#this is mostly based off of her carnage returns outfit!

[loveme-killme]

I made chance in dti :3

[rosesisupposes]

Skin Deep

Two royal twins, Remus and Roman, alike in almost every way, trained to be military leaders, trained to serve their nation as generals. But in a society that sees any body irregularities as signs of moral defect, one will never hold the same status as his brother. How could he ever be a proper Face of the Nation?

or, What If Roman Was The Unacceptable One?

Word count:  9,203

Main Characters: Remus, Roman

Appearances by: Patton, Remy, Logan, Virgil, Mentions of Deceit

Relationships: Platonic/Brotherly Creativitwins; background Losleep, past Moceit, beginnings of Royality, Platonic Sleepality, Platonic Sleepxiety, 

Warnings: graphic descriptions of war/battle; societal prejudice based on appearances; discrimination based on appearances; trauma-induced body modifications; mentions of emotional abuse including forced starvation/food deprivation;   

Credit to @hawthornshadow for being my wonderful co-creator in the worldbuilding especially, and to dear @vintage-squid for beta-reading!

read on ao3

Roman’s muscles were burning as he blocked the attack, catching the down-swinging blow at the hilt. He pushed back, threw his assailant off balance, and swung out his leg to send him sprawling. Without pausing for breath, he followed through, swinging his sword to stop mere inches from the fallen man’s throat.

“I yield,” the man said, chest heaving. “Also, fuck you, Your Grace.”

Roman grinned and sheathed his dull practice sword, offering an arm to help the man to his feet. “My only goal is to help you improve, my dear Toby. By pointing out the weak points in your defense. Repeatedly.”

“Thanks ever so, royal pain-in-the-ass,” Toby said, letting himself be pulled to standing. He stretched, wincing, and picked up his fallen weapon. The other men of Roman’s squad surrounded them, patting Toby’s back with sympathy and slapping Roman with what were framed as claps of victory but were probably harder than they needed to be. Roman brushed his hair out of his face, his bright red curls turned dark with sweat. One of the men tossed him a damp cloth to wipe his face, and he caught it with thanks.

Roman and his men were chatting and planning their next training session when a servant entered the yard.

“Your Grace, your father requests your presence.”

Roman immediately broke off from the group. “Is it an immediate request, or do I have time to make myself presentable?”

“His Majesty is aware that you were in the training grounds, and it is not an urgent matter.”

⁂

Roman, cleaned up and outfitted in his dress uniform, knelt before his father’s throne, waiting to be spoken to. He felt a slight trickle of sweat on his neck, and he spared a moment to hope that he wouldn’t sweat on his face as well. He would hate to have the makeup he’d carefully applied get smeared. Yes, his scars were common knowledge, and weren’t ever fully made invisible even when he caked on concealer and foundation, but he knew his father preferred it to be less noticeable. His father, and most everyone else too.

He wondered, not for the first time, if his brother would continue to require Roman to wear makeup once he ascended to the throne. He was never quite sure how Remus felt about the whole process.

He looked up under his lashes to see Remus inclining his head to speak into their father’s ear, advising him on some court matter. It appeared he’d been to the castle barber today - his hair was neatly shorn and perfectly shaped. Not a single strand blocked the view of his defined cheekbones, round chin, or his smooth, unblemished skin. Ideal, without flaws. He looked just as one would expect him to, the future Face of the Kingdom.

Currently, he was frowning. He looked up and seemed to notice his brother kneeling.

“Roman, thank you for coming. Father and I need your advice on the next advance.”

Roman rose, finally, and walked over to the map spread on the table by the throne.

“We expect the vanguard to be entrenched at the top of the mountain, but we might be able to draw them out with a flank attack-”

“But we’d run the risk of getting pinned down by their artillery and archers-”

The three royals broke into a flurry of strategy and tactics, Roman giving an on-the-ground view from the thick of battle to his father and brother’s eagle’s-eye-view. He noted more than one moment where his father urged bold, aggressive, and risky strategies that made Remus hesitate. But each time, the crown prince agreed with his father’s methods. Through the involved discussion, a battle plan was crafted.

“I expect well of you both,” the king said, nodding decisively. “We will meet on the peak in three day’s time. Gather your men and arms.”

Roman and Remus both bowed to their father. Roman waited a moment to allow his brother to exit the throne room before him, but walked by his side through the hallways leading to the family quarters.

“Are you quite alright, Reme? You seemed distracted in council-”

“I’m fine, Ro,” his brother responded, cutting him off. “It’s just another battle. Good night.” He entered his room and shut the door behind him with a thud.

⁂

“-no need for such theatrics, Your Highness, it’s just another battle.”

Remus stared up at the general, hardly aware of the tears on his cheeks or the vomit still lining his mouth. He was 12, on his first trip with his father to the battlefield. He hadn’t been prepared.

His tutors had spent years stressing the need for the royal line to fight alongside their men. The glory of war was the glory of generals, directing and rallying troops, inspiring hope and righteous fury from the front of the charge. Remus, as heir, must be the generals’ General. Plain in speech, getting directly to the point. Curt. No fancifulness, lest he be distracted. He was instructed on how to be the perfect leader, the perfect soldier, and one day the perfect king.

But what they hadn’t told him was the reality that all soldiers knew: there is little glory on the field of war. There was the Cause at home, of course, a grand narrative that justified sending the troops out for King and Country, a declaration of glorious purpose and righteous smiting.  

But on the field?

There had been the initial clash, of course, the charging of lines against one another. But that was where the resemblance to the theory Remus had been steeped in ended. He’d been brought to a battlefield and saw the charge, heard the horns and drums, and at first, his heart had swelled with the glory of which he’d only heard of.

Then he saw the aftermath. He saw the wounded scattered around like leaves after a storm, limbs detached and bloody like some terrible mockery of dolls, the flies buzzing over blown-out heads… he had barely made it out of the command tent before he started to vomit, long and hard, until he was heaving with nothing left to retch.

But the generals, and his father, had merely frowned and scoffed at his immaturity. Why did he dwell on this? It was a fact of life and war. He wasn't to mind it. He was to do his duty.

So Remus cleaned his mouth and pushed those sights to the back of his mind. They were to be expected, as part of the cleanup. No need to think about the wounded and marred.

Roman, the younger twin, was much older when he was brought to battle. He saw small skirmishes first, before the carnage of all-out war. But the sheen of glory faded for him too.

Remus remembered the voices of the public as they brought Roman home on a stretcher. The country’s champions were only supposed to lead, not get hurt. Or if they must be hurt, it wasn’t supposed to be in lasting or visible ways, they were supposed to at most suffer some injury, bravely soldier through, and return home triumphant in a sling. Why couldn’t Duke Roman have been properly injured, those who sat at home in their solars asked. A broken arm. A leg. Something that would heal and look dramatic doing it. Soldiers, especially noble ones, were expected to recover without a mark to show for it. Once the war had left the public consciousness, the injuries should have vanished, too. “Better to have been a martyr than to return home like that,” they whispered.

Not that Roman ever had a chance.

He’d been born with facial markings. Skin that looked almost painted with a pink mark, a wine stain imbued in the tan skin of his face. He looked wrong, the whispers said. Wrong for nobility. Certainly wrong for royalty. Imagine if such a one had been born the elder. How could such a one lead the nation, be the culmination of the bloodline and the clear face of morals that his people needed?

The king and queen had known of the double heartbeat, known that two children were on their way at once. And the nation and family knew, of course, that Remus was the elder, if only by half an hour. What a relief it was to know that the proper heir didn’t have such a deformity. The royals announced them both at once, hadn’t proclaimed each birth separately as was sometimes done. But then, of course, that was surely because of the queen, may she rest in peace. The midwives and servants didn’t speak of that day. Out of respect for her memory. A day of both joy and sorrow. King and country lost their beloved queen. But they gained the sons of the nation. Duke Roman, who served in battle honorably and mostly well. And Prince Remus, who was soft, and smooth, and blemish-free. A proper heir.

And he never returned from battle with injuries so dire they would leave unmistakable scars.

⁂

Three days later, Remus sat astride his charger, waiting for his father’s signal. The army’s flags snapped in the brisk wind, and he heard the creak and jingle of tack and armor around him as the soldiers shifted in place, maintaining formation as they waited.

The horn sounded, and Remus lifted his morning star with a yell and kneed his horse into a charge, soldiers streaming beside and behind him.

The fight was a blur. Remus remembered moments like the new technology of moving photographs, brief clips only a few seconds long. Catching a blow from an enemy horseman on his shield. Swinging his mace low and alongside his mount, catching a footsoldier from behind. Seeing Roman, bright in a white jacket that would soon be stained as he and his force streamed down a hill to join the fray.

It was just another battle. He played his role in the plan well, and their army won. He sat on a bench outside the command tent, cleaning his weapon and listening to reports. The victory was resounding - the only enemy soldiers not killed had been captured. The day was theirs.

Remus looked across the battlefield as one of his advisors continued to report. The ground was churned by the hooves of hundreds of horses, where it wasn’t obscured by bodies or fallen weapons. He found his eye caught on one lone body at the base of the hill from where he sat. An enemy soldier, now defeated. That's all the man should have been to him. Right?

But he couldn’t look away. He couldn’t. The man’s head was bloody, the wound jagged and terrible and... and it matched his morning star. The punctures, the dent, they matched the pattern perfectly. He’d just cleaned it - the blood and mud and matter had taken so much effort to clean. And there was where the blood had come from, that young man’s head, now part of the carnage, lying in a tangle of the fallen like logs ready to be burnt.

Remus’ hand started to shake, morning star still in his grasp.

“Your Highness? Are you alright?” the general asked.

Remus nodded, still shaking, and tried to flash the man a reassuring smile. His mouth split open, but it stretched too wide, too far, too fake. He started to laugh, air forcing itself out of his lungs in staccato bursts. The general’s eyes widened with nervousness, and he looked around them for someone else, anyone else to help.

Remus’ laugh went on and on, humorless and shrill. He couldn’t stop himself.

“Can't think about it, you know!" he cackled between laughs. "Can't dwell! It's a fact of life!"

The general backed away, heading for the other tents that housed the king and the other leaders.

When they returned to the hilltop, Remus was gone, without a trace. All that remained was a morning star, abandoned in the mud.

⁂

Two weeks later, the king paced the throne room fretfully.

“We fear the worst has happened to the Prince,” the king said. “An ambush, perhaps? Some straggler who escaped our forces, desperate for one last kill? Perhaps they recognized him and mean to ransom him, but wouldn’t we have received a demand letter by now? He’s clearly noble, anyone could tell that from a glance, why haven’t we received word? What shall we do without our heir? What will become of our nation?”

Roman stood at attention, silent. He had not heard from his brother either, but from the general’s report, he was far less optimistic that something so simple as kidnapping had occurred. But his father wouldn’t hear of it.

They hadn’t made an official announcement to the public, besides half-hearted excuses. But the rumors had begun, whispers noticing Prince Remus’ conspicuous absence. Only Duke Roman had presided with the King at the victory procession. How could the Prince allow “feeling under the weather” prevent him from attending? What was wrong?

Roman’s fingers beat an anxious rhythm on his sword hilt as he watched his father pace when they were both jolted by the loud slam of the throne room door opening.

In the doorway stood… well, it appeared to be Remus. But Remus had… changed.

His hair was long and straggly, and dyed a sickening swamp green. Metal spikes pierced the cartilage of his nose and ears, sprouting out like a mockery of armor. Studs were embedded in his cheeks. Black tears were inked under his eyes. His lips were painted a screeching shade of neon green, and when he smiled wide, they saw that his tongue had been disfigured, split into two.

They both stared, but Roman was the first to speak.

"Remus?" Roman asked. "I- we were so worried, what happened?"

