when I do not want to be seen. No one has been able to do that in at least 200 years. Sometimes you speak to me. Not in terror, not in rage; I’ve heard many of these voices in my life from those who feared and detested my presence. No, you ask me my name. I won’t tell you, not yet. You tell me about your day, I’m sorry your new boss is so mean, I will rectify this. And last night, you prepared a dinner for me. You’re not a good cook, I can smell that much, but it was your gesture of generosity that touched me. You made cashio e pepe, a recipe you learned from TikTok, and you prepared a bowl just for me. You waited to see if I would appear, and when I did not, you told me you understood wanting to eat alone, so you left it for me on the dining room table, as you went to play the new flight simulator.

Few men have ever been this kind to me before being frightened into it first, or without using their kindness as a disguise. I think you genuinely understand your own quiet desperation among the mass of men. And in turn, you understand others too. I don’t trust the kindness of men, Caleb. I don’t trust the kindness of women, either. Or anyone else’s kindness, to be truthful, but I especially don’t trust men’s kindness. There are exceptions. Andre, whose kindness was loyalty and honesty, and Albert, although his was a much different kind of kindness.

But Caleb, 23-year-old, unshaven, video game loving, boss hating aimless Caleb, your kindness frightens me. I’m scared of what you want, what it is you plan to take from me. Kind men have stolen my childhood, my morals, my money, my love, my life, and my family. What will you take from me, Caleb, that I have not already lost? I’m afraid. I’m afraid to respond to your gentle bait of friendship, because I am afraid you will take my loneliness from me. I am lonely, and that is a choice I have made for myself.

One day, Caleb, you will die. I know exactly when. It will not be of my hand, although I will do nothing to stop it. It is my fate, my path, to know such things. And in your death, you will return my loneliness to me, and it will be a horror to behold, bloody and misshapen. My loneliness, not recognizing its former owner, will howl an unholy and unceasing cry, and I will not be able to bear it.

This is what I fear, Caleb, and this is why I took the bowl of cashio e pepe you left for me and hurled it against the wall, just missing your cheek. I’m not sad that you screamed at me, I’m happy that you did so. This is how it has to be. We are not enemies, Caleb, no no. I love you deeply. Deeper than you can know. I am your deer Caleb, and you are my corn.

Cecil: The fiery flash of fall leaves stuns us, captivates us. Fireworks in slow motion. Or the crackling embers of a finishing flame. Upon the leaves are written instructions for how to make oxygen, how to give life, with every exhalation. How  to find flair in fading grace, and how to raise new life by falling to your death. The leaves know they will return again, so much will return again. We return now to the October Monologues.

Michelle Nguyen: There’s this new song I like, but I don’t wanna tell you what it is. I find it kind of embarrassing. Usually I love to talk about my favorite music. There was that summer I was obsessed with the new single by Saint Vincent. The single came in the form of a glazed vase containing three blue flowers. Only one was ever made, and I got the only copy. I found it very catchy, but the flowers eventually died. Or the year I spent listening over and over to that new Janelle Monae album. I forget the name, but the cover was a black and white picture of a well, and if you didn’t share it with someone else in 7 days, you would die. Of course no one ever died, because the album was so good, people just couldn’t stop telling their friends to listen.

My favorite song of all time is a blank cassette tape still in its plastic wrapper. It was owned by a man named Gary Joy. He was a real estate lawyer, reasonably successful, but he always dreamed of being a singer/songwriter. He dreamed all the time of quitting his job and writing songs, but he had never even written one song. Then one day, in a fit of optimism and energy, he bought this cassette, intending to make his first memo. But the day got away from him, and then the week, and then the rest of his life, and he never quit being a lawyer, and he never even wrote one song. This blank cassette tape, still in its wrapper, contains the potential of all the songs he could have written but never did, which is better and more powerful than any song anyone’s actually managed to write. The potential of the thing is always more perfect than the reality of the thing. However, and this is the crucial drawback, the potential is absolutely useless and the reality, however imperfect, can be quite useful. Anyway, I like to hold Gary Joy’s unwritten demo and imagine what it would be like. Hold on, sorry. There’s a customer.

[bell dings] Welcome to Dark Owl Records. What? No, no. No. No! No. OK, bye! [bell dings] Sorry about that. Some people are so unreasonable. I don’t even know what a Taylor Swift is.

But there’s a new song I like, and it’s not cool like my other favorite songs. It’s not a song that fits the kind of image I like to project. When I put on my mirrored leggings, my extra long jorts, and my really big hat, people expect something from me. They expect me to be on the cutting edge. They expect me only to be into bands that aren’t popular yet, or will never be popular, or that frankly don’t know how to play their instruments very well. And the song I like now is not any of those things. It’s… ordinary. It’s… popular. I don’t wanna say what it is. Remember when I only listened to the sound of beez buzzing? That was a good summer. Of course I got stung once or twice or 30 times. [sighs] Hold on, sorry, there’s a customer.

[bell dings] Welcome to Dark Owl Records! Hey. Hey! Hey! Hey! HEEEEY! Thanks, nice to see you again. [bell dings] Sorry about that.

I’m tired of being cool. I was going to say trying to be cool, but trying implies the possibility of failure, and there has never been a moment when I’ve failed to be cool. But here’s the hard truth I’ve come up against: being cool is a young person’s game. And that’s not because young people are better or more interesting than older people. God no. God no. God no! It’s that coolness itself is a concept tied to youth. Coolness is a reactionary manifestation of insecurity. The more insecure you are, the cooler you need to be. It’s colorful plumage. But as I’ve gotten older, I no londer need flashy plumage. I just wanna sit in the comfort of who I am, and not worry about what that looks like from the outside.

Anyway, I can’t stop listening to “Karma Police” by Radiohead. It’s just… a good song, you know? Hold on, sorry, there’s a customer.

[bell dings] You! You’ll never catch me alive! [sound of running] [bell dings]

Cecil: An abundance of words, words falling, fluttering to the earth. Words crunching beneath our feet. They were beautiful once, the words. Now they are beginning to rot, to wilt, to compost, to ferment new growth. To fertilize new words growing upon great trunks of paragraphs and chapters, but not now. Those will come later. Now the words sputter and drop in spiraling arcs to the ground. Here, then, are the final few brightly painted words falling upon you now. The October Monologues.

Steve Carlsberg: What does it mean to be believed? I’ve always known that Night Vale isn’t like other places. As long as I can remember, I could see that. I could also see that no one else could see it. I was alone in my knowledge. Knowledge may be power, but power is often lonely. My grandfather knew. He could see that I was like him. “Steve,” he would say, “us Carlsbergs have always been the town pariahs, but just because they hate you, doesn’t mean they’re right.” I would sit at night as a kid and listen to Cecil on the radio. He was the same age as he is now, and at the time he seemed so wise. But I would hear him dismiss what I knew shouldn’t be dismissed. I would hear him cover up what should be uncovered, and I would know with a child’s certainty that it was wrong. I loved him still. Everyone in town loves Cecil. It is possible to love someone who you know is doing wrong. It’s terribly easy, in fact.

What does it mean to be believed? As a teenager, I started trying to express what I saw about the world. I gave a presentation in my social studies class called “Night Vale – there’s literally nowhere like it”, and I thought it was informative. The class all plugged their ears in unison. The teacher stopped me a minute in, glancing nervously at the 8 surveillance cameras monitoring the classroom. “Are you trying to get us all killed?” the teacher hissed at me. I remember that her breath smelled like Strawberry Jolly Ranchers, and there was a lose crumb of mascara in the sweat of her temples. “No,” I said. I didn’t know what to say. It’s not the kind of question that demands a sincere answer. The report earned me a trip to the principal’s office, and then the re-education pit, which honestly is not as bad as its name. I mean, almost not as bad. It’s pretty bad. It’s a pit, for re-education. So, certainly learned something from that re-education. I learned that you’re equally likely to be punished for being right as you are for being wrong.

What does it mean to be believed? I was a young man entering the workforce, and I had long ago learned to hide away what I knew about my city. I had learned the handshake and the smile, the nod and the necktie, all the signifiers that hid what I truly signified. All of life is a code, and I had been thought the key against my will.

I got a job as a bank teller at the Last Bank of Night Vale. I studied with great interest the townsfolk who came and went there. I learned about their lives and their secrets, and what kind of money they made for the whispered deals out back of quiet parking lots just before the sun went down, pulled up next to a black Sedan that contained their handler who they only knew by a false first name. but I couldn’t forget what I knew, even if I learned to playact that I had. What I know shapes who I am. I can’t close my eyes, not to this town I love. This weird and secret town I love.

What does it mean to be believed? Then I married into the family of Cecil Palmer, host of Night Vale community radio! And he hated me, because he could see that I knew. And after all these years, my mask had slipped a little. I’d lost my interest in hiding. I wanted to speak the truth as I knew it, nothing could be more threatening to Cecil. His life and livelihood depended on speaking the truth as the City Council wanted it. Or as the Vague yet Menacing government agencies crafted it. And here I was, pointing out to him the sky. There are glowing arrows in the sky, there are dotted lines and arrows and circles. The sky is a chart that explains the entire world! I tried to tell him, and this only made him hate me more. I tried to share who I was with him, and this only made him recoil. 

Abby listened to my stories, but she never shared my enthusiasm for the truth. “Let it lie,” she would say, “let it lie.” But that’s he point, I can’t let it lie and I can’t lie! We’ve done that for too long! We’ve let our town sit heavy under the weight of euphemism and half truth, and unless someone just said what they saw for once, we would be crushed eventually by that weight!

And then it all changed. I wasn’t alone. The others saw that we lived in a weird place. And you know what? We kept existing. Our world didn’t end merely because we dared acknowledge it. Cecil and I are friends now. I haven’t forgotten how he treated me, but I understand it and I forgive it. Forgiveness and understanding are not the same as forgotten.

What does it mean to be believed? It means everything. It means all.

Cecil: And as the leaves are done, so are the October Monologues. All that can be said has been said. And all that can be said will be said again.

Today’s proverb: Listen, it might seem like everything’s bad right now.

[thebigqueer]

Solangelo - "Longing for Solutide" - One-Shot

SPOILERS: The Burning Maze

Summary: Nico learns of Jason's death.

Word Count: 2104

Read on AO3

A soft breeze flits past the demigods as they sit by the fire, laughing and chattering about the day’s activities. A blue and pink sky spills overhead, and the scent of flowers and rain lingers in the air. Spring has approached, finally.

Unfortunately, this also means that it has been almost three months since Apollo came down to Earth, creating chaos amongst all the demigods. For the most part, no one has been too worried, but Nico knows there’s more at play - Chiron and Dionysus told him so. And, if Nico extends his focus far enough, he can sense Apollo - Lester’s - life force. It’s whittling away, growing smaller and smaller as the months pass.

He doesn’t voice any of that to Will, of course. If he did, Will would break down, crack to pieces. He can’t have that, not since his anxiety attacks have been becoming more frequent. So instead, he’s just been enjoying this time with his boyfriend, trying to take both their minds off the looming danger. He knows there’s more that’s going to happen, but he has no idea how long it will take before things turn to hell again. For the time being, he’s choosing to ignore all the dark possibilities.

Nico, Will, Lou Ellen, Cecil, and Will’s siblings are sitting around the campfire, sticking white marshmallows into the bright orange flames. Will’s arm presses against Nico’s left side, sending shivers through his body, while Kayla’s playing Mythomagic with him on the other. Nico feels warm all over; he’s bursting with love. Everything is perfect. And, for the first time in a while, Nico truly feels at home again. He feels safe in the embrace of people he actually cares about.

Kayla groans as Nico pulls a card to defeat her, and he laughs. “You just need to learn better strategy.”

“Can’t believe I’m being told off by some old guy,” she grumbles.

“This old guy could teach you a thing or two about manners.”

“Oh, great, now he even sounds like one.”

Nico smiles, a warm flood of joy sweeping over his heart. “Okay, just practice. Tomorrow night we can practice again.”

“Whatever, Grandpa Edgelord.” The glimmer of enjoyment sparkles in her eyes and she smiles widely. At the sight of her excitement, butterflies crash against Nico’s stomach. In the past people have only looked at him with the shadow of fear, but seeing that look in Kayla's eyes makes him feel that maybe he does belong now - maybe he does have a place here.

The purple sky overhead dims, turning into a bluish-purple color. Stars begin to poke holes across the plains of the sky and a new breeze brushes past hurriedly. Will shifts closer to Nico, his shoulder brushing against the son of Hades, and superfluous joy pours over Nico.

But he feels something, a buzz in his core. A small burst of darkness erupts in his stomach, and all of a sudden the warmth of the fire and the closeness of Will don’t seem so comforting anymore - they’re suffocating him, pushing him into a corner. His mind begins to hum with a dark energy he hasn’t experienced in a while.

An image bursts into his head, a face with electric blue eyes and light hair and glasses balanced sloppily over his face. It takes a moment for Nico to recognize him, but when he does, his breath hitches.

No.

Nico drops his marshmallow stick and sits up straight. Suddenly the darkness overhead doesn’t seem inviting and lovely; it’s consuming him, filtering into every corner of his body, absorbing into his muscles. He’s caving into himself, giving into the pressure of grief.

Nico’s fingers grip his seat so tight that his knuckles turn white. His chest heaves with every inhalation; he can’t keep the air in his lungs. He can’t breathe. He can’t do anything anymore.

Will turns to him. “Nico?” he asks, concern laced into his voice. “Is everything okay?”

Nico looks up at him, gazes into his blue eyes, at his blond hair. Will looks absolutely nothing like Jason, yet Nico can’t help but to see the son of Zeus’s face on his boyfriend. Guilt crashes into him.

Nico swallows and stands up. “I need to go.” The firelight is too bright; the people are too warm. He needs space.

“What?” Will stands too, his eyebrows furrowed. “What’s wrong? Can I come with you?”

Nico doesn’t answer; he rushes away from the people by the fire, his bare feet sinking into the wet grass. The ache of tears builds up in his throat and a hot ball of emotions shakes up his chest. There’s no way he’s gone, Nico thinks. He can’t be.

He rushes for his cabin, his only refuge from the crashing world around him. Its darkness and solitude beckon to him, call his name, urge him to crawl into the arms of shadows and disappear for a long while.

But footsteps echo behind him and Nico stops in his tracks, turning to whoever dares to follow him on his trip to grief. Will’s racing behind him, his blond curls flying in the air. “Nico!” he calls. “What are you doing? What’s going on?”

“Go,” Nico demands. “Will, just… go back.”

“Back? Nico, what’s wrong? Did something happen?” Will’s voice seems choked, strangled by his own worry. There’s so much emotion in his eyes, so much care, but Nico can’t look at him without thinking of Jason, without thinking of what that buzz in his core meant.

Nico hisses through his teeth. “Jason, please.”

Will blinks. “Jason? I’m Will.” The blond edges closer, his fingers reaching for Nico. “What happened, Nico? You can tell me.”

Nico blanks. Then he shakes his head to clear his mind. “Will, please, just leave. I can’t… I can’t right now.”

The ache building up in his throat turns loose, and a sob echoes from his chest. Tears prickle his eyes and a second later, the world turns blurry. He falls to the ground, letting the water from the grass seep into the fabric of his jeans, slip into his skin. His tears create fractures over his face, and their trails glimmer in the dim lighting.

He’s slipping away, drowning in sorrow. He’s losing himself.

Will rushes towards him and holds his face in his warm hands. “Nico, did someone die?”

Nico pushes Will’s fingers away, afraid that even one gentle touch from him may somehow hurt the blond. “Jason…,” the son of Hades mumbles. “He… I don’t… His life force…”

“Oh.” A blank look flashes in Will’s face, and then his eyebrows rise. “Oh. Oh, gods. Nico-”

Nico shakes his head and pushes himself from Will. He doesn’t want his warmth; he doesn’t want his care. He just wants to be alone. “Will, please, just leave. I need to go. I need… I need… I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.”

Will stands and watches Nico nervously. Behind his eyes, Nico sees the gears turning in his head, the string of worries echoing around. Nico is no mind reader, but he knows Will thinks he’s going to do something dangerous, something damaging.

They lock eyes for a second, and there, in Will’s irises, Nico sees the doubt. He says nothing but Nico can see the thoughts in his head: Don’t do what you did for Bianca. Don’t try to bring him back.

“Do you know for sure?” Will whispers. “Maybe it was just… a false alarm.”

Nico shakes his head. “Maybe it was, but chances are it wasn’t. Will, I can’t feel his life force anymore. I can’t feel him alive anymore.” More sobs rack his body, throw his blood off their track. “Please, Will, just let me go.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay with you?” Will asks. “You don’t need to be alone.”

Nico knows Will means well, but his voice only grates against Nico’s ears, trickles annoyance into his veins. Nico closes his eyes to drown out the underlying rage, to calm the red hot anger simmering in his blood.

But Will isn’t leaving. He’s only watching Nico with pity and admiration, and Nico can’t take it.

His body hums with energy, roils with darkness, swirls with anger. There’s a tug in his stomach, a pull, and then the ground underneath him thunders. Before he knows what’s happening, the ground beneath him cracks. Will calls his name, but with the turmoil in his skin and the blood roaring in his ears, Nico can barely hear him.

All he knows is that he wants Will to go, to leave him alone.

“Just… GO,” Nico demands. His voice resonates over the cabins and through the ground, echoing in the air. Rage and grief, sorrow and humiliation all lift into the air, and they envelop the boys in their cold embrace.

The ground shakes more, shivers under Nico’s touch. And then, as if listening to the sound of Nico’s voice, four skeletons crawl out of the abyss, their white faces grinning in the darkness. They all turn their gaze to Will.

Will’s eyes become large, the blue of his irises reflecting his fear. He starts to step back from Nico. The skeletal figures only follow Will, though, no matter how hard he tries to escape them. Their bones clack as they move forward.

“Nico,” he murmurs nervously, “make them stop.”

For a moment, Nico doesn’t understand what’s happening. The earth is spinning and he’s hanging onto his sanity by a thread, barely managing to keep up with the world around him. The only person in his mind is Jason, his face, his voice. Memories of him create a tornado in Nico’s head; they’re memories that Nico won’t be able to get back.

When Will cries, “Nico, please!” only then does the son of Hades realize that his boyfriend is in danger. He blinks and looks up, catching sight of what’s happening. The skeletons are closing around Will, pushing him against a tree, blocking any way out.

Nico’s heart starts going overtime. Is he doing that? Are they moving off his emotions? He tries to reign in his feelings, but there’s too much anger flowing in his system, too many emotions blocking his focus. The skeletons keep edging forward.

One reaches out to Will, grabbing a hold of his sweatshirt, but Will swats the hand away and pulls a bone out from the skeleton's limb. He brandishes it in front of the other three. “Nico, please, get them away from me,” he calls desperately.

Nico balances his hand out and tries to get a grip of control, but he can’t make a connection. They’re out of his reach. Will is out of his reach.

More sobs rack his body, but this time they're from the panic that squeezes his heart. What if he can’t stop the skeletons? What if they beat Will senseless? What if Nico is powerless to stop them?

Nico reaches out again, trying his best to attach an invisible rope from his body to them. His chest aches as more sobs billow out of him, but this time he catches a hold of them. He commands them to stop, and after another moment of terror, they follow his order and dive back into the crack in the ground, disappearing into the abyss they came from.

Nico wishes he could join them in the eternal darkness.

Silence lingers in the air, wrapping around the boys in a vice-like grip around their throats. Will’s watching Nico with big eyes, a sheen of terror glazing over his blue irises. He’s staring at Nico with a look that’s all too familiar - he’s afraid of him. But doesn’t he have a right to be? Nico wonders.

They’re two worlds apart now, drifting away with two different currents. An ocean stands between them. A large new rift separates the boys from one another, sets them into two different worlds altogether.

“Nico.” Will’s voice grates down Nico’s ears like shards of glass. He sounds broken, shattered, helpless.

Nico covers his face. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. Darkness spills from him, sinks into his toes, leaks out from his skin. It pours out to the grass and turns it brown. He’s carrying the aura of death with him. Nico gasps and steps back, but the brown follows him wherever he steps.

He looks to Will again and holds his hands to his mouth. He can only hope Will sees the sincerity in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispers again.

Then he runs off, leaving a trail of dead grass each step he goes, longing for the comfort of solitude and despair.

[cheryls-blossomed]

Honestly, the continued disrespect to Iris West-Allen, The Flash’s black leading lady in the sixth season of the show, is absolutely appalling and unacceptable. Meanwhile, the network never fails to capitalize on Iris and Westallen’s popularity in order to gain buzz. (Remember how the entire promotion of Crisis on Earth-X was Westallen wedding, including their own promotional poster, despite how they were shafted in that crossover? Remember how the very first Elseworlds promo was Iris and Oliver, and the first full preview clip was of Barry freaking out over Oliver waking up with Iris, despite the fact that Iris was not even allowed to cross-over? Remember how Eric Wallace went on a whole press run when it was announced that we’ll see Iris in her natural curls in 6x05, even though she and Barry are relegated to the episode’s D-plot?) Showrunners constantly make false promises about her journalism, about The Central City Citizen, about Westallen, and about Iris’s POV being explored, because they are aware that that is what people want to hear, even though they have no intention of following through. They utilize Candice’s talent by giving Iris highly emotional scenes, but they don’t extent her POV outside of these isolated moments, nor do they have characters check up on her. I generally love the Broken Hero trope, but only where the character’s strength and resiliency, despite their trauma, is frequently acknowledged by other characters, so as to allow the character to also be vulnerable and have ample POV about what they’re going through. The application of the Broken Hero trope to Iris over the seasons has resulted in her being relegated to a strong black woman archetype time and again, and it’s utterly disappointing. 