"Oh I just got my head out of my ass, brother dear! Didn't want to be like all you shitheads anymore!" Turning to the king, the prince grinned lopsidedly "Daddykins, didn't you miss me? Did you have to slaughter children by yourself or did you bring ickle Romeo with you?"

"Remus!" Roman interrupted, shocked. "We don't-"

"Oh but we doooo!" Remus sang. "Me and Daddy do! We do our doody, don't we, Pop?"

The king finally spoke. "What," he demanded flatly. "Have you done to yourself."

Remus fluttered his eyelashes. "Oh I just stabbed my own face! Professionally, of course. almost as professionally as you with your broadsword. Not nearly as much blood, though, I know you'd be disappointed."

The prince approached the throne, heedless or because of the way the king recoiled from him.

"Hope I can still be your little boy, though, Poppy! Hope I can fill your big dick shoes! Can't you just wait for me to take on our glorious legacy? Aren't you delighted to hand off that big ol' crown to you eldest son?!"

"Let you be the face of the kingdom, looking like that? " his father said coldly. "Let you rule, when you have clearly abandoned all we hold dear?” The King rose, pointing past Remus with a finger that shook with rage. “Get out of our sight. We have only one son."

Remus grinned widely, and Roman realized with a sickening start that he hadn’t seen his brother smile this much since they were children.

“Whatever you desire, dearest darlingest popsicle!”

“Out!” the king roared, and Remus obeyed, his cackling laughter echoing back through the halls.

The king breathed deep, chest heaving as he calmed himself.

“Roman.”

The duke swallowed the lump in his throat to answer, “Yes, Father?”

“We name you Crown Prince, sole heir to our throne and fortune. We disown and disname the former Prince Remus. The realm places its full trust in you, our son.”

Roman knelt, hearing the unspoken end of the sentence. Don’t you dare fail.

“I thank you for this honor, father. I will serve to the best of my ability,” he said graciously.

The king took a medallion on ribbon from the wall - the sunburst seal of the royal house, only worn by kings and direct heirs. He placed it around Roman’s neck. “We- I know you will, Roman. I know you will be all that our country needs you to be.”

King and newly-named-prince made eye contact. The king’s eyes blazed, with anger and grief and unspoken warning: Don’t fuck up, like he did.

Roman bowed his head, lest his father see the heartbreak in his eyes.

You were what fucked him up.

⁂

Roman was introduced to the kingdom as the future king. It was not quite the joyous affair that Remus’ coming-of-age had been, not when the king spoke as if the former prince had died, when the announcement of Roman replacing him was practically perfunctory. When Roman had sat at his vanity for a full hour as the artists worked to cover up his birthmarks and battle scars. And for what? It wasn’t as if the kingdom didn’t already know that he was… imperfect. Marred. Flawed.

But appearances, his father told him coldly, must be maintained.

Roman was the heir, unable to be disowned too, not when the king had no more options. He needed the king’s advisors and generals to respect him if he were to ever properly reign. He needed the nobility to support him. He needed to get the ones in power, the Noble Council, to see past his face, to believe in his ability to rule despite his impurities. But he knew they would never be ignored.

Hadn’t he grown up with the whispers? Hadn’t he seen how others who were injured or disfigured be dismissed from court altogether? Hadn’t he watched as the mere rumor of a nobleman’s secret tattoo pushed him out of the public eye in shame? When a pair of clip-on earrings were scandalous just by resembling a body modification, what hope did Roman and his birthmark have to be accepted?

But he smiled, and waved, and spoke with the oldest generals, and accompanied his father to court days, and filled his role as heir. In battle, he was pulled into a higher level of command, no longer directing just his contingent of soldiers, but entire armies. He and his father led the charges still, of course, but he no longer trained with his men. His missed them, as he’d missed the relative privacy of being just a Duke instead of Prince. But it was his duty.

⁂

It had been months since Remus’ disownment when another major battle came to pass. The king brought Roman to the field with him, keeping him involved in the planning for the entire process. Roman was pleased to discover that the generals actually respected his strategic and tactical contributions - it seemed his closeness with his direct force had given him a keener sense of the risks and rewards of maneuvers that the command tent often lacked. That day, though, his father seemed a bit distracted. It didn’t seem to interfere with his reasoning or fighting, though. Not until the height of battle.

And then the King saw him. A young man with a morning star. It was a common-enough weapon for nobility, but... the boy had smooth skin and no scars and no piercings and he fought well, methodically and with only the required level of ferocity. He was a once-familiar sight on the field, one who had been there every battle until now.

And the king just... snapped.

He charged down the hill, ahead of the signal. Alone. It was unwise. Roman saw his father charge, tried to warn him back, tried to call to him and break through the distraction.

The King probably could not have articulated why he charged. It was out of anger, yes, but was it anger at the boy for being a reminder? Anger because of what he lost? Anger at Remus for no longer looking the way the young man did, for no longer being what the king had wished him to be?

He would never get a chance to explain.

The boy saw his danger. So did three of his fellows. The king brought no backup. He fell.

Roman continued the fight. What else could he have done?

The boy had frozen him too, a shadow from the past, one with a smile that Roman hadn’t seen on his twin’s face in years. Remus’ smiles had been growing stiffer ever since they were 12, pasted-on grins that never reached his eyes. And the last time he’d seen him- it had been even more unfamiliar. Manic. Pained. He’d laughed, but with no true amusement.

Even as he performed the steps of his role as heir, Roman couldn’t rid himself of the thought that the lack of genuine happiness in his brother’s face could only have been due to the king himself and the weight Remus had borne as the Crown Prince.

Roman ascended in the wake of his father’s death with that same weight, grown heavier through guilt and shame and the bitter knowledge that none of this was ever supposed to be him.

⁂

Roman had to be king. There was no one else. His father had been an only child. The next closest relatives were two different third cousins who were quite proud to be in the line of succession. If Roman wasn’t king, the country would fall into a civil war of family against family, fighting for the ‘truest’ claim to the throne.

The nobility accepted the necessity of his reign. That didn’t mean they were happy about it.

Whispers followed him through the halls, stopped suddenly as he entered the audience chamber, rumbled around him when he took his weekly rides through the capital city. He wanted to be an accessible king, one his people knew as more than just a bloodied general returning from the field. He even spent a single afternoon hoping that with enough exposure to his face and his scars, the country might grow to see past his appearance.

It was a foolish hope. Prejudices that have been passed down for over five generations don’t melt away because of one king, much less one who gained power under less than ideal circumstances.

And yet, it didn’t change his determination to be a presence in his people’s lives, not just a face seen from a distant castle balcony. After much cajoling and convincing of his personal guard, Roman began spending evenings mingling in the capital city restaurants and taverns. As a commander, he’d learned how best to let his soldiers get used to him, and he used this skill again across town, night after night. He would sit near the corner of the bar, or at a less-traffic corner of the dining room, or at the end of a shared table. He would eat quietly, only speaking when others greeted him, seemingly very focused on his food alone. And slowly, his fellow diners got over the shock of seeing their king among them and start chatting about their lives, their children, their heartbreaks and dreams. He would listen and nod and quietly pay their tabs, then leave before they got too embarrassed or self-conscious. And when it was commoners, it worked well. With the nobility, or the higher classes of commoners that desperately wanted to be nobility, he had to fend off the comments. Usually, it was surprise that his birthmark and scars were really that obvious. Or passive-aggressive comments about how it was “wonderful how cosmopolitan the Noble Council is these days.”

Roman would just grin and bluster and respond, “Royalty’s more than skin-deep, darling.”

It was just charming enough to satisfy most, or at least end that line of conversation, and he could go back to being a silent listener. But when eyes lingered on his birthmarks or traced down the long line of stitching scars down his cheek, he couldn’t help but flinch internally, preparing himself for the darts and daggers of judgment. The sting of disapproval never really faded, no matter how many times he endured it with a smile.

⁂

He risked it, one night, to go to a place he’d only heard about in hushed tones. It was a scandalous place, certainly not one that any self-respecting noble would be caught dead in. But Roman was desperate with hope. So without telling anyone, not even his bodyguard, he slipped out of the castle to visit Au Naturel.

The sign had been vandalized recently, bright red spray paint across it like blood splatters, but what could be expected when a slur was reclaimed with such audacity? Roman hesitated on the threshold, but surely it would be far worse to linger there on the street and risk being seen for minutes versus the seconds it would take him to enter or exit. With a deep breath, he walked inside.

The first thing he saw was a bouncer, a hulking man with navy blue hair and glasses. He stared down at Roman’s identification papers critically, eyebrows barely twitching in recognition of the kingdom’s regnal name. Roman tried to avoid staring, but the man was pierced in dozens of places, with visible tattoos curling out of the collar of the sensible black turtleneck. But he didn’t look distraught or distressed, just cool and collected.

Roman fought back a shiver of excitement as he reclaimed his papers and was welcomed into the heart of the bar with a wave.

He’d expected dim lights, maybe a smoke-obscured room, something out of the speakeasy fictions he’d read about in the edgier forms of media. Instead, there were golden lamps that lit everything well, and bright neon signs that threw off a rainbow of lights from the walls. The rainbows were reflected back off the many piercings in the crowd, off shiny gelled hair, even off prosthetic limbs. Roman had expected a huddled crowd of solidarity, of societal misfits in their one safe space. Instead, he found a party of delight, with faces that were all relaxed and at ease instead of just in temporary relief.

He shuffled to the bar, avoiding eye contact, a bit overwhelmed and unsure how to start mingling.

A smiling bartender greeted him. They had a mohawk, dyed in blues and purples with glitter sprinkled through like stars. They wore a lipstick of a startling bright shade of pink that contrasted with their tan skin. A huge silver hoop dangled from one ear lobe, accompanied by spikes around the cartilage, and they acknowledged Roman’s quiet request for a gin-and-tonic with a wink. As they turned to the racks of drinks, Roman realized with a start that their skin was perfectly smooth, besides the alterations. No visible scars or marks or even freckles, and the mesh shirt they wore meant much more skin was visible than normal. And yet, they were here. As they returned with Roman’s drink, they asked, “First night, hun?”

Roman nodded. “It’s not exactly what I expected.”

The bartender leaned, tilting down tinted glasses to fix Roman with a look. “What do you mean, babes?”

“I- the way people talk, I’d expected the folks here to be much more… I’m not sure. Bitter?”

“If there’s one thing I know about ‘people’, it’s that they always expect and want outcasts to be as miserable as they believe we ought be. But the owner puts a lot of effort into making this more than just an escape. She wants it to be an oasis. And she seeks out newbies to make sure they know it’s safe to just be here. Here, lemme introduce you, I think you’ll like her.”

Roman nodded his agreement, and watched the bartender flit and weave through the crowd, greeting people and they went. They were apparently a favorite, with patrons squeezing their shoulder or kissing them on the cheek as they passed. They only paused once, when they reached the stoic bouncer from the entrance. He was sitting in a booth, apparently on break, ignoring the room, until the bartender touched his shoulder gently and he turned to look at him with a smile lighting up his face. They exchanged a brief kiss, and then the bartender was sliding into a door labeled ‘Employees Only’.

Roman let his gaze roam. Everywhere, there thronged people with piercings and tattoos and colored contacts, and they all looked happy. He even saw others with scars and birthmarks like his own, but no one stared at them or seemed to care. And they couldn’t all be lashing back against trauma like Remus had, right?

“Welcome to Au Naturel, kiddo! I’m Patton, the owner.”

Roman turned to see a bright smile and an outstretched hand. The owner was like no one he’d ever seen. The majority of her skin was a dark, rich brown, but it was interrupted with splotches of pale skin. And where the skin was light enough to see, it was speckled with light brown spots. She was the kind of face that nobility put on dramatized posters of the ‘less fortunate’, those who were born with so many impurities that they clearly couldn’t hope to be any more than the lowest rung of the serving class. But here she stood, bright teeth flashing at Roman in the club she owned, in an atmosphere of pure joy that she’d created. A silver chain around her neck held a ring and a magenta charm affirming her pronouns.