In season 1, the three men whom she trusted most were lying to her. Her father infantilized her frequently. Eddie lied to her face, dismissed her journalistic endeavors, but then cold-shouldered her when she rightfully became angry with his lies. Barry, her best friend and the person she loved most in this world, chose not to tell her that he was the Flash for non-existent reasons which of course he couldn’t even articulate, and this naturally broke her heart when she found out.

Her promising journalism arc with her mentor, Mason Bridge, where they were poised to investigate Harrison Wells together and hopefully discover that he was really Eobard Thawne, was cut short, when Mason was unceremoniously killed off, and Iris’s investigations were handed off to Barry and Joe.

Iris had to put up a strong front for Barry and the Team in season 2 and was never allowed to really grieve Eddie onscreen. The only time we ever saw her have a moment to grieve is in 2x17, when Barry stops his entire mission to retrieve the video message for her. 

Iris again had to be strong for Joe, after she found out that he lied to her about her mother. She was given little to no time to process the fact that her mother was alive, but was dying, and Barry was the only person to ask her if she was okay, but even then, she is not given the chance to vocalize how hurt she is. 

Francine and Iris are given one scene, on Francince’s death bed, to reconcile. Nevermind that Francine abandoned Iris as a child or that Joe lied to Iris all these years about Francine or that Iris has had no time to get to know her mother, but nonetheless has to now say goodbye to her. And nobody comforted Iris during this time. Absolutely no one. She and Wally barely got moments to grieve Francine together.

In season 3, Iris had a death sentence hanging over her head for the better part of a year. She put aside her own fears and trauma in order to prevent Barry from going over the edge in his desperate attempts to save her and also to be strong for her father, who was becoming increasingly traumatized as the season progressed.

The writers even had Iris value Gorilla Grodd’s life over her own. Let me reiterate: the show had Iris tell Barry that her life wasn’t worth Barry compromising his humanity by killing a gorilla. The strong black woman trope is utterly dehumanizing. 

In the wake of Barry entering the speedforce, despite her grief and trauma, having just witnessed the joy of being alive with the love of her life stripped from her once again, Iris kept her promise to Barry and steps up to the mantle to help Team Flash. She bottled up her grief to be strong for the Team, before finally breaking down to a recently returned Barry before she gave herself up to the Samuroid to restore Barry’s mind.  

Despite Killer Frost being complicit in attempting to murder her just months ago, Iris was forced to advocate for Frost during her own bachelorette party.

Her wedding ceremony was interrupted by Nazis, but the only person to ask her if she was okay in the aftermath was her fiancé. Furthermore, no one, outside of Joe and Wally, who attended Barry and Iris’s wedding checked up on them, and instead Iris was relegated to having to comfort Felicity, who was having relationship drama.

We learned in 4x16 that Iris had PTSD from having had a death sentence hanging over her head, and she had quit her job at CCPN as a result. Her PTSD had not been explored at all up until that point. Meanwhile, Ralph was cruel towards Iris, taking out his own cowardice on her, while she was internally plagued with self-doubt. 

Iris attempted to reach out to Caitlin and expressed concern for her in 4x20, but Caitlin coolly dismissed her in Iris’s own home.

In season 5, because it’s totally fine to just put Iris through more trauma and strife for no reason, the writers constructed an arc where Nora was cold and rude to her mother, because of their fractured relationship in the future, a fact which traumatized Iris for a good chunk of the season.

In 5x05, Iris vocalized self-hatred (“I would hate me too”), because that’s how devastated she was over hers and Nora’s relationship. All she wanted to do was bond with her daughter, because Iris is such a sweet and caring person, and motherhood is something which came naturally to her. And yet, the show chose to put her through inordinate amounts of trauma over her motherhood. 

In 5x12, we find out that Nora’s anger towards her mother has warped some of her own memories completely, and the false memory only served to traumatize Iris further. The real memory was sweet and poignant, and just the fact that Iris went through all that trauma in the present for no real reason is absolutely disrespectful and appalling. 

Barry and Iris’s child disintegrated in their arms, but nobody except for Joe and Cecile offer them condolences and follows up to ask them how they are doing. While Iris is shown grieving Nora in 6x01, after that episode, we never see her linger on photos of Nora or be allowed to vocalize how her grief has now been magnified by the impending Crisis.

After Barry and Iris learned that Barry has to sacrifice himself, Iris was given one episode to come to terms with this, and we have not once seen her POV nor have we seen her struggle with her grief over losing Barry, her husband and the person whom she loves most, especially just months after she lost her daughter. 

Instead, the narrative diminished her importance in 6x04, and even had Ralph behave rudely and dismissively towards her. They had a character like Frost ask Iris is Ralph was going to be okay, but no one has a care in the world for Iris’s well-being. But she is always expected to be there for everyone and help everyone and run errands for everyone.

In an arc about Barry dying, Iris, the most important person in his life, has been sidelined and treated like an after-thought. She is now playing support to literal supporting characters. It’s beyond egregious. 

Furthermore, her journalism arc has been disrespected yet again. She hired Allegra, but Allegra’s entrance into the narrative was via Cecile. Iris and Allegra had little narrative space to build any sort of mentor and mentee relationship in 6x03 (because supporting characters’ side stories had to take precedence), and instead the show resorted to Allegra telling Iris off. We have yet to see Iris commanding her team at the Citizen, and her journalism arc was most prominent in 6x01, before we even saw her Team.

This is racist writing. This is misogynistic writing. This is absurdly disrespectful to Iris and to her fans, and this has been a tired pattern since season 1. I am sick of false promises; I am sick of being lied to. This is the sixth season, and to see Iris treated like this is infuriating beyond belief. Showrunners and the network capitalizing on Iris’s popularity and Candice’s talent for viewership is disingenuous and wrong, when it’s clear that the show continues to adamantly refuse to give Iris her due. Enough is enough.

[singledarkshade]

Familiar Stranger

Part Four

Gideon played with the necklace Michael and Jonas had given her for Christmas while she watched Jonas and Bobby playing a computer game. Michael was currently in the kitchen with Sam helping him make Christmas dinner while Maggie and Kelly were with Ali chatting. They were at Sam and Kelly’s as they were the only ones with a house that could accommodate all who were able to make dinner. Bobby was there but Hal was spending Christmas with his mother, while Fran and Miles were spending the day with his family.

The door opened signalling Katrina’s arrival back with the puppy who had recently been renamed Giddy, so they didn’t get confused having two Gideons.

Bobby kept teasing that they should have changed her name since the dog had joined them first but was shouted down. Giddy instantly made her way over to her food bowl and began to eat, Katrina grabbed the glass of wine she’d left and took the seat beside Gideon.

“Have I missed anything?” she asked.

“Jonas keeps winning,” Gideon replied amused, “They’re on their fifth game.”

Katrina laughed, “Bobby is a bad loser.”

“It doesn’t help that his opponent is five years old,” Gideon grinned back.

Glancing at Gideon who was still sliding her fingers across the pendant around her neck. Katrina noted, “That is very beautiful. A moon and a star.”

“It is,” Gideon smiled, “Michael said Jonas picked it.”

“Oh, he adores you,” Katrina replied with a mysterious smile taking a drink of her wine.

Before Gideon could ask what Katrina meant, Kelly called them all for dinner.

Dinner had been delicious, but it was made by a chef who ran one of the best restaurants in the city. After they’d finished eating they adjourned to the living room, Rip was a little bemused by how he was manoeuvred to sit beside Gideon by Katrina, but assumed it was because he had invited her and hadn’t spent much time with her all day.

The rest of the night was spent talking and laughing, while everyone took turns playing against Jonas on his game.

“Daddy,” Jonas climbed into his lap a few hours later, “I’m tired.”

Rip hugged him before turning to his friends, “I need to get him home.”

“Are you sure?” Sam asked, “You could just put him in the spare room, leave the door open.”

“No. It’s getting late,” Rip replied, “Thanks for having us today.”

Kelly rolled her eyes giving him a slight hug, “You’re more than welcome.”

They gathered up all the presents Jonas had been given, putting Giddy back in her carrier before Rip managed to slide his jacket on Jonas who was now fast asleep lifting him into his arms.

“Look who’s under the mistletoe,” Maggie called as they started out the door, “Michael, you know what you have to do.”

Rip frowned at her before he turned to Gideon slightly embarrassed, she had an amused smile on her face at the encouragement from the others.

“You are all such children,” Rip rolled his eyes, leaning over he pressed a very gentle kiss to the side of Gideon’s mouth. Pulling back, he caught her sparkling grey eyes and gave a shy smile back before he turned to the others, “Are you happy?”

Katrina patted his arm, “Have a good night, you two.”

Shaking his head Rip started out to the car, gently easing Jonas into his car seat smiling at the little murmurs he made in his sleep.

“It’s okay,” Rip soothed, “We’re going home.”

Once they were finally on the road Rip turned to Gideon, “About the…”

Gideon didn’t look at him when she shrugged, “It’s alright. We are the only two who are single and I know how much the others like to tease.”

He laughed softly.

“Thank you for inviting me to join you all today,” she told him, “Watching Jonas open his presents this morning was a joy.”

Rip smiled at her again, “You’re always welcome.”

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

  “I’m sorry I was out of the country over Christmas,” Tina said as she and Gideon sat in her office eating lunch early in the New Year, “Did you do anything?”

Gideon smiled, “I actually spent Christmas with Michael Hunter and his friends. It was nice.”

Tina took a quick drink to hide her smile, “What about New Year?”

“I wasn’t feeling too well that day,” Gideon shrugged, “I slept through it which was a shame as I had been invited to a party.”

Laughing Tina leaned back in her seat, “I’m glad you’ve settled in and made friends. Michael is a nice man. One of the reasons I introduced you to him when you first got here.”

Gideon nodded a slight blush touching her cheeks, “He is very nice and Jonas is such a lovely little boy. I enjoy spending time with them.”

Tina gave another smile before changing the subject, “So you know before the meeting I’m having to fight people off who are trying to steal you to work for them.”

“Well I enjoy working here,” Gideon replied, “You don’t have to worry about me leaving, at least until my contract ends.”

Gideon’s phone began to buzz and she frowned worriedly when she read the message.

“Is something wrong?” Tina asked.

“Jonas is in hospital,” Gideon gasped.

“Is he alright?” Tina asked worriedly.

Shaking her head frustrated, “She hasn’t told me anything else.”

Tina grimaced, “Go.”

“Are you sure?” Gideon asked, “We have that meeting…”

“Go,” Tina told her again, “Michael will need some support if Jonas is hurt. I’ll rearrange the meeting.”