Roman shook her hand gently. “It’s good to meet you, Patton. I’m Roman.”

“Oh, I know! Thank you for gracing my humble establishment with your presence, Your Majesty. I was a bit surprised when Remy told me who was sitting at the bar- I wasn’t sure if your facial marks were really as obvious as the gossips say.”

Roman cringed internally. He’d been recognized, clocked by bartender and owner, and he’d been here barely 20 minutes. The common refrain rolled off his tongue with the perfect intonation of repetition. “Well, royalty’s only skin-deep, darling.”

Patton blinked. “Oh- oh, Your Majesty, pardon me, I didn’t mean to offend.”

Roman faked a smile with practiced ease. “No offense, my lady.”

“No, I- I meant, I assumed they were exaggerating your appearance from just some small beauty mark, because I had assumed anyone who looked like us wouldn’t be allowed to ascend to the throne. I’m delighted that you’re real! And you have these beautiful marks of the gods’ favor, just like me, and you’re our King without having to cover them!”

Roman blinked, started to speak, then blinked again. “Marks of what?”

Patton grinned and sat next to Roman. “Of the gods’ favor, of course! You and I, we were painted in the womb, blessed with more than one color, claimed by more than one patron. Some people get just freckles, a smattering of kisses. Some get a beauty mark, a touch or two. But you and I, they couldn’t bear to refrain, and look at me! I got a whole big hug, from top to toe.”

Roman did look. And he found he got more and more confused by the second. Because here was this woman, multi-colored, a floppy fro bouncing in dark curls with strips of light blonde among them, speckled with freckles along her pale patches of skin. She was everything Roman had been told was impure, imperfect, pitiable- and yet, she was the most gorgeous creature he’d ever seen.

“I’ve… never thought of it that way,” he said softly. “Particularly with…” he trailed off, pointing to his scars.

“I don’t really trust the gossips on the news- how did you get these, King Roman?”

Roman traced the line on the back of his hand, remembering. “It was a particularly bad battle. A young soldier whose fellows had fallen on either side of him had a knife hidden in his belt. I was arrogant, back then, just foolish enough to believe that the norms of the battlefield would always be respected, that the separations of class meant anything in the melee. So I was caught completely unawares by the blade, thinking the young man was just a commoner and so no real threat. I was lucky, though. I survived.” Despite how the Noble Council reacted on my recovery.

Patton’s eyes softened. “I am glad you survived, Your Majesty. And gladder that the prejudices of some against your tapestry didn’t prevent you from becoming King.”

Roman ducked his head. “Thank you, Patton. And please- call me Roman.”

She giggled. “Oh, how scandalous, little ol’ me on a first-name basis with the King! At least let me comp your drink first!”

Roman felt his cheeks heating up as he watched her laugh, curls bouncing. “Please, I’m sure you pay more than your fair share of taxes already. Let me. Consider it a subsidy, if you must.”

Patton tilted her head, contemplating the royal man sitting in her bar. “If you insist, my liege,” she said with a sly smile.

Roman was sure he was visibly blushing now, but caught the owner’s hand in his. Brushing his lips against it, he looked up into Patton’s wide, blue eyes. “And insist I do.”

Patton was quiet for only a moment, before her face split open in a bright smile. “Oh, I like this one. I think we’ll just have to keep you.”

“Kidnapping a king? Now who’s being scandalous?”

“You can only kidnap someone if it’s against their will,” she replied with a wink.

Roman was saved from having to respond by the bartender returning. “Ooohh, Patty, I knew you had expensive taste, but flirting with actual royalty?”

Patton blew a kiss to her employee. “You would know, Remy.”

Roman realized he’d yet to let go of Patton’s hand, but didn’t feel particularly inclined to change that at this particular moment. Until Remy responded, “If even the absolute disgrace of the Dormions clan can recognize royalty, anyone can, but go off I guess.”

Roman turned. “You’re that Remy? Remington?”

Remy grimaced. “Yes, unfortunately. I was going to change my name entirely but Lo already got it tattooed so…”

Patton smacked them lightly. “No lying to new friends, Rem.”

“Fineee, I like the name if not the fam.”

Roman fiddled with his glass. “I- I’ve only heard the court gossip, but-”

Remy rolled their eyes. “Oh yeah, they love me. Perfect little first son completely wrecks and malforms himself and refuses to fit in the box we made for him! Which, while irritatingly misgendering, is all true. I came here on a dare once, tried to sneak in the back-”

“And then they met Logan!!” Patton interjected, hands cupping her cheeks in delight. “And it was love at first sight!”

“More like lust at first sight-”

“But then it became love, let me have this.”

Remy grinned fondly at their boss. “Yeah, it did. Lo was one of the first times I’d seen a real person with body mods outside of the PSAs and I had no idea how attractive they could be. I met him, we went off to-”

“Have a nice chat,” Patton interjected primly.

“Of course, Pat, I chatted at him for four straight hours,” they responded with a wink to Roman. “And then I had to come back and I started to get to know Patty here and the regulars and well... My parents were wrong about literally everything. Including thinking I was their son. But obviously, they didn’t love having that pointed out to them, so…” they trailed off with a shrug.

“Dramatic disownment, Patton hires you, you get your own tattoos and piercings?” Roman supplied.

“That’s about it, yeah.”

Roman looked around the room, the warm likes and mingling crowds. “I can see why you fell in love with it all so easily, why you wanted to have a place like this to call your own community.”

Patton reached out and squeezed Roman’s hand. “It’s yours too, now, Your Majesty- Roman. Please, feel free to come back whenever you like.”

⁂

The king was still hesitant to return. What if the other patrons hadn’t been as comfortable with his presence as Remy and Patton had been? What if he’d been spotted by less understanding people and they were waiting for his return to catch him in the act? And yet, he knew he needed to go back to Au Naturel. He’d learned so much in just one night, had his mind opened to so many different interpretations of the societal expectations that had plagued him his whole life. He couldn’t bear to never hear that again, to go back to the Noble Council and ignore the echoes in his brain that whispered “marks of the gods’ favor” whenever he looked in a mirror.

So two nights later, he steeled himself and made his way back to the bar. The same bouncer was at the door.

“Logan, was it?”

The man’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded.

“It’s good to see you again.”

His brow unfurrowed, and he nodded again, this time with the slightest hint of a smile stretching out his pierced lips.

Roman smiled back, and entered the main room.

He made his way over to the bar more confidently this time, but was distracted by the crowd from looking at the bartender as he ordered.

“Oh holy fuck shit heck fuck?”

He turned to see a much younger bartender with dark black hair, bright purple lipstick, and hoop earrings staring at him wide-eyed and a bit panicked.

“Uh, sorry, have we met?”

The young man just stared and continued to swear under his breath until he took a deep breath and called out, “Remy?”

They returned from the far side of the bar and saw Roman. With a wave, they said, “Hey there, Majesty. Gin and tonic again?”

Roman nodded as Remy turned away, arm around the young bartender’s shoulders. It didn’t stop him from hearing their quiet conversation.

“You could have warned me that the actual king might come in-”

“I did!”

“I thought you were exaggerating! Or talking about a drag king-”

“Okay fair, but Patton agreed with me-”

“I thought he was humoring you!”

“Logan backed me up!”

“...he just smiled at you. He does that all the time.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t fully prepare you, Virge. I didn’t know if he’d come back.”

“He’s not going to- we’re safe, right?”

“Look at him, of course we’re safe. And also Patty charmed the pants off him, we’re fine.”

“...literally?”

“I mean, maybe, Pat doesn’t kiss and tell.”

Roman started to blush and realized it was probably time to indicate that their conversation wasn’t secret. “I’m right here,” he cut in. He smiled as both bartenders turned to face him. “Patton is indeed quite charming, but I believe I’ve retained my pants.”

Remy smirked, not missing a beat. “So far, anyway.”

Roman tried not to color further and was saved (or ruined) by the appearance of Patton himself. “Remy, are you poisoning Virgey’s mind again?”

The young man grimaced. “Sorry! Virgil’s mind,” Patton corrected, sliding into the seat next to Roman. “Good to see you again, Roman.”

“It’s good to see you as well, Patton. It’s alright that I’m back?”

“Of course it is!”

“Because if I’m making anyone uncomfortable, I don’t want to take this space away from them-”

Patton laid his hand over Roman’s on the bar. “This space is for you, too, Your Majesty. I think in some ways, those like us born into noble families need it even more. Not to say that anyone has it easy, but…”

“But it’s expected that lower classes are ‘imperfect’,” Virgil said, returning with Roman’s drink. His mouth was twisted into a bitter line. “And when you’re not, you never get to be yourself again.”

Roman looked at him curiously. “I confess, I have only been allowed to mingle with mixed classes in my command. What do you mean, if you don’t mind talking about it?”

Virgil looked at Patton with a question in his eyes. Patton smiled. “He’s safe, Virge. Promise.”

Virgil nodded and reached up to his ears. He removed his hoop earrings, showing that they were clip-ons and that his ears were unpierced. “According to this crap system, I’m ‘perfect’. I don’t have birthmarks or discoloration or even freckles. Which means of course I’ve been banned from getting tattoos or piercings or dying my hair. I keep this stuff here with Rem, because it’s the only place I can wear it without my parents getting… upset.”

Roman frowned. “They don’t hurt you, do they?”

Virgil laughed hollowly. “They never hit me, perish the thought, that might cause bruises. Or scars. But you may have noticed, nothing about this damn value system accounts for things like, you know, mental health. Or being well-fed. As long as it doesn’t go as far as like, hair falling out or jaundice.”

“But why enforce it?” Roman asked. “The families I know, it’s to maintain their status and reputation…”

Virgil clipped his earring back on, fiddling with it nervously. “If I’m being generous, it’s a hope thing. That if I can just look refined enough, I’ll be seen by a noble or someone who wants the status of a ‘perfect’ partner and be whisked up into a life of luxury. If you ask my parents, they’d say they’re trying to help me get a better life.”

“But you don’t agree with that.”

“Not for a fucking second. Sure, I believe they believe that. But they refuse to see how shitty it is in the meantime and explode at me when I object.” He adjusted his hoodie, playing with the zippers on his wrists. “This is the only place I can cover myself up this much. They want me to show off as much ‘perfect’ skin as possible, so I can be spotted. Even in the middle of the fucking winter. And even if I wasn’t freezing, it makes me a target. People hope for that Scarella story even if they don’t admit it. It’s like those people who enter the lottery constantly, hoping that with a fancy enough schedule of plastic surgery, one day they’ll be part of the beautiful people. So when they see someone who’s already smooth… they resent it. And they want to ruin it.” He wrapped his arms around himself, shivering despite the thick hoodie. Patton reached out and squeezed his elbow in reassurance, earning a weak smile.

Roman was quiet in contemplation. Sure, he knew it was the most classic trope in media - someone with a Pure Heart (as shown, of course, by their unblemished skin) was seen among the unclean masses and swept away into the sunset by a generous benefactor. He’d fantasized about it himself when he was younger, that someone would see his worth and help him fix his skin so that his outside could look like his inside. After his injuries added to it, though, he’d given up entirely. But to know that the trope caused such harm to people like Virgil…

“I’m sorry I haven’t done more to fix this, Virgil,” Roman said quietly. “I have influence and power, I should and I will.”

Virgil flashed him a wry smile. “I think you’re doing a lot by just appearing in public without covering up your scars, really. I don’t think it’s gonna change fast, but with your help, it might start changing.”

“But you’re at risk and it won’t be fast enough for you.”

“Yeah, I am at risk,” Virgil said with a shrug. “But I don’t need to be protected. With all due respect, Your Majesty. Rem & Lo keep my stuff for me, Pat makes sure I can still make it here, and I’m earning my own money to get out of my parents’ house. I have a plan to earn my own freedom. So don’t change all this shit for me. Change it for everyone else.”

Roman nodded. “I promise, I will.”

Virgil raised an eyebrow. “I mean, I believe you’ll try…”

Roman raised his hand, pinkie outstretched. “I will. I mean it.”

Virgil smiled, but linked his pinkie too. “You swear?”

“I swear.”

They shook solemnly, before both starting to snicker and laugh, Patton joining in too. But none of them doubted Roman’s determination, all the same.

⁂

Roman returned to Au Naturel multiple nights a week for two weeks straight before he finally managed to ask.

“Pat, how did you manage to open this place? And keep it open, despite, well, everything?”

The response was a melancholy grin as Patton fiddled with the ring on the chain around their neck, right next to their pronoun charm.

“I got a loan from my late fiancé, Diego. He was the son of a noble house.”

“Late? I don’t mean to cause you distress, dear Patton, you don’t need to talk about this if it will be painful-”

“No, no,” Patton explained, reaching out for Roman’s hand. “I- I want to talk about him. Because he was a wonderful man and remains a wonderful memory.”

Roman nodded in understanding and squeezed their hand reassuringly as Patton began to explain.

Diego, too, was one of a pair of twins. His brother was named Cedric, and they were identical in almost every way. The one way they weren’t was Cedric’s eczema. Their faces matched, their laughs sounded like echoes of each other’s, but Cee had red scratchy scales that grew and faded but never fully vanished, and Dee had none.

And according to Diego, Cedric was better. Smarter, kinder, more optimistic, a faster friend to those he met. Yet society valued Diego more because of a condition that could only be treated, never cured.

“And so Dee became a huge advocate for us ‘imperfect’ folks,” Patton said softly. “He used his smooth face as an entry into places we’re barred from, tried to use the family money and influence to change discrimination policies. But, well. One man can only do so much.”

Roman nodded somberly, in perfect understanding.

“There used to be underground meetings of people like us, the underbelly of the city. We rotated locations and kept moving to avoid the zoning laws that made it easy to kick us out at anyone’s request. We’d found Cee and invited him, and he brought Dee too. And I- oh, he was the first person who looked at my skin and saw a work of art,” Patton said with a misty smile, hugging their own torso at the warm memory. “And he had the idea of using his name, using their family’s money to establish this place. They couldn’t take the title away from me if it was under his name too, so after only a couple months of dating and falling madly in love, we got engaged. The deed is technically still under his name, which means it’s secure, and the city can’t take it back.

“But then the household draft came through, three years ago. I was safe,” Patton said with a wry twist to their normal smile. “It called for one son per house, and my family doesn’t acknowledge me as a son those times I want them to, much less for the state. Not that they know where to find me anymore. But - their family wanted to send Cee. Because he was more ‘expendable’. And they didn’t tell Dee until he was already gone off to war. Of course, I was scared for them both, but I knew how important Dee’s brother was to him, so when he said he needed to get to the front immediately, I didn’t hesitate. I gave him the money and advice from my friends here who’d survived previous wars. He listened to it all, then went off to go save his brother.”

Patton paused, a tear creeping along their cheek.

“I’m so sorry, Patton,” Roman said gently. “He didn’t make it back?”

“Neither of them did. Dee threw himself in front of a blow to shield Cee, but it wasn’t enough.”

Roman hesitated, then hugged them firmly. “I’ve lost so many of my soldiers, but it never gets easier. I can’t imagine what this loss has felt like to you.”

Patton hugged back. “Thank you, Roman. It’s been years, but remembering-”

“I know. It’s perfectly normal, my dear.”

Patton smiled up, eyes still shining with unshed tears. “Thank you for listening, Ro. It means a lot.”

“Anything you need from me, Pat. I’m here.”

The next day, Roman quietly requested a meeting with the head of the zoning board of the city, and used the royal seal to confirm Au Naturel s deed to not just Diego and Patton but to anyone Patton ever decided to transfer ownership too. A copy of the document found its way, without fanfare, into the files at the bar. Roman never brought attention to it, nor did Patton, but a golden drink was left at Roman’s typical seat that never appeared on his bill, and a portrait of the nation’s first scarred King found its way to hanging among their other icons above the rows of bottles.

⁂

And then, one night at Au Naturel, there was a new customer who most had never seen before. Or at least, they hadn’t seen this face before. But Roman had.

“...Remus?”

The former prince turned. He’d added more tattoos since the last time Roman had seen him, lines of red drops down his neck to his bare arms. His hair was spiked into a faux-hawk and it almost hit Roman as he turned to face him.

“Is that the golden boy? Romano Cheese Man?”

“Reme, it’s been months, I’ve-”

“Stop right there.” Remus interrupted. He held up a finger topped in an elaborately manicured nail. “Don’t you dare say you’ve missed me, Roman Candle. I haven’t been hiding, you could have found me.”

“I looked!” Roman insisted, reaching out to grab his brother’s arm. “I tried to look, at least, but Father and the generals forbid me to leave the castle-”

“Ooohhh, is the royal baby disobeying orders tonight?” Remus asked, eyebrows dancing.

Roman frowned. “Not exactly, not when there aren’t any…” He looked for any flicker of understanding and found none. “Reme. Have you not heard?”

“Heard what, that the country is just sooooo pleased to have just forgotten the embarrassment that was the old crown prince? Didn’t need to check with the town crier for that one, queen bee.”

Roman squeezed Remus’ arm, a lump forming in his throat. “Brother-”

“Don’t you call me that!” Remus snapped. “I’m not in the family anymore, don’t you remember anything-”

“Father’s dead, Remus!” Roman practically shouted. Remus went silent, eyes wide. “Father died and I have to be the goddamn king now, and I’ve been looking for you for months but no one wants to acknowledge you still and you left me to rule alone.” Roman’s voice cracked on the last word, and Remus stopped trying to pull away. His eyes darted around Roman, taking in the signet ring, the badly-concealed bags under his eyes, and the tear coursing down the royal cheek.

“...how did he die?”

Roman took a shuddering breath. “In the field. He charged alone, after an enemy soldier who looked just like you- well, you three years ago.”

“Did you charge with him? Trying to get back that old shell of a royal? It was never real, brother, just a bundle of neuroses wound so tightly they acted like a person-”

“I know that, Remus! You think I didn’t see how much he pushed you? You think I didn’t know what being in the field did to you?” The other patrons of the bar had edged away, giving the brothers space, while Patton watched nervously without moving from her seat at the bar. “Reme - all I ever wanted was to be able to help. I trained so hard in the hopes that maybe you would be able to sit out for a battle or two. Get a break from the violence. But he didn’t want me, didn’t want the charge to be led by this,” Roman said, gesturing at his own face. Tiredness showed in every inch of him as his shoulders slumped. “And look where that got him. He’s dead, I’m leading anyway, and both his sons are miserable.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Ro. I’m not miserable. I’m wonderful,” Remus replied. “I can do whatever and whoever the fuck I want to, now. No one breathing down my neck, no one saying I’m improper, no blood on my hands except for what I choose to be there.” He lifted his arm, showing off his tattoo, the line of red drops marching down his bicep and forearm and returning back up the inside of his wrist and elbow.

Roman looked down at the marks, blinked, and looked back up. Green eyes met green, as identical as the day they were born. “Are you really?”

Remus scoffed. “Of course I… well. I’m happier. Happier than I was. Wacky, isn’t it, I think my incredibly violent and restrictive upbringing may have given me some issues.”

“But you’re not just… I don’t know, bursting at the seams, doing whatever you think Father would have hated for the sole sake of knowing he would have hated it?”

Remus paused. “Hey, I didn’t come here to have my someone dig through my head, I only wanted someone to give me head-”

“Reme!”

“What, it’s true!”

“We were having a moment-”

“And I was planning on a different kind of moment!”

Roman frowned at his brother, ready to keep arguing, but instead, he started to laugh, and Remus did too, and soon there were just two very similar-looking men leaning on the bar, wheezing with laughter.

Roman wiped his eyes. “You really are happier.”

Remus smiled. “I really am. I’m… still working it out. What’s terrible by his standards versus the society’s. Which society standards are probably actually shit and which make sense. I don’t understand it all. But I will.”

Roman impulsively flung his arms around his twin. “I believe in you, Reme. Just, please- don’t leave me to do this alone?”

Remus pushed Roman a bit back, holding him by the arms. “I’m not coming back to the palace, Ro. I can’t do that. I don’t want to.”

“You don’t have to. But you’re still my brother. As long as I’m the head of the family, you’re part of it. And I…” Roman looked back at where Patton was chatting to other patrons. “I have a lot to learn about what our society is doing to people. We both have a lot to learn, and unlearn. Can you help me?”

Remus grimaced. “Of course I’ll be your brother, but…”

“It doesn’t have to be official- no ‘advisor’ or any title unless you want one. But dammit, if you don’t deserve the crown’s money after all you had to do in its service- any land you want, any title, any income, say the word and it’s yours, Reme. Just, please... don’t shut me out.”

Remus looked down, and back up. He raised his hand and traced Roman’s birthmark lightly. “Can I get this as a tattoo on my face, too?”

“Is that a yes?”

“Well, twins should match, shouldn’t we?”

Roman smiled, understanding perfectly. “Yeah, twins should match. Scars and all.”

⁂

Taglist:  @residentanchor @royally-anxious @jemthebookworm @arandompasserby  @sparkly-rainbow-salt @astral-eclipse​ @thelowlysatsuma @adorably-angsty @max-is-tired @almostoveranalyzed

[gem-quest]

[ B A L E S T R A  . . . ]

“A great battle is a terrible thing,“ the old knight said, "but in the midst of blood and carnage, there is sometimes also beauty, beauty that could break your heart.” – George R R Martin

Real Name: Esther Meier (Nicknamed Essie at school, but she hates it)

Age: 19

FC: Alexia Giordano

Species & Class: Celestial Knight

Guild: Moonstone

Description of In-Game Powers: (Sorry this is super long. This is largely based off of DnD Aasimar and Paladins, but without trying to bring in actual divine powers. Instead I tried to make it more centered around a player’s perception of themselves and their actions. If this doesn’t fit with other species or the world, let me know!)

Celestials are what could arguably be defined as a light-based typically Moonstone-aligned species similar to sylphs or fae but without the connection to the environment around them. Instead, they seem to draw power from their own actions and convictions, making them a lot more internal than elemental species. Their path and their thoughts about their path define their progression. This makes their dialogue options, interactions with other PCs, and their approaches to passing certain levels very important in how they develop and the skills they gain. But it also makes their own assessment of their actions pivotal in their direction, unlike many other species. They don’t gain skills just by completing tasks, but based on how they perceive how they completed these tasks. Usually Celestial players tend to go for high Psyche/Charisma stats to boost their mental fortitude and balance. But Balestra doesn’t really understand balance beyond proper footwork. She makes up for this with a high willpower that shot even higher after her return to level 1. Willpower is a double-edged sword for Celestials since it enhances however a Celestial feels about their own actions regardless of whether this has a positive or negative effect, whereas other stats merely increase the potential for a Celestial to regard their action as good or heroic.

The interaction between player actions, player perspective, and leveling opportunities makes them a relatively unpopular species choice except for those gamers who like to save before every major NPC interaction and religiously google the different effects of game routes and encyclopedic lore entries before making any choices. In other words, most people find them tedious with a slow ramp and unpredictable leveling. Now that players can’t exit the game or return to save points, they’ve become pretty rare as they tend to die off quicker. But if they survive long enough and can find a good balance between mental stats, goals, and their class, they can become power houses. If not, they tend to be ineffective or even self-detrimental. An unstable Celestial can be equally powerful, but usually just as destructive to themselves as those around them…whether intended or not.