  Rip ran through the corridors of the hospital trying desperately to keep from panicking. He’d taken the day off work to have some time to himself, now Jonas was at school it was something he’d promised Katrina he would do. She was still convinced he was going to end up back in hospital, so Rip had agreed he would take a day to himself. Although it was still Christmas vacation Jonas wasn’t even at school but was being taken care of by Ali who was also watching Giddy for him.

“Michael,” Ali waved to him, “I’m so sorry. I turned away for a second, I…”

He shook his head, “Where is he?”

“With the doctors,” Ali whispered, “Michael…”

“Not now, Ali,” he stated coldly.

She nodded and wrapped her arms around herself waiting. Finally someone appeared in the room with them.

“Dr Hunter?” the man called.

“Yes,” Rip rushed forward, “Is he okay?”

The man nodded, “I’m Dr Jamieson. When Jonas fell, he hit his head and broke his right arm. I don’t want you to panic because it’s not as bad as it sounds but I’m keeping him overnight for observation.”

Rip let out a shaky breath, “Can I see him?”

“Of course,” Jamieson told him, “He’s a little groggy just now but that’s just what we’ve given him to manage his pain.”

“He is allergic to…” Rip started.

“Miss Kingsley let us know,” Jamieson assured Rip, “Follow me.”

Glancing back at where Ali was standing Rip gave her a quick nod before he followed the doctor inside the room.

“Daddy,” Jonas cried seeing him there reaching out, he was pale with a large bruise on his forehead and his right arm was in a green cast.

Rip instantly pulled him close, “Hey, little man. It’s okay, you’re okay.”

“It hurts, Daddy,” Jonas held onto him.

Hushing him Rip gently rested him back on the bed and turned to the doctor who was waiting to talk to him some more.

“We’re going to move Jonas up to the children’s ward,” Jamieson told him, “Once he’s settled you can join him. Nurse Miller is going to take you to fill in some paperwork first.”

Rip nodded and turned to his son, “I will be back very quickly, okay? Until I do then the doctor and nurse will be with you.”

Jonas pouted slightly but knew he had no choice so nodded. Rip gently kissed his son’s hair before following the nurse out the room.

  Ali was waiting for him and Rip wrapped his arm around her in a hug quickly.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, “I turned away for a second.”

Rip sighed, “It’s not your fault. It was an accident. I have to do some paperwork can you pick up some pyjamas for him and get Boo Bear?”

Ali nodded, “Are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” he assured her, “I’ll let you know where he is when I know.”

With a sigh he headed over to the reception to go through the paperwork. It felt as though there were about a hundred forms to fill in.

“Dr Hunter?” a familiar voice made him turn.

“Detective West,” Rip said, “What are you doing here?”

The other man smiled, “Just a check-up for Jenna. Is Jonas alright?”

“He was in the playground with Ali and fell off the wall there,” Rip sighed shaking his head, “Broken arm and bump on the head. They’re keeping him in for observation.”

West nodded giving a small chuckle, “Kids, they do their best to give you a heart attack.”

Rip laughed slightly, “Very true.”

“He’ll be fine,” West assured him, “My daughter, Iris, broke her leg riding her bike down a hill at the park because she was trying to prove she was braver than Barry.”

Rip grimaced.

“She proved herself right,” West mused before clapping his shoulder, “He’ll be fine.”

Rip gave a slight smile, “Thanks, Detective.”

“Dad,” another voice called making them both look over to the young man jogging over. He spotted Rip and stalled, “Hi?”

“Michael Hunter,” West caught the young man by his shoulder, “This is my son, Wally.”

Rip smiled, “Nice to meet you, Wally.”

Wally stared at him nodding when West squeezed his shoulder, “You too,” he stared at Rip for a moment before turning, “Dad, Cecile is waiting in the car.”

West nodded, “I have to go. Don’t worry, kids are tough and your boy is strong. He’ll be fine.”

  After what felt like hours of filling in forms, although it was only about twenty minutes later, Rip finally entered the room within the children’s ward where Jonas was waiting for him.

“Daddy,” the little boy cried happy to see him.

Rip sat on the bed gathering his son into his arms and holding him close, “It’s okay. I’m here. You’re okay.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” Jonas whispered, “I know I shouldn’t have been on the wall.”

Rip hushed him, “It’s okay. I think you’ve learned your lesson so why don’t you close your eyes and get some sleep. You’re tired.”

“You won’t go away?” Jonas whispered worriedly.

“I will be right here,” Rip assured him, smiling when Jonas cuddled against him falling asleep quite quickly. Rip rested him on the bed again and rubbed his eyes letting out a shuddering breath.

 “Michael?”

He turned hearing Gideon’s voice and Rip sighed relieved to see her there, she walked over wrapping her arms around Rip.

“What happened?” she asked.

Quickly explaining Rip took her into the room where Jonas was fast asleep, looking small and fragile.

“He’s alright,” Gideon gently stroked the little boy’s hair before turning to Rip again resting her hand on Rip’s cheek, “He’s fine. You can relax.”

She slid her arms around him again and Rip let out a sigh of relief as she held him. Feeling the tension in his shoulders release as Gideon slid her hands up and down his back comfortingly.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Rip whispered to her.

Gideon hugged him tighter, “I always will be.”

Part Five

[calamityauthor]

Consequences Rising Episode 4

           “Welcome everyone,” Vischon greeted with a blast of charisma. The crowd immediately rose to their feet, smiling, clapping, and cheering. Vischon smiled back at the crowds, letting them express their enthusiasm and appreciation of their leader. He basked in their admiration for several moments before holding up a hand for their silence.

           “To many of you, I am an old friend,” Vischon began. “To others, I am a leader, or the father of a nation.” He paused and gave a long satisfied glare at the audience. He seemed to drink in the anticipation and the adoration painted on his followers’ faces. “And yet to many others, I am simply a face. I am the embodiment of the memories and fables of others.”

           The long, drinking stare appeared again. “However, today is not about me. No, this day is about you. It is about us as a nation. Today, many of you will introduce yourselves to Omondra and I, your leaders with only your skill.”

           Orrwick witnessed Vischon speaking with his whole body. He raised his arms, and waved them in wide motions. He pounced across the stage, bending low toward the front row. Passion radiated from his body, enrapturing every other person in the sanctuary. Orrwick however, was not quite as impressed. He knew Vischon’s power was great and terrifying, but his presence did not captivate him like the others.

           He looked around to see many, if not all of the younger women and even some of the men practically swooning over Vischon’s good looks. The older Crown Knights had only adoration and playful envy shining in their eyes.

           “Today is a day to celebrate, but also a day for remembrance,” Vischon rallied. “We celebrate the growing of our youth in our midst. However, we must also remember our duty as soldiers to the highest light.”

           The room grew more solemn as people paid silent tributes to their deceased friends, families, and comrades. “We, separated from the flesh of our beloved, are never weaker for their departure. Our memories, love, and faith add their will to ours, and together we conquer what will not be bested on our own!”

           The crowd erupted once again, moved by Vischon’s speech. As the thunderous approval grew louder, Vischon barely managed to cry over them, “We have been chosen by the creator. We have been lifted, destined to be the light of the world! No other man, no other force can carry the burdens that we have chosen to accept! Together, in unity, WE ARE THE BRIGHTEST SHINE!”

           Neblar had appeared at the back of the stage just in time to hear Vischon’s grand rally. The words, they scared him. They sounded different than they used to. Those words sounded hungry, and Neblar was not at all eager to find out what appealed to their appetite. Looking around the crowd, Neblar saw nearly all of the Crown Knights jumping out of their seats with joy. Their enthusiasm was frightening. Neblar however, was less afraid for his safety and more afraid of what some of the more passionate individuals might do to themselves.

           Toward the back of the sanctuary, Neblar spotted the same group of Crown Knights he passed earlier on the steps. Their cold eyes and rigid lips had softened into smiles and laughter. They too were completely riveted with Vischon’s pretty words and bold charisma. He could not understand how they could simply revel in such exclusionary rhetoric. For so long, the Crown Knights were told to be humble, modest, and grateful. Why was Vischon preaching that they should be on the take? Why was he teaching them to crave more attention?

           Neblar had always considered himself fairly religious, but he was more content to experience matters of the soul in private. To him, the Creator crafted an entire planet for the people to enjoy and worship upon. Out of all the places to send praises, Neblar thought a church was unnecessary and artificial. Perhaps it was even an obstacle when trying to take in all the grandeur? With a heavy, disappointed sigh, Neblar muttered under his breath, “Community was not always defined by a steeple.”

           He had seen enough. Neblar turned toward the door and descended to the underground once again. He was sorely disappointed at what he had seen. He had no idea that the Crown Knights’ problems ran so deep. He was clueless that Vischon had strayed so far from Araythith and Ichabod’s teachings and leadership model. This was not their plan. This was nowhere near what they had imagined. Where was the solace? Where was the joy? The Crown Knights were an independent, intelligent, elite fighting force only concerned with lowering the Depth numbers as quickly as possible. Now everything appeared to be militarized. They were brutal, unforgiving, and only concerned about how to be closer to God. Status was everything, and the ability to ignore the crumbling of their integrity seemed to be their power.

           “Thank you! Thank you, everyone,” Vischon called to the crowd, soaking up the adoration with open arms and a wide smile. “But let us remember that we are here for a specific purpose, so let’s get down to business.”

           The crowd quickly shrank to more whispers as Vischon motioned two men toward the front of the stage. The first was Angkirk. The other was unreasonably tall and slender. He had short grey hair, high cheek bones, and a long face. He looked much more battle hardened than Angkirk and looked much less jolly than him as well.

           “I’d like to welcome two of our First Class Lords. Their names are Angkirk and Ralg.” The crowd issued a rolling applause before Vischon continued. “They have brought with them Counts to assist them as well as a few students to be assessed.” Applause rang out again as Vischon paused once more.

           In closing, Vischon smiled and declared, “Without any further ado, will the jurors please make their way to the audience chambers? Each candidate will be called down in groups of three.”

           A handful of older Crown Knights rose from their seats and made their way toward the stage. Slowly, the remaining audience disappeared below the large wooden archway. Orrwick was a little nervous, but he knew his evaluation would be simple enough. He did however feel pity toward those that were trying to advance from one rank to another. Their tests would prove much more difficult.

           Neblar stood, leaning against Vischon’s stage when the others arrived. Vischon was the only one smiling. All the other jurors behind him sauntered forward with royal elegance and arrogant or elitist tension dripping from their clenched jaws. “So are we ready now?” asked Neblar. His question was shot directly at Vischon, but Omondra quickly stepped between them.

           “Yes, but Vischon has one more surprise for our guests,” she importantly declared. The other jurors perked up and adorned new smiles, but Neblar gave a look letting everyone know that they were wasting his time. Vischon’s gaze was cold and menacing toward Neblar for only a second before smiling again.