While they have the ability to learn flight, like sylphs, they have large feathered wings instead of diaphanous insect wings. Unlike fae, some classes of Celestials can even use these as melee weapons or shields, especially with specialized armor. Celestials also tend to have a strong affinity to light and some classes can practice light magic. The power of this is also connected to their perception of their actions, along with stats like psyche and charisma.

Regardless of other stats, Celestials’ main buff is in their luck, which extends to the rest of their party when in close proximity. In truth, Balestra didn’t even want to be a Celestial (or a Moonstone player, for that matter). But her school friends wanted that luck buff, and as always she played along. There was some fault with her copy of the game though, and when facing an attack against her party where she should have died, she ended up using up all of her luck buff (and even her luck stat) to reset to the beginning level while her friends died. In turn, her luck stat points randomly shifted to other traits. She can’t decide if she’s one of the luckiest or unluckiest Gem Quest players. In effect she died. All her items are gone, which happens to dead players. And all of her level progress disappeared. But something happened when she was reset. Not only does she have a luck of zero while still retaining all the negatives of the Celestial species; she lost the wings, flight abilities, and light affinity that are the only other Celestial perks. And moreover (and much more pressing), she can’t seem to use potions or magic on herself. Who knows if she can even get out of the game now if she can’t use Relinquium on herself.

Place of Birth: Berkshire, UK

Appearance:

She is most well known for defeating the wyrm Miro in nothing but the default character attire of white tunic and leather pants (mostly because she was on her second playthrough by then, trying frantically to regain all her lost ground, and partly not caring whether she died or not). While she does have a suit of engraved silver armor which she tends to wear in more active levels, and isn’t opposed to trading out her more martial attire for something a bit more flowy and delicate (god knows she needs whatever charisma bonus she can get on the levels that don’t rely on stabbing things), the beginning character outfit has become a bit of a calling card for her, along with her wild halo of curls. No matter what, she prefers to stick to more medieval or renaissance inspired clothing.

“Delicate in every way but one (the swordplay) God knows we like archaic kinds of fun (the old way) Chance is the only game I play with, baby We let our battles choose us” – Glory and Gore, Lorde

Places Most Likely to be Found In-Game: When not clearing levels, she tends to wander the Valley of Monsters since it’s Destrier’s home level. She’s found he’s easiest to deal with in a setting where he belongs, and becomes increasingly harder to control in more incongruous places (Few can forget that disastrous foray into the peaceful Moonstone haunt of the Gardens of Finvarra where Balestra and Destrier learned that no, eating fae NPCs does not count as eating fairy food. Balestra is needless to say not very popular among her guild). Beyond being known as a strange pariah figure people tell stories about having glimpsed speeding through levels in little more than the default character attire, she has gained a reputation as a pretty capable monster hunter for those in the market for parts but unable to handle battling beasties themselves. So she tends to spend more time in the monster-infested areas of levels than most players.

Current Inventory:

Not really inventory, but has somewhat tamed (keyword somewhat) a griffin she calls Destrier. To her that’s basically naming something horse, but she’s killed so many other mounts that she tries not to get attached. The two get along like a house fire. He has all the worst attributes of cats and birds; namely wanting to steal and then eat anything remotely shiny, wanting to kill and then eat anything that moves whether alive or not, not wanting to eat anything actually given to him as food because he didn’t get to kill it himself, being at once stubborn and proud while impressively lazy, and being altogether too smart for his own good and too stupid for Ess’s.

Halberd x 1

Quicksilver Longsword x 1 (This magical sword has the ability to change forms, shifting between rapier, longsword, knife, zweihander, and other bladed weapons which provide different stat bonuses. But it does have the distinct drawback of slowly poisoning its wielder with every use, lowering their hp and psyche dramatically for a period of time. The more its transformation powers are activated, the longer this effect lasts, which can eventually lead to an almost permanent madness. It has also been rumored to be addictive, causing the user to want more and more to shift between its forms.)

Rope x 1

Fire Salamander Gizzard x1 (Rare drop from Fire Salamanders used as a fire starter. Not as fast or reliable as a potion, and a lot more work to acquire. But if you can’t use potions you learn to make due)

Astragali Fortuna x6 (hippogriff knucklebones covered in runes which must be coated in the intended target’s warm blood to be used. They are rolled and then either buff/nerf a stat or induce the effect of a random potion in the game’s database depending on the symbols rolled. The probability of which potion effect is induced depends on the rarity of the potion. This effect does not last as long as a real potion’s. It is about as often detrimental as helpful to its target and is regarded by most players as unreliable for both personal and offensive use. A high luck score increases the chance of a positive outcome, as in part does willpower. But the exact formula for the RNG behind the item is unknown, and most players regard it as a possibly disastrous joke item.)

Venison Jerky x10

Full suit of armor x1 (she usually just wears bits and pieces since it does tend to lower her dexterity)

Beastmaster’s Gorget x1 (Ess actually isn’t a rider, but she needed that speed of a mount to regain her level progress, and she desperately wants to fly again. So she still uses a mount despite not having any of the helpful traits of a Rider player like knowing where your mount is, being able to call it, or being able to control its actions in battle. The gorget helps limit some of those problems. She thinks of it as a “Rogue Griffin GPS” with a bit of a defence buff. It ties him to her by a certain distance though it doesn’t really force him to obey her at all)

Strongest character trait: Stubborn, and she hates that about herself despite how many times it has saved her.

Strengths: creative and determined when she has a goal. She’s had to go about the game very differently her second time around, but she hasn’t succumbed to any of her handicaps yet and in many ways is a stronger player now than she ever was with her original group as her original Celestial Knight self.

Weaknesses: Conflicted, overthinking, and overly controlled when in reality she’s a lot more instinctive than she allows herself to be. She still has a hard time trusting herself 

Player Stats: (I’m going based off of an average individual stat score being 5, so the average total should be around 50. But if that doesn’t seemed balanced, please let me know! Also, after Balestra used up all of her luck returning to level 1 instead of dying, her luck stat was redistributed randomly to her other stats –hence her having 2 sets of numbers. She thinks of herself like a paladin pre-glitch and something entirely different afterwards. The closest she can think of is cursed).

STRENGTH: 6  || 7

DEFENCE: 5  || 6

CHARISMA: 2  || 2

PSYCHE: 2  || 2

WILLPOWER: 6  || 9

CAUTIOUSNESS: 2 || 2

AGILITY: 8  || 8

ENDURANCE: 6  || 7

INTELLIGENCE: 7  || 7

LUCK: 6  || 0

Destrier Stats: He was once a fightable monster, right? So that means he has to have stats. I just figure he’d have fewer stat points than a PC, so I arbitrarily gave him 2/3 the total points I gave my PC. Again, let me know if that’s unbalanced. Since Balestra’s not a Rider (despite acting like one a lot of the time), she doesn’t get any stat bonus from him. He just does his own thing, which only sometimes aligns with what she wants him to do. She’s only able to marginally control him based on having a higher willpower and charisma, though only barely.

STRENGTH: 7

DEFENCE: 5

CHARISMA: 0

PSYCHE: 0

WILLPOWER: 7

CAUTIOUSNESS: 1

AGILITY: 6

ENDURANCE: 5

INTELLIGENCE: 3

LUCK: 1

Personality:

tld;dr: She’s goal/cause driven but without a cause, has spent so long being a malleable persona shaped by family and peer expectations and status but has found that without that microcosm she’s just a hollow shell reeling with misplaced anger and stifled independence that’s eating her from the inside out. She is quite intelligent and has taught herself to be disciplined despite actually being much more volatilely reactive than she’d like to admit.

Inscrutable, private, and quiet

Determined (when she has a goal, although she gets frustrated and dangerously unpredictable even to herself when she feels aimless)

So used to carefully crafting her image that she’s lost a lot of her internal sense of self and self-worth. She’s also quite comfortable with blanketing herself in little lies rather than show people the more vulnerable reality underneath. This doesn’t always mean she tries to make herself more appealing, sometimes she tries to push others away with lies instead.

Creative and Resourceful

Does best when faced with a problem. She likes solving things, and tends to pull herself together when faced with an external threat.

Vacillates between a guilt complex and a rigid disregard for the effects of her actions. In reality, she’s somewhere in the middle, but it’s unsettling having to face both what she’s done and how she’s not entirely sorry about it in order to actually come to terms with herself.

Overthinker to the extreme, but more because she’s trained herself to be so. In reality she’s pretty instinctive and reactive. But from family, school, and friends she’s learned to gauge every possible effect of her actions before taking a step. This led her to be paralyzed by indecision and more of a follower in real life, but now that she’s on her own and in charge of an even more instinctive and wild creature she’s had to chip away at that protective calculation and just act. It’s terrifying and freeing all at once.

Has a hard time reconciling her softer side with her sharp and harder tendencies. She tends to come off as biting, rigid, and distant but has a softer and more delicate side she tries to bury. 

Quite independent but doesn’t fully trust herself. She’s so used to being part of something and deferring to others that she feels at times lost being on her own. She has cycles of loneliness and defiance where she just wants to push people away and forge her own path.

Has a very dark sense of humor, but she doesn’t let that out for just anyone. She’s gotten most comfortable with Destrier, just by sheer amount of time spent with him and the fact that she has few other people to talk to. Sure, he doesn’t quite talk back, but he has his own brand of snark and the two have a weird back and forth.

“And each man stands with his face in the light. Of his own drawn sword, ready to do what a hero can.” –Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Biography: 

Why was she here? Esther asked that often, as she stared down the slathering maw of some fabled beast with nothing but a halberd between them, as she grasped tight to a half-tamed griffin’s feathers and fought it all the way into the sky for some semblance of control, or as she sat alone beside a sputtering fire and stared up at the false constellations of another simulated night which seemed to hulk too low and too heavy above her.

Why was she here, in this chaotic mess of monsters fighting for nothing, in this broken body which couldn’t remember how to heal or shine or fly? Of course, she knew the answer. Every time a blow missed, or a lingering wound ached as she tried to find some substitute for a potion, or a new party passing on a trail gave her the wide berth of a plague ship, she knew. Helena. Everything had always been Helena.

It was Helena who found her when she first started Wellington, when she was just some state school scholarship kid whose father was a jumped-up real estate agent with notions. It was Helena who dragged Esther to her family’s events like some new toy to show off, where Esther would sit still as a statue while Helena left her to talk with old friends, afraid to touch anything, afraid they would know she didn’t belong. It was Helena who had crowned her “Essie” and stared down the boys who threw pencils in her curls to see if they would stick. But it was Helena who would braid her hair into messy pigtails and make sure to tug, just a few times, just to see if she would wince. It was Helena who tasted like candy apple vodka and stifled laughter at a pre-exam party, all the grace and perfect ease of a sun with its planets in orbit. But it was Helena who kissed her full on the lips and left her wide-eyed and speechless, and then told her in that whimsical tone that made it seem like you had a choice through the underlying bite of a command, “I think you and Thom would be cute together. I think I would like that.” It was Helena who threw the two of them together. Thom with his clumsy, grasping hands and his jealous streak. Thom who only had two things in common with her; the fencing team (where he waddled about like a safety hazard with an epee), and Helena, who they would do anything for.

It was Helena who was beautiful and bright, shining and sharp, commanding and fickle and cruel. So of course, after graduation when their group was thrown to the wind and Esther found herself at the Sorbonne for Medieval Studies which Helena had always called “pointless, dull old nonsense,” when Helena had called up “on a whim,” Esther dropped everything. In all honestly, there hadn’t been much to drop. Her father had called the day before. Something about a bad deal and money troubles, how they couldn’t afford her program or apartment anymore. Something about money for the next train from Paris. Something about problems at home, something with his secretary, of course because her father didn’t have the creativity for an affair beyond the cliche. So of course Helena appeared like salvation, something to follow, something to hide in, something to drown herself in so she wouldn’t have to think. Instead of packing up her apartment and buying a ticket home, she spent the last of her money on a VR headset for this new game Helena had heard of. 

It was Helena who wanted to be in Moonstone; she heard there was a level just for Moonstone players to throw wild parties, that the simulation was better than any drug on the street. It was Helena who wanted Esther to be a Celestial; it would be more fun for everyone with that luck bonus, and that much easier for them all to get to that party level. And nobody else wanted to play as one, they were “hopelessly dull” after all.

But it was Esther who got them through the levels. It was Esther whose fencing skills saved them from beast after beast, whose studies gave her hints to riddles the rest of the group were too impatient and bored to puzzle through. It was Esther who first heard the announcement, that there was no way out of the game anymore, that relinquium was off the market and chances to bribe Jacqueline were disappearing. And she heard the whispering, how Thom and Helena and the others wondered how much their parents would pay to bribe their way out, how it really wasn’t that much fun here anyways, how they all just wanted to leave. They were all so sure, so confident with their parents’ money behind them that nothing could hurt them, that they could just leave when they were bored. They didn’t even spare a thought for her, they didn’t even stop to wonder what would happen if they left her behind, just like they never stopped to wonder what would happen to them if they didn’t have her there in the first place. 

It was Esther who suggested storming the dragon’s lair. She told herself she just wanted to convince them why it was worth staying, why they needed her, why they couldn’t just leave her behind. But she knew it was a lie. Thom was the first to die, and she didn’t have to do anything. He was always rash, thoughtless, always trying to impress and always falling short. Those clumsy hands that had fumbled with her uniform as she disgustedly lay there and thought, ‘this was what Helena wanted,’ never really got the hang of the in-game sword mechanics. Not even Esther’s luck bonus could help him. For a glorious, fire-choked moment somewhere between heaven and hell as the dragon slashed him to pieces and charred the remains, Esther felt right. She felt free. Some tried to fend off the beast, but they were of little use without her there to lead the charge. The others tried to flee, desperately trying to search through inventories for any potions or scrolls to help. But Esther had always been the fastest, and she had luck on her side. Their blows came to nothing. Their magic fizzled in their hands. They were left shocked and frozen as she swung at them in perfect, practiced confidence. Helena didn’t even have time for fear. She just stared with offended disbelief, as if somehow she was more upset Esther had acted without her approval than that Esther was plunging a sword into her chest. And then there was nothing, Esther had killed not just some random NPC, not just some nameless member of another guild or even some unknown from her own guild; she had killed her friends. She had swung the sword with the vicious satisfaction that they would well and truly die. And worse, she didn’t care. For once, it felt right. She didn’t stop to think. She didn’t worry. She just swung her blade.

The last thing Esther remembered was the dragon reaching down for her; the sharp kiss of its claws; the warmth of flames as her hair and face and glorious wings charred away. And then she was back at the beginning, with nothing.

Relationships:

Char 1 -

Balestra Playlist

Heretic Pride || The Mountain Goats

Falling || HAIM

Glory and Gore || Lorde

Horse & I || Bat for Lashes

Arsonist’s Lullaby || Hozier

Torches || The Oh Hellos

Miracle || CHVRCHES

Shrike || Hozier

I of the Storm || Of Monsters and Men

The Yawning Grave || Lord Huron

Fire Rides || MØ

Extras:

Esther Playlist

Oxford Comma || Vampire Weekend

Friends || RAYE

Don’t Save Me || HAIM

Karma || Years & Years

The Hamptons || Transviolet

Academia || Sia

Mirror || IDER

Only if For a Night || Florence + the Machine

Other:

After she glitched out she can’t use any potions. She doesn’t know exactly why, but she simply can’t affect herself with temporary magic without horrible glitchy side effects (this does not make her immune to spells from other players though, much to her general dismay). It’s made regaining levels a bit of a nightmare, but mostly she just misses being able to fly. It’s also meant that she’s had to get creative on some levels, especially those tailored to other guilds where the main strategy for non-guild members is a specific magical item. Also, because of this she doesn’t know if she even can leave the game, since the only method now is the potion Relinquium.

Hasn’t been the member of a party since her original party was wiped out and she reset back to level 1. She also has little to no guild loyalty. In fact, she seems much better suited to Obsidian and enjoys most of their claimed levels more than those of Moonstone, which tend to have more goals and interactions which wreak havoc with her corrupted Celestial nature.

Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/euclidice/balestra/

[wittystiles]

The Bluff || Part 6 || Mitch Rapp

Author: wittystiles

Word Count: 4k+

Relationship: Mitch Rapp x Reader (eventually idfk when tho)

Summary: (Y/N) has a secret meeting with Stan, and Mitch is kind of sweet? For a second? Who knows.

Warnings: Cursing (probably). Sass. Donut carnage.

A/N: It has been a month since I wrote the last chapter to this fic, and I don’t know how the heck I managed to even be able to write again. This suddenly came to me and I wrote it relatively quickly. Is Sam’s spark back? The world may never know. - Also, this is my Christmas Eve chapter for you. I will post another one /tomorrow/! Yes, you read me right. I will be posting another one tomorrow. Two bluff chapters in a row? Sam must really love y’all to give you such a great* gift (*by great Sam means terrible). Enjoy, my sweets.

Mitch rubbed at his eyes tiredly, feeling hot. He looked down at (Y/N), her arm wrapped around his ribs and her head on his chest. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist, moving her arm off of his body. He took a moment to stretch his legs before slipping out of the bed carefully, (Y/N) slowly sliding off of his body onto the bed. She shifted a bit, grunting a little, repositioning herself to rest her head on the pillow Mitch had been using.

Mitch dragged his eyes down her body, making sure she was still asleep before walking around the front of the bed, picking up his now dry jeans. He slipped his legs into them, pulling his jeans up to his hips, fastening the button. “(Y/N),” Mitch whispered tentatively, watching her shift her legs underneath the covers. When she didn’t wake, he pulled a mostly clean shirt out of his suitcase and over his head. He tugged on his socks, sighing heavily.

Rummaging around in his suitcase, he found his wallet, checking to make sure he had a few euro in it before stuffing it into his back pocket. His burner phone was on the nightstand beside the bed, charging. Mitch figured he wouldn’t need it, but decided to grab it just in case (Y/N) wanted to try and contact anyone. He took the cord out of the back of the hotel phone on the nightstand, yanking it out of the wall as well. He wound it up tightly, stuffing it into the front pocket of his jeans. He figured (Y/N) wouldn’t be up for a few hours anyway, but wanted to cover his bases.

Walking out of the bedroom, Mitch closed the door behind him, slipping his feet into his shoes near the bedroom door. Doing a look around the room, Mitch found his gun hidden underneath the cushion of the couch he’d slept on the night prior. He pulled it out and secured it into the back of his pants, making sure to pull his shirt down to cover it. After double checking there were no weapons that (Y/N) could find and use against him when he returned, he pocketed the room key from the table by the door and walked out.

Stan hit the door three times, leaving two breaths between each knock, waiting patiently for the door to be opened. Entering the room, he looked (Y/N) over, narrowing his eyes a bit at her outfit. “You making it a habit of wearing his clothes?”

(Y/N) narrowed her eyes at Stan in return, taking a seat on the couch after shutting the door behind him. “I was left with no other clothes, Stan. What else do you expect me to wear? Hmm?”

“Let’s not give me attitude first thing in the morning, (Y/N).” Stan warned, holding out a coffee cup to her. “We’re going to have Irene call him and stall him for a moment. Figured I owed you a coffee.”

(Y/N) took it, holding it tightly between her hands. “Is it drugged again? Poisoned perhaps?”

Stan took a deep breath, taking a seat on the opposite end of the couch as (Y/N). “Don’t start acting like Rapp. I swear to all that is mightier than me, I will kill you both without hesitation and take whatever punishment there may be for me. Considering how horrible that bastard is though, I expect a thank-you medal.” Stan rest the ankle of his left leg on the knee of his right. “How is your shoulder?” Stan pointed at the spot where her wound was on his own shoulder, leaning back against the couch to get comfortable.

“It hurts like a bitch, actually. If I am being completely honest with you, Stan. Mitch did a good job stitching me up, though. Won’t leave a terrible scar or anything. I was impressed with him.”

“How has he been treating you? We’ve got surveillance in every part of the hotel where there is a security camera, but this room doesn’t have anything. If you were murdered we’d have no way of knowing until it was too late.”

(Y/N) lifted her good arm, running her hand through her hair, ignoring the few knots. “He has been kind. I am starting to worry that you’ve assigned me to the wrong assassin, Stan. He has been gentle with me, even. He stitched me up, helped me with coming down from the drugs you guys gave me. I will be filing a complaint about, do you hear me?”

Stan rolled his eyes, “you aren’t going to file a complaint to anyone, (Y/N). There’s no one to complain to, aside from Irene and I. No one else knows about this mission, (Y/N). No one aside from the three of us, and the discontinued agent we brought in for the arms dealer that is.”

“Discontinued agent?” (Y/N) asked, furrowing her eyebrows together.

“Not important. He was just, less than satisfactory, according to Irene. He’s no longer with the organization.”

(Y/N) took a few slow, deep breaths. It was conversations like this amongst agents that reminded her just how expendable they all were. They were rats on a wheel, powering a machine larger than any of them fully understood. The moment one rat became unsatisfactory, they could be easily swapped for another. It was in the rare case, such as Rapp’s, that they tried to fix the rat. Mend it’s wonky whiskers. “Who killed him?”

Stan rolled his eyes, “no one, (Y/N). He wasn’t killed. He was just, discontinued.”

“Which means killed. I’m not an idiot, Stan.”

Stan scoffed, picking at a piece of frayed denim at the ankle of his jeans. “Let’s not start a conversation about smarts, (Y/N).”

(Y/N) went to retort and Stan stopped her, clearing his throat. “Has he mentioned getting you home, yet?” Stan wondered, rubbing his jaw with the hand that wasn’t picking at his jeans.

(Y/N) shook her head.

“Of course he hasn’t. He doesn’t plan anything, he just does.” Stan took a deep inhale. “I’ll call him later, discuss your transportation with him. You should bring up him buying you clothes today. If he takes you with him, use this as a means of building his trust. Get close to him. Show him you’re not going to be a flight risk. If he feels less on guard, he’ll be easier for you to handle. I’ve learned that the hard way. Apparently telling him I’m going to kill him in his sleep for two weeks straight had him on edge. I have no idea why.”

(Y/N) laughed out loud, bringing her coffee up to drink, silencing the noise. “I have no idea either, Stan.” She said after swallowing the warm, bitter liquid. “I will act as his sweet, doting girlfriend in public who is overjoyed that her boyfriend is buying her clothes. Would that work for you?”

“You can do whatever you want, (Y/N). Just don’t piss him off in public.”

“Will you have someone tailing us?”

“I will be somewhere near you guys.”

“So you’re going to chaperone our date, Stan?”

Stan rolled his eyes, “yes.”

(Y/N) nodded before taking another drink from her cup, trying to rapidly down the liquid. “He’s nice, you know? Like. Genuinely nice.”

“Is he?” Stan asked, eyebrow raised at the woman beside him. He never thought that someone would tell him that Mitch Rapp was nice, without an ounce of loathing to their voice. “I am surprised.”

(Y/N) shrugged, “don’t get me wrong. He’s sarcastic, and kind of an asshole, really takes after you there, Stan. But. He’s nice. You can tell he once had a good heart. And he’s really trying with me. It’s obvious he isn’t used to having to nurse a victim, or play the hero to someone he has to actually interact with.” She took another sip. “I just think that, once you break down his ‘oh I’m a tough guy who kills people’ facade, there’s a genuinely good human being underneath.”

“Are you sure the drugs have worn off?”