           “Ah yes, it is true,” Vischon cheerfully admitted. “I have something important to tell…show everyone.” The entire group, excluding Neblar was buzzing with anticipation. Continuing, Vischon explained, “As you know, Neblar was my pupil for many years. His awe-inducing power is something like the crown jewel during my career as a Crown Knight. However, he is all grown up, and I have nothing more to teach him.” He paused for a moment. Vischon looked like his emotion would overcome him, but Neblar could tell that he was just pandering to the Lords again. With a deep breath Vischon announced, “I have taken a new protégé.”

           Everyone let out a gasp. Neblar immediately felt the sharp knife of betrayal plunge into his back. The air escaped him as he took in this new information. “When did this happen,” he thought to himself. “Who could it be?”

           “I would like everyone to meet, well, I suppose some of you already know him, but anyway…” The doors opened and a man with short blonde hair stepped in. He had slightly rosy cheeks and high arched eyebrows that made him look chronically inquisitive or surprised, yet his voice had almost no emotion. Neblar knew this man. His name was Cecil.

           Neblar also knew that Cecil was powerful, but he was young. He had been a Crown Knight less than ten years. However, Neblar had no idea that Cecil was ready to advance to such a level of power nor did he know that Vischon had any interest in grooming or training him. Looking around, Neblar noticed that all the other jurors seemed well pleased with Vischon’s decision. Neblar however, knew better. He knew that the Lords present that day were probably wondering why Vischon never raises Crown Knights from outside the Hopewell Cathedral.

           “Yes, Cecil has been under my wing for a little over four months now,” Vischon proudly admitted. “I have instructed him to keep it a secret until today because I wanted to surprise everyone with the great news.” The statement was for everyone, but the mannerisms were just to add a little salt to Neblar’s wounds. “You should see him in combat,” Vischon stated with a wink. “I have never seen anything like it in all my days.” Every word was a personal attack on Neblar. His blood was boiling. He was about to explode. He had never been this angry with Vischon.

           “I have a great idea,” Angkirk merrily grunted. “We should have Cecil and Neblar give us a little exhibition! It would be great to see the tried and true talent of the Crown Knights up against the up and coming star of the show!”

           “You know, I think that would be an amazing idea,” Omondra agreed, stepping into the center of the group. “What a great way to start the festivities.”

           The rest of the group seemed to jump right in and agree as well. It was only seconds before all of them except Vischon, Neblar, and Cecil were growing louder and louder and their agreement. Finally, Vischon nodded at Cecil and stepped forward. He turned to face Neblar and stated, “Well Neblar, I guess the people have spoken, haven’t they?” There was a manufactured sense of disbelief in his voice with the statement. Neblar knew that Vischon had engineered the whole thing and he had crossed a line. “It looks like our guests demand entertaining, Neblar. And you’re not one to disappoint, are you?”

           Something inside Neblar finally cracked. He replied, “Sorry, but I don’t raise my blade against my brethren for the entertainment of the aristocracy.”

           “What did you say?” Omondra hissed as she charged forward. She was suddenly inches from Neblar. The Elite thrusted her hand forward toward Neblar’s throat as she howled, “How dare you! These are our GUESTS!”

           Just before her fingernails touched Neblar’s skin, a hand grabbed her by her hair before throwing her away from him. Vischon stood there, a few strands of long black hair clenched in his fist. “Stay away from him, Omondra!”

           Neblar couldn’t believe it. Was Vischon trying to come to his defense? As soon as the thought came, Vischon crushed it. He put his hands on Neblar’s shoulders and asked in a voice that was quiet but still loud enough for the whole group to hear it, “Neblar, are you ok?” The question was laced with false sympathy and plastic concern. “I mean, are you…is it possible you might be a little…sick?”

           Neblar knew exactly what Vischon was getting at, as did everyone else. Gasps riddled the group as the prospect of such a powerful Crown Knight falling to the sickness registered in their minds. Their faces changed from shock, to disgust, to judgmental sympathy.

           “You know what, Vischon?” Neblar shouted. “I think I’ll go on your mission right now!” He physically pushed Vischon out of his face and moved toward the exit. Just as he entered the darkness beyond the center of the room, Neblar heard Vischon calling out.

           “Neblar you cannot leave yet! You can’t take Orrwick with you. Not until after his evaluation!”

           Neblar spun around but did not move any closer to the group. Shaking with anger, Neblar screamed, “I DON’T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT YOUR ASSESSMENTS!” His chest was heaving as he ended with, “He has nothing to prove to anyone…especially you.” Though it was almost impossible to see Neblar in the far reaches of the chamber, he still flashed a rude hand gesture toward the group before storming out the door.

           As he stomped up the stairs, Neblar wondered if Vischon might follow him. He had nothing left to say. It was now clear that this was Vischon’s goal all along. Vischon wanted him to see Cecil. He wanted Neblar to see him make a statement to the Lords that Cecil was the new hero. Neblar never cared about being a hero. He never asked for praise and acclaim. He just wanted things to go back to the way they were. He wanted Vischon’s friendship. There was nothing he desired more than to rush into some dangerous, hopeless battle with Vischon at his side.

           As the door slammed open, everyone in the sanctuary jumped with shock. Seth, who was standing near the door spun around, his sword immediately appeared, firmly gripped with both hands, ready to strike whatever threat was emerging from the lower chambers. When everyone saw it was Neblar, the spectators let out a collective sigh of relief. Their calm was short lived as the rage within Neblar was written all over his face. It was evident with every step he took down the steps into the aisle. Immediately, everyone tried to ignore him, but they couldn’t help but be slightly afraid. The only two Crown Knights in the room that looked concerned for Neblar instead of themselves were Seth and Orrwick.

           Neblar made his way straight up to Orrwick, looming over his still seated apprentice. The younger Crown Knight looked up into Neblar’s white hot eyes and asked, “Neb, what in the world happened down there?”

           Neblar grunted, “We’re leaving.”

           “But my assessment…”

           “Forget the assessment,” Neblar angrily shouted. “You don’t need to prove yourself to me, them, or Vischon.” Neblar was now almost addressing the entire room. “In fact, I’d be frightened if you felt you did.”

           Everyone’s eyes were wide open with shock. Their gaping jaws still suspended, Neblar extended his hand to Orrwick.

           “Where will we go?”

           “To Iowa to aid our comrades. After that, we’ll carve our own path.” Neblar continued as his voice cooled. “We don’t need Vischon to do good in the world. We don’t need them to protect the light of the world.”

           Orrwick thought about it for a moment and decided he wanted to join Neblar. He could only imagine what it would be like to join his mentor in a grass roots movement against the Depths. He clasped Neblar’s hand without a moment of hesitation and the two made their way toward the exit. All of the Crown Knights were staring like deer caught in headlights.

           “Neblar!” Seth desperately called. “Neblar, please don’t do this!” He ran halfway down the aisle toward them and stopped to call again. “We need you. And think of what you’re doing to poor Orrwick here. He’s too young to understand the seriousness of his actions.”

           Irritated, Orrwick spun around, pointing a finger at Seth. “Look, Seth! I appreciate your concern, but I will decide my own fate.”

           Seth looked to Neblar who simply smiled and shrugged. With a scoff, Neblar declared, “Glad to see that’s all settled. Well we’ll be going now.”

           Without another word, the two were out the door and heading back down the hill toward the river. He had slammed the glass door so hard he half expected to hear it break as it swung shut. Orrwick’s mind was racing. His nerves were electrified. Adrenaline rushed through his veins as he processed what had just happened.

           “Neblar, do you realize what you just did?” Orrwick excitedly asked. Neblar said nothing, so he continued. “You just started a revolution! You just turned the system on its head!”

           “No!” Neblar sternly corrected. “I just took back my life for myself. I am no longer a sheep, dog, or puppet. I am a free man, and I will go wherever the drums of war will take me. If that means aiding Vischon in the future then so be it. If it means I can no longer come back here, then that’s fine too.”

           Orrwick was beyond excited. He thought this was his chance. He had grown tired of being treated and perceived like a student. He ached deeply for the chance to be known for what he could do and not just what he knew. He knew he was the best in his class. Neblar knew it too. To Orrwick, this was the beginning of rise to glory. With no restrictions handed down from Vischon, Neblar was free to raise him how he chose. He would not stop until he reached the same level of power. He might even surpass Neblar if he played his cards right.

           Not sure what to expect, Orrwick couldn’t help but envision a life on the open road. He imagined hunting down scores of Depths with the stealth and cunning of a lioness. The thought of it made him feel strong. He thought about he and Neblar marching into grand battles, becoming war heroes, and the Crown Knights paying homage to their glory. This was Neblar he was with. It simply couldn’t go any other way.

           As the two Crown Knights approached the Camry, a man approached from behind. Neblar had known they were being followed ever since they left the temple, but he lacked the time and patience to stop and talk anymore.

           “What a show you two put on,” called the man following them.

           Orrwick was startled, but Neblar just heaved an agitated sigh as he turned around. There before them, stood Ralg. A strange smile was twisted through his thin, almost grey lips. His long spindly fingers were crossed at his breast.

           “Here to make fun of me, too?” Neblar growled with a great deal of attitude.

           “Oh my, no,” Ralg chuckled. His voice was raspy and scratchy. “The look on your face when Cecil came out was priceless.”

           “So you’re here to laugh at me then?”

           Ralg was nearly roaring with laughter, but cleared his throat with a deep wet cough before continuing the conversation. “Of course not, Neblar. I would have done the same thing in your position.” He watched Neblar’s face soften from vehement disdain to mourning. “You go do what it takes to be you again. Lord knows we need you, but not this shell of a man you once were. Go find the rest of you, wherever that may be.”

           “Besides,” continued Ralg, “Vischon has no idea what he just let walk out that door. If you’d been further north, I would have given every penny I had for you to be mine.”

           Neblar’s face twitched and tightened with anger again. “But that’s the problem! I’m not one to be owned. I’m not a commodity, trend, or treasure!”

           “Of course not,” answered Ralg. His voice was one of empathy and understanding. Neblar felt that he was the first to listen to him in more than a year. “You must understand however, anyone with your skill and power would be treasured. The thought of having you in my service tempts me with pride. It’s the pride of knowing I stood the best chance of doing the most good with you at my side.”

           “So I am the source of your envy?” Neblar angrily questioned. “Am I truly poison?”

           “We’re human too, Neblar. We, the governors and rulers of the Crown Knights did not shed our flesh in order to rule.” Ralg let out a tired sigh. His voice turned almost to shame as he continued. “If anything, the flesh tightens around us and constricts us further than any normal Crown Knight might experience.”

           Neblar was still more than a little angry, but at least he was finally being treated to some openness and honesty. At least he felt respected. “But the fact remains, Ralg. I’m no treasure or glimmering piece of silver. Even the finest silver tarnishes. Vischon made that clear today.”

           Without another word, Neblar and Orrwick hopped into the car with haste and sped off into the distance. Ralg watched them disappear, chuckling to himself. With a casual salute, he muttered, “Give ‘em hell, Neb.” After a few more moments, Ralg laughed again, louder this time as he shook his head. “Oh Vischon, you’ve gone and done it now.”

[backtothestart02]

Christmas with the Newlyweds | A westallen x parkwest fanfiction

For @inksmudge on her birthday!! Happy Birtheday, hun!! You’re amazing and deserve everything!!!

(I’m really cutting it close here, but it’s still in before midnight, so it still counts in my book!! lol. I hope you enjoy it, dear! - And everyone else too!!)

*Big thanks to @valeriemperez for beta’ing on such short notice & getting it back to me just in time! You’re awesome!!

Synopsis: 4x09 - Canon Divergent - The Christmas Party goes as planned with no arrests and no interruptions, except for a couple surprise visitors.

Rating: General Audiences

Romantic Pairings: Barry & Iris, Wally & Linda

 Settled at the kitchen, her ankle pleasantly brushing up against her husband’s knee, Iris took in the surroundings. It was a shame Cecile – and Wally – couldn’t be here to experience it, but there was so much joy and happiness humming in the air. After the tension of the last couple days, after fretting about how she’d let her levelheadedness as a leader swamp every nerve ending in her body that screamed at her – what if? What if Barry doesn’t make it? What if you made the right call but you lost the love of your life all over again and this time he couldn’t be brought back? What if???

But the familiar rush that tossed her hair about and sent chills racing down her spine returned to her as if it had never left. And there he was – tired, exhausted, but all Barry. All hers and back in her arms. He was barely letting go, but she needed to just hold onto him for a while, to breathe in his scent, feel the warmth of his body holding her too, and forget all her worries. Because she almost lost him, but she hadn’t.

And now they were at a Christmas party with almost everybody they loved. Ralph is questionably pleasant, but she wouldn’t let herself be bothered by that. Even Dominic was a welcome addition. She smiled to herself, counting her blessings. Even the mystery of why there had been no counter attack from Devoe could be dismissed tonight. It was Christmas, her first Christmas as a wife – and in this moment, she couldn’t be happier.

“What?” she heard Barry say and flicked her eyes in his direction.

“Hmm?”

His sappy, incredibly sexy grin made her feel hot all over, a feeling which miraculously subsided when she remembered there were people no more than a few feet away.

“What’re you thinking about?” he asked, nudging her foot a little with his leg.

She bit her bottom lip, smiling.

“Just thinking how lucky we are.” She reached her hand across the table. Barry met it halfway and intertwined their fingers. “How happy I am.”

He pulled their hands to his lips and kissed her knuckles.

“Me too. And it’s only going to get better.”

She had to look away after a while because the pure adoration in his eyes was almost overwhelming. Her gaze fell to his ring finger when he set their hands back on the table, and she felt her heart leap into her throat.

“What?” he asked again, a teasing lilt to his voice as he smiled at her.

“It’s nothing. I just…”

He raised his eyebrows, waiting.

“I can’t believe we’re finally married,” she admitted, her eyes shining. “This is our first Christmas together as a married couple and God, that ring looks really good on your finger.” She gave a short laugh, aware that she was gushing over such a simple thing.

“Oh yeah?” he asked, lifting her hand and angling it so her rings could be seen. “Your wedding band doesn’t look too shabby either.”

She rolled her eyes, fighting a smile.

“That’s different. I’ve had this diamond on my finger for months. You’ve had time to get used to it. Adding a wedding band to it shouldn’t come as big of a surprise to you. Your ring on the other hand…is new to me.”

Barry laughed. “Used to it?” He shook his head. “Iris, I am never going to get used to the fact that you’re my wife.”

Iris felt the shivers run up and down her spine as he said that word.

“You say it so nonchalantly.” She looked away again, bashful even though she had no need to be. Barry practically quoted romantic soliloquys to her in his sleep. “As if-”

“It’s not the reason stars burn bright and time stands still?”

She lifted her gaze to his. “Isn’t it, though?”

Barry’s eyes softened, and he started to lean in. Iris could already feel the press of his lips and the warmth of his breath before he’d descended far enough to touch her.

The moment their lips brushed, there was a knock on the door. Regretfully they turned to see who it was, and everyone else broke from their conversations out of mild curiosity as well.

“Oh my God, Wally!” Iris immediately sprang to her feet and crossed the room, engulfing her brother in a ginormous hug the second she spotted his face as he walked through the door. Joe barely had a chance to get his hello in before his daughter interrupted.

“Hey, Iris,” Wally gushed in return. “I’ve missed you, too.”

“I thought you were in Cambodia,” Joe said when Iris finally released her brother.

“I was,” he confirmed. “But, I, uh, met someone there.”

A devilish glint shone in Joe and Iris’ – and to be fair everyone’s – eyes as Wally started to babble.

“She…” He cleared his throat. “She-”

“She thought,” the pretty woman pushed past him from on the step behind him, “that this boy had better see his family for the holidays, since she hadn’t seen them in a while either.”

Iris�� jaw dropped. Barry’s slow stride suddenly sped up a little, just as shocked as the rest of them.

“I don’t get it. Who’s this?” Ralph asked in the two-second silence.

“Oh, my God, Linda?!” Iris pushed her brother aside, nearly causing him to fall over as their dad caught him in his arms. “What were you… You were in Cambodia?!” She pulled back from the crushing hug. “How did you – wait.” Suddenly everything clicked. “Are you and my brother—”

“Together?” Linda let the single word hang in the deafening silence as the surrounding guests waited with baited breath. Her eyes shifted over to a bashful yet proud Wally standing in the corner. “In a manner of speaking,” she allowed.

Harry slowly walked up between them.

“You do know that he just got out of a very serious relationship…”

“Harry-” Joe warned.

“With my daughter,” he continued, tuning the older West out.

The tension was so thick in the room, Iris couldn’t decide whether to defend her brother or Linda or even Harry on Jesse’s behalf.

“So did I,” Linda retorted.

“What?” Barry and Iris asked simultaneously.

“With who?” Cisco demanded, having re-emerged into the house when he saw Wally and Linda walking up the front steps from the street outside.

“Does it matter?” She raised an eyebrow daringly.

Cisco’s eyes squinted but he said nothing.

“You have a vibing girlfriend who just sent you a sex cube, Cisco,” Caitlin muttered under her breath.

“I’m aware of that,” Cisco said defensively. “I was just asking who-”

Joe closed his eyes and pressed a hand to his forehead before moving out of the cluster of individuals towards the kitchen.

“I need some ‘nog,” he said, heading straight for the mug that he decided had his name written all over it.

Harry stayed glaring at Linda for a while before she finally matched his pointed stare with one of her own.

“We’re taking it slow,” she said, genuine in her response, not in her tone. “I’m no more interested in jumping into something that might very well crash and burn than he is, I assure you. And I would be happy to meet your daughter at any time, since Wally has done nothing but talk fondly of her.”

Harry relaxed some, glanced over at Wally, then back at Linda.

“I’m happy for you two,” he suddenly said and headed in the direction Joe had gone.

Linda looked at Wally for an explanation, but he shrugged helplessly, so she turned to Iris who quickly looped her arm around hers and tugged her across the room.

“Tell me everything about Cambodia,” she gushed, looking pointedly over her shoulder at Wally as they walked farther away. “You’re next.”

Wally pointed to his chest, a degree of fear reverberating there.

“Me? What did I-”

“Come on, man,” Barry said, saving him and squeezing his shoulder from the other side. “Sit by the fireplace with us. It’s way better than whatever they have in Cambodia.”

Wally laughed and nodded. “Okay, yeah, I’ll do that.”

Barry grinned, more of his pearly whites shining through when the door opened once again to reveal and unexpected by warmly embraced Cecile and Joanie Horton. That entrance really boosted up Joe’s mood, and in no time Harry was borderline terrorizing Joanie on what she planned to do with her future, surprising them all when she said simply, “I’m thinking something scientific.”

Later she responded to Iris’ questing for a more specific position in the scientific field, “Oh my God, I hate science.” Iris almost spit out her eggnog. “But that guy would not shut up. What was I supposed to do? Endure lectures about my future all evening. On Christmas?”

Iris stifled her laughter. “No, of course not. Never on Christmas.”

Joanie didn’t catch the sarcastic undertones, and in a minute she was gone to pour herself the much coveted eggnog on the kitchen table. The complaint of why her grandmother’s eggnog hadn’t been made was immediately dismissed when she tasted the recipe that apparently had come straight from Ralph’s family going back several generations.

“We are going to be drunk,” Joe said, staring down into the beverage that likely contained more alcohol than anything else.

Iris laughed to herself and traveled to Barry a while later after catching up with Wally and Linda.

“Hey, Handsome,” she cooed, landing as solidly on his lap as he had before.

She felt his hand cup her ass and smiled without saying a word. His next words melted away the amusement buzzing inside her.

“Hello, Wife.”

“God, I love hearing you say that.” She started to lean in.

“Oh yeah?” he whispered when she was a breath away.

“Yeah.” She nodded, silencing him a moment later with a kiss.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Joe cleared his throat loudly.

They parted and looked up to find everyone suddenly staring at them.

“Keep it PG, would you?” Joe said. “I don’t want to send you two home too. You’re family.”

“I came back!” Cisco interjected, but it was ignored.

“We’re newlyweds,” Barry defended.

Iris wiggled her finger and gushed as her husband held his hand up to showcase his own ring.

“Iris West-Allen, remember, Dad?”

Joe tried to remain strong, but softened a little under the reminder. He managed to point a finger at them accusingly.

“PG,” he repeated and walked back into the kitchen.

“I think it’s cute,” Linda said from her position squished beside Wally in a massive chair. “Flaunt that all you want.”

Iris laughed. “Actually, I have an idea.”

“Oh?” Barry raised his eyebrows, simultaneously curious and amused.

“Mhmm.” Iris managed to get to her feet and lead him across the room away from most of the guests. She stopped right exactly beneath the mistletoe Ralph had thankfully managed to place amidst his many decorations.

“Oh…I see, Mrs. West-Allen. Very clever.”

Her eyes glittered. “Thank Ralph.”

“Hey, nooo,” the taller, annoying man whined, but they paid it no mind.

Iris grabbed onto the collar of her husband’s shirt and pulled his down to her, thrilling in the way he cupped her face, sunk his fingers into her hair, and kissed her as if no one was watching.

“PG,” she whispered when he tried to stick his tongue into her mouth.

He sighed regretfully, but nodded. “Later.”

Her eyes glinted mischievously as she lowered herself from up on her tiptoes and clasped their hands together, rejoining the crowd settling down to open Christmas presents.

*Also posted on AO3 and FFnet.