“I’m serious.” She sighed, shaking her head a little. “He gave me a, what I am assuming was rare, moment of real and genuine emotion. He assured me that he was going to get me home. That he was going to keep me safe. It was like, for a moment, I wasn’t talking to the cold and cautious Mitch Rapp that I had read about or first encountered. He was.. He was sweet? He seemed like he really meant it. Like he cared that I felt safe and secure with him. That I knew that he was there to help and protect me.”

“He is. Technically. He just doesn’t know that there is no real threat.”

“He doesn’t have to be the way he is with me though. He could just tell me I’ll be fine and ignore me. He sat with me though, listened to my cover story. He even held my hand. Made sure I wasn’t scared to tell him what I had fabricated. He even..” she smiled softly to herself. “He even made sure I was comfortable with him helping me bathe, in case I hadn’t been.” She shook her head, thinking back to the conversations she and Rapp had had.

“So he’s a decent human being sometimes, who cares?”

“I care.” (Y/N) grumbled, finishing her coffee, holding the cup out to Stan to take. She watched him grab it, her eyes landing on her own hand. She couldn’t help but miss the way Mitch’s hand had felt in her own, how gently he had rubbed it with his thumb. How comforting his touch had been. She dropped her hand to her lap, missing Mitch’s.

“I should head out.” Stan said, standing from the couch, (Y/N)’s coffee cup still in his hand. She stood up as well, ready to walk him out. “You should go get back in bed, (Y/N). Act asleep when Mitch returns.”

“Okay,” (Y/N) sighed. She rest her hands on her hips. “How long do you think I’m gonna be stuck with him?” She asked.

“For as long as you’re useful with him, (Y/N).”

She nodded, watching him walk out before returning to the bedroom. She crawled under the sheets, scooting her body to lay on the side Mitch had slept in. Her side smelt like nothing, unable to smell her own natural scent. His side, however, smelt warm. Like him. Like the cologne she had seen in his duffle bag when he was looking for something for her to wear. She couldn’t pinpoint what his natural smell was, couldn’t describe it if someone asked her. The only thing she knew about it, was that she liked it. Made her feel safe. Maybe it was just the man behind the scent that made her feel safe. Whatever it was. She wasn’t against it.

As (Y/N) was falling back into sleep, warm under the covers on Mitch’s side of the mattress, she had a fleeting thought that worried her.

/You’re going to start falling for this man/.

Mitch returned to the room annoyed, nostrils flared as he set two coffees and a brown paper bag down on the coffee table. “(Y/N)?” He called, making his way back to the bedroom. He sighed when he saw her on her side, curled up around his pillow, fast asleep. “(Y/N).” He repeated, this time softer. She didn’t react.

He licked his lips, bringing his left hand up to rub over his soft pink lips and along the scratchy stubble of his chin and jaw. “(Y/N).” He said for the third time, making his way over to the bed. He leaned forward, resting his hand on her hip, shaking her gently to wake her up. He watched her face, soft with sleep. Mitch would be a fool if he didn’t find her beautiful. With her smooth skin, and lips pursed into an unconscious pout. Had he been a different man, he would have already imagined all the ways she would kiss him with those lips. Soft pecks in the morning when she had just woken up. Long, sloppy kisses while sitting on his lap. Slow, open mouthed kisses while they laid together. Wet, random kisses along his chest.

Mitch had to shake his head to stop his mind from wandering any further. She’s a mission, he reminded himself. His hand gripped her hip a little tighter, shaking her a bit harder to rouse her from sleep completely. “(Y/N), please wake up.”

She let out a soft noise that made Mitch take in a sharp breath. He worried he had been gripping her tighter than he thought. When she made another similar noise before stretching her arms out, he realized he wasn’t the cause.

“Morning.” She whispered, voice scratchy from just waking up. Mitch smiled down at her, letting it fall from his lips the second her eyes cracked open.

“Good morning, (Y/N).”

She pushed herself up in bed, and Mitch withdrew his hand from her. “I brought back coffee and donuts for breakfast. I don’t know if you eat either, but. I was in the mood for it so that is what you get.”

“That’s fine,” (Y/N) said, running her fingers through her hair. “Thank you.”

Mitch watched her carefully. He liked seeing her freshly woken. Since he had lost his fiance, he hadn’t considered ever liking the way someone looks in the morning again. He was wrong. He wanted to see her first thing in the morning every day he could. Maybe he wouldn’t make her leave immediately after they got home after all.

“Want me to bring your food in here?” He asked, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans, being reminded of the phone cord he had stuffed in earlier.

(Y/N) shook her head, hair falling back into her face. She sighed, pushing it back again. “No, thank you. I’ll come out with you.”

Mitch held his hand out to her, helping her up from the mattress. “I also got you a toothbrush from housekeeping. It’s in the bag as well cause I didn’t know where else to put it.”

(Y/N) gave him a toothy smile, “thank you. My dragon breath and I are appreciative.”

“My nose is appreciative. You were breathing directly on my face last night and I almost gagged.”

(Y/N) stared at him, watching the way his lips curled up on the sides before he laughed. She followed suit, loving the way his laughter sounded. She had heard it the night before, while the two of them were attempting to shower. But she couldn’t fully grasp how much she appreciated it until now. She could hear it everyday and never get tired of it. She made a mental note to herself that she needed to be funny for him often.

“Don’t make fun of me, Mitch.” (Y/N) said without any venom in her words. She was trying to stop the smile from lighting up her face, and Mitch wanted nothing more than for it to stay.

“You were laying on my left side. Am I missing any of my facial hair on that side? I feel like your breath was so bad you could have singed it off.”

(Y/N) laughed again, giving Mitch a playful glare, “fuck off.”

“I guess I’ll go check for myself. I hope I have more than just half of an eyebrow on this side.” He winked at her, and she tried not taking a deep breath. Mitch turned to head for the bathroom and (Y/N) caught his wrist before he could move away. “I swear you’re an ass.”

“And you’re the hole.” Mitch remarked, giving her another wink. “C’mon let's go eat.”

The two walked to the living room, Mitch immediately taking a seat on the couch. (Y/N) picked her coffee up, offering Mitch his. He took it, giving her a half smile when she sat down. “Thank you.”

“Thanks for getting it.” She replied, leaning forward to grab the bag from the table. She tossed the toothbrush aside, holding the bag out for Mitch to remove a donut from. “I hope you somehow managed to know that I liked sprinkle donuts.”

Mitch broke into a cocky smile, “that’s funny.” He shook his head. “I had a whole entire debate with myself at the counter while looking at the donuts. I was going to go with two glazed, but then I saw a glazed with sprinkles and figured that might be more your speed. And then I went back to glazed because I didn’t want to assume. But then I saw the chocolate with sprinkles, and-” Mitch stopped himself from rambling for a full minute about his donut picking process. “Basically I ended up getting you a glazed with sprinkles. You’re welcome.”

(Y/N) reached into the bag, pulled out the donut, and furrowed her brows. “Why is there only half?”

“I ate the other.” Mitch said, biting into his own glazed. “I like sprinkles too, (Y/N). You’re not the only one.”

“Does this mean you bit into my donut, Mitch? Do I have to throw the whole thing away because it’s contaminated with your saliva? I don’t know where your mouth has been.”

Mitch fought with everything he had not to respond but I know where you want it to be. “You can handle a little bit of my saliva on your donut, (Y/N). It won’t kill you.”

“No, but I might kill you for being such a dick.”

Mitch laughed again, and (Y/N) forced herself not to smile. “I’d love to see you try.”

(Y/N) leaned forward as Mitch brought his donut up, taking a bite out of the side he hadn’t. He pulled the donut away from her mouth and his in shock, staring at her with wide eyes and shiny lips.

“Did you just bite my donut?” Mitch asked, right cheek puffy with the bite he had taken.

(Y/N) nodded, licking the glaze off of her lips slowly. Mitch was too distracted by her tongue to be able to form a snappy reply.  “I did.” She chewed quickly, swallowing the donut she had stolen. “It was only fair since you greedily ate half of mine. Besides, your reaction was better than that donut anyway. I’ve never seen you looking so stunned, Mitch.”

“I can’t believe your audacity.”  Mitch said, honestly. He took a napkin from the bag, setting it down on the coffee table. He rest his donut down on it, and grabbed (Y/N)’s wrist in his hand. “Let’s go. I’m putting you back into the bedroom and you can be tied up again, like you once were, since you wanted to be so bold.”

“NO!” (Y/N) shouted, pulling her wrist back in utter shock. “You’re not fucking tying me up. You’re - you’re insane!” She stammered a little on the you’re, shrinking away from Mitch. He took this moment of shock to grab the other half of the donut from her, dropping her wrist and picking up the other donut before she could react.

“You’re right.” Mitch’s voice remained the deep and emotionless tone it always was. “I’m not going to tie you back up. I was just saying that to get what I wanted. It was easier than I thought it would be. Your reflexes are terrible.” He acknowledged, looking at the half donut between his index finger and thumb. He gave her a smirk before taking a bite out of it. “I hope you’re not hungry. You’re going to have to wait for lunch now.”

(Y/N) stared at him for a moment, calculating her next move. She watched him take another bite, shooting her leg out to kick his hand with her foot, knocking the nearly whole donut from his hand. She watched it fall to the ground, his face falling from the cocky smirk into a look of shock that matched her own prior. She stood and stepped on the donut, taking the opportunity to take the remains of the half of the other donut he held. She shoved the whole of it into her mouth before falling back down onto the couch, grabbing a napkin to wipe her foot off. “There.” She huffed. “No one gets that donut.”

Mitch took a deep breath, (Y/N)’s eyes trained on the rise of his chest. When he exhaled her eyes snapped up to meet his. He was expressionless, his features absolutely neutral. “That’s fine (Y/N). I’ll just reiterate, you will now have to wait until lunch to eat. I hope you aren’t hungry.”

(Y/N) tossed the napkin that was covered in the glaze from her foot onto the coffee table, leaning back against the couch to get comfortable, completely aware and cautious of her shoulder injury. “I’ll be fine, Mitch.”

He didn’t respond to her, simply turned his attention to the smooshed donut on the floor and grabbed the final napkin to clean it up. He put the trash into the brown paper bag that had been used to carry the donuts to the room, and stood from the couch. After throwing the bag into the trash, Mitch returned to the couch, sitting down on it heavily. (Y/N) huffed and leaned forward to grab her coffee, eyes going wide when Mitch took it before she could reach it.

“Why did you do that?”

Mitch shrugged, setting the coffee cup onto the small table beside him. “I figured if you want to be petty, I would stoop to your level. I have nothing going on today. I can be petty if I please.”

“You’re such an asshole, you know that.”

“I would rather be the asshole than the whole ass, (Y/N). You’ve got that title.”

“I liked you better when you didn’t speak.”

Mitch shrugged, “that’s usually the case. I liked you better when you were unconscious.”

(Y/N) glared, “then why did you wake me?”

“To feed you.” “But you ate my food,” (Y/N) replied in way of counter.

Mitch shook his head, “no. I ate half of your food, and was going to give you half of my donut to make things fair and even. You reacted poorly and therefore you fucked yourself out of a donut and coffee.”

(Y/N) grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest. “Fine.”

“Fine.” Mitch repeated, picking his own coffee up from the table, sipping from it slowly. The two sat in silence for a moment, (Y/N) watching Mitch, Mitch pretending like he wasn’t watching her. “Your face looks better.” (Y/N) finally said, breaking the silence between the two of them. Mitch rest his coffee on his thigh, holding it loosely in his hand. “Pardon?” He asked, furrowing his brows. His free hand came up to his face, rubbing his cheek. He wasn’t aware it had looked bad.

“Your nose,” (Y/N) pointed to her own nose. “It was really bruised yesterday, it looks a bit better today. Like you’re not about to have it fall off at any second.”

Mitch shrugged, uncaring about his face now. “I thought you were telling me I was ugly yesterday and now you decided I was attractive. I was rather confused.”

“You know you’re attractive Mitch, don’t pretend.”

Mitch shook his head, “I used to think I was handsome before I joined the CIA. But. I’ve had my nose broken so many times, and my face punched and cut even more. I don’t even think about my looks anymore. It’s irrelevant to anything going on in my life. I don’t need to worry about being the handsome man I used to be. I don’t need to worry about presenting myself as attractive to someone I like. I don’t like anyone anymore. Instead, I worry about not getting killed. I worry about how to keep myself from getting another scar or another broken bone.”

(Y/N) sighed, “isn’t that kind of depressing?”

“Not everything is about looks, (Y/N).”

She shook her head, “that isn’t what I meant. I meant, isn’t it kind of depressing not to want someone? I know a relationship isn’t everything, Mitch. Just. Don’t you ever get lonely?”

“How can I get lonely when I always have Stan up my ass, telling me everything I’ve done wrong?”

“Who’s Stan?” (Y/N) asked, tucking her legs underneath her. “Is he your-” She left the end of her question open, expecting Mitch to fill in the blank. “Stan is my boss,” Mitch supplied.

“Ah. Well. I hope he keeps you warm at night.”

Mitch shrugged, “his hatred for me certainly does give me a spark but. Last night I was kept warm by you, so. I guess you’re my relationship.”

(Y/N) stared at him, “what?”

“I was just trying to end this conversation and thought if I said that you’d accept that as something. I was wrong.”

(Y/N) opened her mouth to respond to Mitch, getting silenced by the sound of a phone ringing. Mitch shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled it out, producing a silver cell phone. “Stan.”

“Ah,” (Y/N) nodded. “You know what they say. Speak of the devil, the devil calls back.”

“I’ve never heard that before in my life, (Y/N).”

“Well. Answer the phone,” (Y/N) gestured for Mitch to answer with her hand. He complied, bringing the phone up to his ear. He stood up as he said “hello”, walking away from her to the bedroom. She took this opportunity to lean across the couch and grab her coffee, swallowing from the cup vigorously.

Mitch returned from the bedroom after a few beats, (Y/N) setting the coffee cup down fast, feeling caught.

“I’m going to give you something to wear and you and I are going shopping.” Mitch said while shoving his phone into his pocket.

“Why?” (Y/N) asked.

Mitch sighed, “because apparently we have to.”

~

Tags: @ellie-bee242, @redstringlovers, @lovefilledtragedy, @cathobs, @sumcp, @teamwolf2411, @confidentrose, @daddyxraeken, @iloveteenwolf24-blog, @kal-pal, @stilinski-stydia-obrien, @omgimafuckingmermaid, @cuillere

If you would like to be tagged in this fic, please let me know (-:

[trendingnewsb]

5 Cities That Changed Unrecognizably In Only A Few Decades

The ways cities change over the ages never cease to amaze people. We love to think about the times our home megalopolises were nothing but tiny little specks of civilization, back when everyone knew each other’s names and wore monocles, and dinosaurs flew biplanes. But we also think that these cities stay basically the same, simply slowly swapping wood for stone, gaslight for electricity, and quite tall buildings for really tall buildings. It takes ages for a city to truly change. But that’s not necessarily true. There are cities that, due to war, societal upheaval, or other extraordinary circumstances, completely transformed in the span of a few seasons of The Bachelor. For example …

5

Pre-Revolution Tehran Was One Of The Hippest Cities In The World

Since the late 1970s, the popular perception of life in Iran is that of fatwa-issuing ayatollahs, rabid flag-burning crowds chanting “Death to America,” and women getting harangued for having the audacity to let too much hair poke out from underneath their headscarves.

But before the Iranian Revolution, the capital city of Tehran had the opposite reputation of religious extremism: being cool as hell. For decades, Iran was at the cutting edge of culture and civic progress. In ’50s Iran, you could visit the kind of rock and jazz clubs that could easily be in Hamburg. This was when the Beatles were still calling themselves the Quarrymen.

Back when “rocking out” couldn’t be confused with “death by stoning.”

But the greatest symbol of how progressive Iran was had to be its very chill attitude concerning women. During the ’60s and ’70s, downtown Tehran was as into big hair, short dresses, and freedom of expression as any secular Western country. Just take a look at their amazing fashion magazines:

via Flashbak

via FlashbakBig hair is truly the universal language.

Yes, during the time of free love and disco, the women of Tehran didn’t have any “morality laws” to keep them down. The new generation of Iranian gals could do anything they set their minds to — from studying at the country’s actively pro-women universities to competing in one of the country’s many beauty pageants …

via Flashbak

… to becoming actors, writers, and bona fide pop stars …

via FlashbakAnd she wasn’t even involved with the Disney Channel before making it big.

Those are two album covers of vaguely Cher-like Iranian pop sensation Googoosh. She was reportedly a favorite of the Shah, and was set to conquer the world with her happy music. But after returning from a trip to Los Angeles, she found herself in the midst of the revolution, which banned her music, banned her from performing on stage, and finally banned Googoosh herself, as she went into exile in Egypt.

Not that Googoosh or her many artist friends had any desire to stay. She also returned to a land where the new regime tried its hardest to scale back women’s education, going so far as to make several academic fields “men only.” And while crushed velvet and turtleneck sweater dresses aren’t to everyone’s taste, it’s a helluva lot more chic than the current Iranian “fashion,” whereby adding a little bit of white to the all-black outfit is considered a heroic act of symbolic protest.

4

Mogadishu Was Once A Hopping Vacation Town

In popular culture, Somalia is mostly known for warlords and pirates of the non-swashbuckling variety. But the capital city, Mogadishu, was once one of the jewels of the Horn of Africa. Thanks to a few decades of nonstop coups, assassinations, and civil war, the city has lost its once-sterling reputation as a lovely seaside tourist destination with pristine beaches and a vibrant nightlife. Now, a good night out means successfully crossing the street without getting shot.

Somali Tourism Association“Black Hawk Down? Sorry, never heard of that drink.”

Over the past two decades, there hasn’t been so much as a long weekend during which Mogadishu wasn’t involved in some sort of militaristic pissing match. That last image is of the beautiful Jazeera Palace Hotel, which al-Shabaab terrorists blew to smithereens with a car bomb in 2015 in an effort to murder foreign journalists. Occurrences like these are how Mogadishu has earned the reputation of being “one of the world’s most dangerous cities,” something that doesn’t sound too great on a tourism billboard.

Even Detroit finds this a bit excessive.

Yet despite all this, there’s talk of Mogadishu making a comeback. Beaches are being reclaimed, a “peace garden” has been built, and there are even reports of the former financial district becoming a “beehive of commercial activity” once again. And it doesn’t take too long for a town to go from ruins to prosperity, as evidenced by …

3

Sarajevo Is Proof That Cities Can Recover From War, And Quickly

Just to show we’re not completely beholden to a company policy of relentless gloom and doom, we’re glad to tell the story of Sarajevo, the capital of Bosnia-Herzegovina and the flashpoint for a depressingly destructive war in the ’90s. But despite losing over 11,000 souls and having their city methodically leveled during years of needless carnage, Sarajevans refused to wallow in the rubble for even a second. So they pulled themselves up by their proverbial bootstraps, shook off the literal dust, and got to work.

The last time you may have seen images of the place, there were probably featuring plenty of bombed-out structures. But we’re glad to say that these photos are now embarrassingly out of date. In a matter of years, Sarajevo rebuilt to the point where you could forget the city was ever a war zone.

Mikhail Evstafiev, Ex13Although any project surely feels like a breeze when you no longer have to worry about sniper fire.

Read Next

5 Reasons Growing Old In 2018 Is A Total Nightmare

Unlike most other places, which would prefer to start fresh and erect new buildings, Sarajevo decided that it liked things exactly how they were before being bombed to hell. So when the shelling finally stopped, people repaired their bombed-out buildings right where they stood. Reportedly, a full 80 percent of all damaged structures have been brought back to life, which as one reporter noted, shows “raw evidence of the hardiness of the human spirit.” Refusing to pay for a new city because the old one will be fine after they fix it? Sarajevo isn’t merely tough; it’s dad-with-his-own-tool-shed tough.

Quasimodogeniti, Jennifer BoyerAnd the tool shed may or may not have been the site of atrocities a while back.

2

It Only Took A Few Decades For Dubai To Become A Futuristic Wonderland

Whenever Dubai shows up on our radar, it’s usually because of some kind of over-the-top architectural marvel or ostentatious display (of the gold-plated sports car with cheetahs in the passenger seat variety) of some obnoxiously wealthy sheikh. But Dubai wasn’t always a land of donut-shaped skyscrapers, seven-star hotels, and huge man-made islands in the shape of palm trees. Only a few decades ago, it got as much tourism as Paris, Georgia. If you want to know how much of a difference a dream, some hard work, and a ton of slave labor can achieve, take a look at before and after photos of the Dubai Airport …

Dubai AirportsIf only you’d invested in that weirdo plane back in 1980, you’d have a Gulfstream by now.

… or the downtown area…

via Condos Hotel Dubai, tobiasjo/iStockFact: There is more than that one tower in Dubai.

… or the transformation of its beachfront (and actual beach) …

via The Culturist, EXTREME-PHOTOGRAPHER/iStock

What got the ball rolling on Dubai’s metropolis was, unsurprisingly, oil. However, the folks in charge realized early on that their petroleum-based windfall wasn’t going to last forever. So in order to find a permanent source of income, they invested heavily in a short time to make Dubai the premier tourist Mecca in the Middle East — besides, you know, the actual Mecca. Too bad the place is such an architectural affront to nature itself that Neptune is trying to drag it down into the sea.

1

Shanghai Expanded So Fast That It Changed The Climate

It’s hard to imagine a place like Paris or Chicago ever not having clean water, safe roads, and a Starbucks every 0.8 miles. But the truth is that it takes a city centuries or more for all those amenities and comforts to be built. Except for Shanghai, which became a modern city so fast that it made Mother Nature’s head spin.

As China’s most important port and industrial center, Shanghai had to keep up as the country became an economic giant over but a few decades, and the results are jarring. According to NASA, over the last 40 years, Shanghai has doubled in population, jumping from 12 million to 24 million. Because of this rapid increase in both people and infrastructure, the city limits grew from 119 square miles to over 500, making aerial shots of Shanghai over the years look like the aftermath of a giant concrete mill explosion.

NASA“And sorry about the water …”

But this incredible expansion hasn’t been all sunshine — or rather, it has, and that’s the problem. As everything green gave way to concrete gray, the result was an “urban heat island effect,” wherein switching cool nature with a bunch of heat-absorbing surfaces like asphalt and concrete causes an area’s average temperature to shoot up by several degrees. It’s not exactly what we traditionally think of as climate change, but you try explaining the difference in a place where cooking shrimp on manhole covers is considered the new normal.

And it’s only going to get worse. Its city center is already considered #1 in runaway bigliness, and some predict that Shanghai will bloat itself into becoming the third-largest city in the world by 2030. The Chinese are understandably proud of what they’ve accomplished in a short amount of time, and good for them. And if continuing that hot streak means raising the temperature to the point where Shanghai becomes a citywide crock pot slowly cooking a few dozen million people to perfection? Well, that’s the price of progress.

Crock Pots are best used on chicken, not people.

Support Cracked’s journalism with a visit to our Contribution Page. Please and thank you.

For more, check out Parts Of The World You’re Picturing Totally Wrong and 19 Famous Places You Picture Wrong: Side By Side.

Are you following us on Facebook yet?

Read more: http://www.cracked.com/article_25321_5-cities-that-changed-unrecognizably-in-only-few-decades.html

from Viral News HQ https://ift.tt/2HeaqXl via Viral News HQ