[kpopfanfictrash]

The 7th Prince (II)

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Pairing: You / GOT7

Rating: PG

Word Count: 4,017

Summary: A land under a curse. Seven mysterious princes. A decision that will make or break the Kingdom. (idea from this post here, by @cyjsgirl​)

[Master List]

Groaning, you slide your face into your hands. “But what will I wear?”

Your mother practically beams. “Oh, I have a few ideas.”

Peeking through the gaps in your fingers, you look at her. “As long as Yugyeom and I aren’t matching… do your worst.”

After all. How much worse could things possibly get?  

You were wrong. It gets worse. 

Staring in the mirror, you barely recognize the girl staring back at you. You look beautiful – ethereally so. The real you must be buried in there somewhere, trapped beneath yards of silk and powder. There goes your last hope that the Princes will take one look at you and run for the hills. Cecil has seen to it that this won’t happen, making you up within an inch of your life.

A long, silver gown hangs from your body. Winds to the ground where it trails behind you. Seed pearls are sewn into the bodice, matching the circlet of jewels in your hair. You look like a star, Cecil tells you. A bright, shining star.

You stick your tongue out.

“And then… you do things like that.” Grumbling darkly, Cecil sweeps her things away.

You laugh, risking mussing your dress as you hug Cecil from behind. Though you antagonize one another, Cecil is your stabilizing influence. While your parents are loving and want the best for you – they’re also the King and Queen of Senary. Ultimately they have to think of the Kingdom before anything else.

It made for a rather lonely childhood. Except for Yugyeom, of course. Without your brother, you don’t really know what you would have done. Yugyeom is that one person who understands you. Who knows your worst fears, greatest joys and loves you anyways.

It’s as you’re thinking this there comes a knock at your door. Yugyeom peeks his head inside. “Y/N?” His eyes widen. “Wow. You look amazing.”

Noting his own formal wear, you nod. “You don’t look so bad yourself, Gyeommie.”

Yugyeom smiles before clearing his throat importantly. “I’ve arrived to accompany the fair Princess to the main ballroom.” Speaking in his most pretentious voice, Yugyeom gestures grandly.

You giggle. “How gallant of you.” Stepping forward, you exaggeratedly lay your hand atop his arm. “I must warn you though – my father will behead you if I’m offended.”

“Will not. Dad likes me better.”

“Does not.”

“Does so.”

Looking out your window, you sigh. “Gyeommie?”

He looks sideways. “Yeah?”

“Don’t leave me alone tonight. Okay?” Your hand tightens on his arm.

Your brother’s expression is unreadable. “How about this?” he asks, voice lowering. The two of you leave, exiting your room to walk the main hallway. It’s mostly empty but for the occasional guard. Everyone else is already inside. “We make up a signal. If you’re uncomfortable, you say the word and I’ll come save you.”

You smile up at him. This is why you love your brother. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Yugyeom nods. “If you say cantaloupe – I’ll come running.”

A small laugh breaks from your chest. “Cantaloupe? How am I supposed to work that naturally into a conversation?”

“You’re not supposed to.” At the main doors Yugyeom stops, bending to adjust your tiara. “That’s why it’s a signal.”

“Fine. Cantaloupe it is.”

The royal announcer catches your eye, nodding towards the doors. “Lady.” His expression is slightly apologetic. “It’s time.”

You adjust your grip on Yugyeom’s arm. “We’re ready.”

The doors open.

It’s hard to remember what you’re feeling as you enter. The lights are tremendous. Gigantic chandeliers of glass orbs, their light both dazzling and overwhelming. Your mother directed the staff to decorate with your Royal colors. Emerald green and silver, intertwined with pearly white. The place looks like an enchanted forest, set with twinkling lights and gauze.

You stand at the top, very aware of Yugyeom’s fabric beneath your fingertips and the buzzing of lights. Everything else is silent. Or maybe it’s not, but the beating of your own heart drowns all other sounds out. It could be either option, really.

Trumpets blare to announce your presence and slowly every head turns your way.

“Tonight on the eve of her Twenty First birthday – Y/N, Princess of Senary!”

“That’s our cue,” Yugyeom mutters, tugging you towards the stairs.

As you start to descend, panic rushes through your veins. The King and Queen mandated you dance with everyone tonight. Each eligible Prince as part of your obligation as Princess. Of course, this brings a multitude of panic-induced scenarios to mind. They might not like you. They might step on your feet. Worse, you might step on theirs.

“I can’t do this,” you suddenly hiss.

Yugyeom makes a noise in the back of his throat, continuing to face forward. “Y/N. Listen to me.”

“Mhm.” You also look straight ahead, eyes wide and terrified.

“You can do anything,” Yugyeom whispers. “You just have to get through tonight first.”

“Just tonight?”

“Just take it one night at a time.”

Slowly, you nod. A shred of your former confidence returns and somehow you manage to hold your head high. Looking out over the audience – though not at them. You get the feeling that the second you make eye contact, all sense of nerve will be eradicated.

The last step down is the longest. So far from the ground that you wonder if you’ll fall before reaching it. Then you’re on the floor. Standing frozen and unsure of what to do with your hands. You hope no one notices the way your body tenses. Nor the way your hand tightens on Yugyeom’s arm, solid and terrified.

Before you realize what’s happening, someone else’s hand has slipped into yours. Someone who is not your brother tugs you from the spotlight. When you look up, you realize you don’t recognize him. 

He’s gorgeous, admittedly. With inky black hair and eyes just as dark. He pulls you forward, one hand on your waist as the other meets your hand.

Somewhere in the background, music begins. Strings and brass melting to melody as chatter fills the space between them. Footsteps fall into place as more couples start to dance. Slowly, the pace of your heart starts to recede.

You finally look into your dancing partner’s eyes.

“Hello.” The man inclines his head. “My name is Im Jaebum, heir to Unum.”

Of course – you should have guessed by his clothes. Black military garb, accented in gold and crimson. A sword hangs at his waist, one you know is for more than decorative purposes. Im Jaebum, the warrior Prince.

You see what people mean about him being intimidating. Just dancing with him makes your heart climb in your throat. Blocking any words from coming out. Which you suppose is a good thing, since he doesn’t seem to be fond of small talk.

“Y/N of Senary,” you respond, offering a smile. “Although you probably already knew that.”

Jaebum chuckles, eyes light. “I’ve heard rumors.” You continue to move across the dance floor, at least a minute passing before Jaebum clears his throat. “You look beautiful, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Thank you.” His candor is surprising. “That’s very kind of you to say.”

A smile plays on Jaebum’s lips. “Is it kind if it’s a fact? I’m merely saying what every other man is thinking.”

Blushing, you glance at the crowd. Indeed, there are a fair amount of eyes on you - although by now you expect it. It’s not always a good thing. You’re a notoriety, a thing to be gawked and stared at. The last Princess of Morsus. The last, born before a doomed era of sons.

Your gaze returns to Jaebum. “There’s a difference between thinking and saying, I’ve often found.”

The Prince of Unum laughs. “True.” He twirls you, pulling you closer. “I mean what I say, though. I’ll admit I wasn’t sure what to expect tonight.”

“You mean to say stories of my beauty haven’t spread through the Kingdoms?”

Jaebum adjusts his hand in yours. “I tend not to believe in fairy tales.”

“Despite us living one?”

A corner of his mouth rises. “Witty, as well as beautiful. I suppose I don’t stand a chance, do I?”

You blush as your heart flutters. You didn’t think you would feel this way tonight - and so soon. 

“Such flattering words, Prince Im,” you chide. “Is this how you killed the dragon? Sent flowers?”

“A very bad bouquet, yes.”

You notice that his eyes crinkle when he smiles. Two dangerously adorable eye moles dotting his left eye. Your gaze keeps going to them, as though that’s safer than looking at his gaze. Everything about the moment feels surreal. The dresses, the party-goers, the conversation. It’s hard to get a grip on anything when Im Jaebum looks at you like that.

“Isn’t this odd?” you whisper, unable to stop yourself.

Jaebum raises an eyebrow. “What is? Being led around the dance floor by five men and eventually handing yourself over to one for marriage? Not odd at all.”

Your mouth drops. “So you agree.”

Jaebum’s expression turns hesitant. “Actually, I –"

`“May I cut in?”

The two of you look up as a younger man with strawberry blonde hair steps forward. 

“Youngjae,” Jaebum smiles. With a bow, he steps backwards faces you. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Princess.”

You curtsy. “It was a pleasure as well, Prince.” When you rise, Jaebum has already disappeared. Only Youngjae remains, eyes wide and nervous.

You hold out a hand. “Care to dance?”

He laughs lightly. “You stole my line.”

As Youngjae leads you away, you realize he’s actually quite handsome. In a different way than Jaebum, though. Jaebum is all edges and planes – sharp, distinct lines. Youngjae has a softer, gentler beauty.

Despite his initial hesitancy, his hand is strong in yours. “My name is Youngjae,” he says - as though that weren’t obvious.

You smile at his introduction – so simple, without title or agenda. “I’m Y/N.”

Youngjae falls silent, swept away by the music and moment. Halfway through the song, he looks down. “I’m sorry,” he confesses. “I’m so nervous.”

A giggle escapes. “Can I be honest?” When Youngjae nods, you admit, “So am I.”

“Well as long as we’re both feeling awkward. Not that you are,” Youngjae amends, wincing. “I am. Awkward.”

You’re actually laughing now, glad the song is a slow one because otherwise you’d be missing your steps. “You’re cute,” you say and Youngjae blushes. “You’re friends with Jaebum?”

“Yes,” Youngjae nods, scanning the crowd. “I don’t know where he is, though. Usually he disappears from these things after the first hour or so. He hates anything where large groups of people gather.”

“Ironic, for the leader of an army.”

Youngjae’s laugh is loud and bright. “That’s good, I’ll have to use that sometime.” 

As you turn on the dance floor you notice Youngjae is wearing the colors of his house, too – navy and gold with touches of brown. His gloves are the same brown, chocolate silk over his hands. Gloves are a tad bit unfashionable in Senary, but not every city-state. Quattor must be one of the ones where it’s in style.

You nod at the ball around you. “So. Do you want to marry me, Choi Youngjae?”

His eyes widen, surprised by your question. “It’s a bit early to say for certain.” He winces again. “Ah, that’s the wrong answer, isn’t it? I’m supposed to say of course.”

“You can say whatever you want,” you answer honestly.

It’s then that Youngjae notices your smile. “Aish. You’re joking, aren’t you?” He groans. “At least you can laugh about all this.”

“Only sometimes.”

His smile turns sad. “This must be hard,” Youngjae remarks. “I can’t imagine.” 

The song starts to come to a close, and you don’t get a chance to respond before a familiar voice cuts in. 

“May I have this dance?”

“Jinyoung-ah!” 

You whirl, ending up facing the Prince of Tribus.

A Prince, who frowns severely back at you.

“Whoops,” you grin, dropping into a curtsy. “I mean, Prince Jinyoung of Tribus. Most graced by your presence.”

Jinyoung smiles despite himself. “Princess Y/N of Senary.” He turns, bowing to your dance partner. “Prince Youngjae of Quattor.”

Youngjae’s eyebrows shoot up at Jinyoung’s formality. That’s just how Jinyoung is, though. Always well-mannered, always put together. It took you two years to get him to stop calling you Princess. He looks remarkable tonight, dark hair brushed back from his face. Dressed in gold, green and peach, the colors of Tribus.

His crown is more ornamental than yours – befitting of his city-state. Tribus is known for knowledge, for learning. Everything they do is grand and ornate. It’s also home to the famous universities of Morsus.

“Prince Jinyoung.” Youngjae bows. “She’s all yours.” With one last smile he disappears into the crowd, leaving you alone with Jinyoung.

Quietly, Jinyoung takes your hand. Leading you further out onto the dance floor. As he turns to face you, he settles one hand around your waist. “So what’s the status?” he asks, eyebrows raised. “Am I still in first place?”

“Ugh. Don’t remind me.”

Jinyoung pulls you closer, hand slipping through yours. “You’ve danced with Youngjae and Jaebum,” he comments, scanning the ballroom. “And me. So that leaves just Bambam and Jackson.”

“Ah, his casual name? I didn’t realize you knew Wang Jia Er.”

Jinyoung shrugs. “I do, some. Duo is next to Tribus – we played together when we were little.”

“Of course.” Relaxing into the dance, you allow Jinyoung to guide you. Everything about this feels familiar. How many balls, how many dances have the two of you danced? Too many to count.

Jinyoung watches, dark gaze roaming. “What are you thinking?”

Sometimes it’s annoying how well he knows you. “I was thinking…” You stop, then sigh. “That I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

Jinyoung leans in, lowering his voice. “You’ll do what we’ve always said you would. You’ll meet everyone. If you fall in love, you marry him. If you don’t, you marry me.”

Jinyoung, ever the strategist.

Your heart aches at his words - Jinyoung is so kind. So good, you wish you felt more than friendship. Or that he felt more than friendship for you. But Jinyoung just wants the best for those he loves. He’s grown up by your side, watched the weight of this decision for years. Jinyoung wants to protect you from any further hurt – an admirable quality.

But marrying him would mean Jinyoung could never marry for love, either. You don’t know if you could do that – resign your best friend to the same fate you face.

Sighing deeply, you return your gaze to his. “Here’s hoping I fall in love tonight.”

“No luck with Jaebum or Youngjae?” Jinyoung grins, tone teasing. “I mean, I like girls but even I might marry Jaebum if he asked.”

“Park Jinyoung!” you scold, starting to laugh.

“Really.” Jinyoung’s eyebrows rise.  “What’s wrong with either one?”

“Nothing.” Your gaze moves across the room. “Youngjae is just young. He reminds me of Yugyeom. And Jaebum…” Here, you hesitate. “Maybe. But then he’s so perfect, I don’t think he could ever like me.”

Jinyoung shrugs. “If he didn’t, why would he stick around?”

Your gaze follows to where Jinyoung points – to Jaebum leaning casually against the wall. Every now and then he looks your way. You remember what Youngjae said about Jaebum usually leaving quickly and something in your heart beats faster.

“See?” Jinyoung’s grip tightens. “Told you.”

Your gaze returns to his. “Maybe.”

The song comes to an end and slowly, Jinyoung takes a step backwards. “You should give the other two Princes a chance.”

“So proper,” you tease, letting him go. “What an excellent sport you are, Prince Jinyoung.”

“Jinyoung has always been that.” It’s Bambam’s voice that speaks now. “When I was younger, he used to let me win every other round of ball. An equal share.”

You and Jinyoung find Bambam smiling, holding out his hand. “I asked the orchestra to make it a polka.”

You snort, taking his arm. “I expected nothing less.”

Bambam shoos Jinyoung, who rolls his eyes but leaves. A consequence of Jinyoung being your best friend and Bambam being Yugyeom’s was that growing up, you four spent a lot of time together. Jinyoung is as much an older sibling to them as you are.

“So what did the band say when you asked for a polka?” As the music starts up again - another slow waltz - you start to laugh.

Bambam moves over the dance floor. “He said no. Then the conductor pretended he couldn’t hear me until I left.”

“Better than the time he threw a cymbal at you.”

“Hey! That hurt,” Bambam grumbles. “Anyways. What’re the prospects looking like tonight?”

“Aish,” you sigh, looking at him sideways. “You’re as bad as Jinyoung.”

“Look, Y/N.” Bambam is suddenly serious. “This is super weird but I want you to know I’m here. If you decide to be Queen of Quinque – we can figure out a way to make it work. Hey! Then Yugyeom would be my actual brother!”

You’re blushing. “Bambam, I –"

“You wouldn’t even have to live with me! I mean, whatever you want, I guess. It’s just that –”

“Bambam.”

He stops talking. “Yes?”

“It takes two people to get married. I’m not going to force you to do anything.”

“Well, duh.” Bambam looks sheepish. “I’m just saying … if none of these other Princes measure up.”

“Thank you,” you say. You mean it.

“It’s hard to deny though, all these other Princes pale in comparison.” Bambam heaves a great sigh. “It must be such a burden to compare to me.”

“Bambam.”

“I mean. Look at me.”

“Don’t make me step on you.”

“Noted.” Bambam moves a bit quicker.

You laugh when he starts to spin, tightening his grip and dipping you low. Everything is fun with Bambam around; the life of the party wherever he goes. Which right now is through the crowd of people, spinning wide as you crack up. That is, until your hand slips from his and you stumble – smacking straight into someone else’s chest.

Startled and confused, you look up.

The man is attractive and for just a moment, you forget that you’re a princess. Forget that he’s supposed to bow, forget he should apologize. You’re the one who apologizes first, very aware of the way his arms hold you. Slightly improper, but for some reason you can’t bring yourself to remove them.

The man smiles, coffee colored hair spilled across warm, brown eyes. His smile widens the longer he looks at you and slowly, he bows. It’s from this position you recognize the thin, circlet of gold atop his head.

“Hello,” the man looks up. “I’m Wang Jia Er of Duo. Please call me Jackson.”

A long moment passes before you realize you haven’t responded. “Princess Y/N of Senary,” you say automatically.

“I know.” Jackson holds out his hand. “I believe I’m the last to ask you to dance. You have my apologies.”

“Don’t apologize.” You smile, taking his hand. “Better late than never.”

As the music starts up again – song light and airy – Jackson whisks you away on the dance floor. His feet are smooth, even as you cross the ballroom. Every now and then Jackson looks down, glancing away when he sees you looking. The little smile he gives each time makes your heart flutter.

Then, out of nowhere he says, “Pick me.” 

You look up, startled. “What?”

“Pick me.” Jackson grins at you. “I thought that’s what this was – a pitch for your hand in marriage? I assume we get just the three minutes of this song, so I don’t want to waste time. I said,” he leans until you’re nearly nose to nose, “pick me.”

Without quite meaning to, you giggle. “This is all just so sudden. You still haven’t passed the interview portion.”

“Try me.” 

You nod solemnly. “Tell me, are you a cat person or a dog person?”

“Dog.” Jackson makes a face remarkably similar to one. “Next question.”

Laughing, you continue. “What’s something you regret?”

Jackson’s eyebrows rise but he doesn’t balk. “I once talked my little brother into eating a cockroach. He threw it up, told my mom and I was grounded for a month. I severely regret that.”

“How noble of you to admit your faults.”

“Ah, yes.” Jackson sighs. “The list is long and many.”

“Excellent. I hate a faultless man, tell me another.”

“Well.” He leans close enough for you to catch his scent. Oranges and something more exotic. “I’ve heard said that I’m too kind. I laugh too much. People are altogether too enamored with me.” Jackson sighs again. “It’s a tough lot in life, but I make do.”

You laugh openly now, turning away. “Quite the pitch, Wang Jia Er.”

“Jackson.”

You look back. “You don’t like your birth name?”

“No, it’s not that.” As the music slows, Jackson catches your hand. You still, watching him bring it to his lips. “It’s just that those I’m closest to call me Jackson. I’d like to be close to you, Y/N.”

You stare for a long second, fighting the sudden beating in your chest. “Cantaloupe,” you breathe.

Jackson looks confused. “I’m sorry?”

“Cantaloupe,” you repeat, catching Yugyeom’s eye. “Cantaloupe would be very good right now. Could you excuse me for a moment?”

Extracting yourself from his grip, you practically run to the doors of the ballroom. Throwing them open into the cool, dark night. Overhead the stars sparkle. Tiny pinpoints in otherwise darkness. You move forward, hearing the doors fall shut behind you. Only your skirts rustle against the quiet of the night. At least until the doors bang open to reveal your brother, wide eyed.

Yugyeom scans the balcony. “What’s wrong?” he asks when he spots you, hurrying over. “It seemed like you were getting along with Jackson. I don’t understand.”

Breathing deeply, your hand moves to your waist, holding yourself together. “Everything is not okay.” Staring out at the gardens, your blood pounds in your ears. Your gaze moves to Yugyeom. “Do you want to know why everything is not okay?”

Your brother nods, concerned by your mania.

“It’s because those men inside are all wonderful. All fighting for my attention and why? I’m nobody. I’m not worth their stress and panic.” You close your eyes. “I don’t know how to do this. Don’t know how to pick. What about the ones I don’t? If I don’t choose Jinyoung or Jaebum or Jackson or Bambam or Youngjae, what then? Does their line just wither because they have to marry someone royal?”

At last your words dry up, spent and bitter. You look sideways to your brother, who seems to be at a loss for words.

“Wow.” He clears his throat. “What did Jackson say to you?”

A small, tight laugh escapes. “It’s not him, Gyeommie. This whole thing is just awful. How do I tell if someone likes me? Really likes me. There are so many factors at stake.”

Your brother moves to stand beside you. “I know.” He falls silent and, after a long moment he says, “Why don’t you leave?”

“What?” You hardly breathe.

“Leave.” Yugyeom turns to face you. “You’ve met all the Princes, you danced with every one. Go to your room, go to the gardens, go do something to clear your head. I’ll take care of mom and dad.”

A flicker of warmth moves through your chest. “You’d do that for me?”

Yugyeom smiles. “Of course. Now go,” he shoos you with one hand.

You don’t need to be told twice. Before you can even respond you’re down the steps. Disappearing into the gardens, as Yugyeom suggested. It’s dark and quiet out here, the only sounds the scrape of your feet against grass and pebbles. Light spills from the ballroom, broken here and there by the shadows of the people inside.

People you don’t want to think about right now.

You want to not think. You want to not be here at all.

It’s as you’re thinking this your eyes land upon the gate. The sturdy wood barring your home from the world and suddenly you know where you want to go.

[Master List]