#this was supposed to be for the garment contest

[anonymocha]

hi i dont think im finishing this thing 😭 retiring this wip to my blog for yall to see

Kaalaa Baunaa as a Javanese-inspired ronggeng (dancer), it’s also connected to the Medpoc garment idea!

[erisenyo]

If you're still doing the prompt game, would you consider Toko for "Please come get me" prompt? 🥺

For this prompt game! (Or also this one!)

“Hey, watch it,” the girl snaps as Cha Ming unceremoniously tosses her into the cell. “This is a new jacket!”

Kuzo gives the dirty, stained, ripped garment a skeptical look—new to her, maybe, but you certainly can’t tell from looking at it. And not that she looks particularly put out, either—as Cha Ming slams the cell door shut with a distinctly satisfied air.

“Should have thought of that before you tried to scam hard working people—” the prisoner lets out an inelegant snort. “—out of their hard-earned money, missy.”

“Missy,” she repeats, rounding toward Cha Ming with startling accuracy given her cloudy, unfixed stare. “Missy? And it wasn’t a scam,” she adds after a moment, suddenly dropping to the floor, indignation gone. “It was insurance fraud.” She props one bare, dirty foot against her upraised knee. “Get it right.”

“I’ll be sure to note that in the records for your trial,” Kuzo says, shaking his head and earning himself a snort and a—a thumbs down?

“You’re mighty insolent for someone in a lot of trouble,” Cha Ming growls, crossing his arms in a display of muscle that Kuzo doesn’t have the heart to point out is utterly lost on her. It’s more about the vibe of the whole thing, he supposes.

“I am, aren’t I,” she grins, slow and wide and unsettling toothy. “You know what though, I think I want my messenger.”

Kuzo frowns. “You’re—?” Was she working with an accomplice?

“My one call?” the girl says, kicking her foot in the air. “The new Fire Lord proclamation? That every prisoner upon arrest gets one messenger to a person of their choosing? Set off and landslides in there?”

Cha Ming shoots Kuzo a sideways look. “There isn’t a…?” he trails off as Kuzo shakes his head, silently pointing a startled Cha Ming to the very official scroll waiting on his desk.

“That proclamation came in this morning,” Kuzo says, incredulous. He hasn’t even had time to read it all the way through yet!

“I know,” she grins, sharp.

“You weren’t even arrested five degrees afterward!”

“I know,” she repeats, grinning wider. “And now I want my message.”  

“Does it even apply to non Fire Nation citizens?” Cha Ming frowns, scratching the base of his topknot as he quickly scans the proclamation, squinting to try to parse through the fancy High Caldera calligraphy.

The girl cocks her head, pale green eyes bright against her dirt-smudged face. “Do you think I’m not Fire Nation?”

Kuzo hesitates. She looks very…Earth. “…Are you?”

She holds out her hand as if admiring her nails, waggling her fingers. “No.”

“Says here all prisoners,” Cha Ming calls over, still reading over the edict. “Not seeing any residency or citizenship requirements.”

“Alright then,” Kuzo sighs, looking around for his ink brush. Agni’s toes, they haven’t even had a chance to get training on it yet, the magistrate is supposed to come by tomorrow… “What do you want to say, then?”

“Hmm.” The girl taps a finger against her chin a moment, considering, then, “I want to write it.”

Cha Ming coughs a little, surprised, and the girl raises her eyebrows.

“Is there a problem with that?”

“But you’re, uh.”

She tils her head in Cha Ming’s direction. “Yes?”

Kuzo clears his throat. “Aren’t you…”

“Am I?” she asks, tilting in his direction now and somehow managing to catch his gaze in one of the more unsettling stare-offs of his life. Which is saying something considering how his little sister used to stare at candleflames growing up to get better at eye gaze contests.

“Well, um,” Kuzo finally says, coughing a little and breaking away under the guise of grabbing up an ink brush. “How exactly do you propose to write it? Given that you can’t, uh. See?”

“I can’t?”

“…Can you?”

Another grin. “No.”

The sigh Kuzo lets out only makes her grin wider.

“They make special inks these days, you know,” she offers, propping her head up on her crossed arms, foot kicking in the air again.

Cha Ming stares. “That blind people can see?”

“That earthbenders can see,” she says simply, expression going smug and wolfish as she adds, “If they’re good enough.”

Kuzo stares a moment, mouth working silently as he takes in the hardpacked earthen floor and stone-lined walls, the whole place designed to stymie firebenders.

“…Ah,” Cha Ming says behind him, faint.

“What, ah. What ink would that be, then?” Kuzo finally says, deciding to just…accept her docileness at face value for now. Well, now exactly docile, but. “We have the usual standard issue.” Shelves and shelves of it, and one or two pots the magistrate leaves behind whenever they lose track of their things…

“Flying Boar brand,” she says, prim, and Cha Ming chokes.

“Flying—that stuff’s worth its weight in gold!”

“Makes sense,” the girl allows. “It’s made with it.”

“Why would—we’re the fire and the guard station!” Kuzo says, feeling strangely desperate considering he isn’t the one behind bars. “We don’t have that!”

“Hm,” the girl says, wiggling like she’s getting comfortable against the dirt. “That sounds like a problem for you, doesn’t it. Seeing as how every prisoner is entitled to write or dictate a message to a person of their choosing, and per the Fire Lord’s order, any denial of such right will result in the immediate negation of the arrest regardless of circumstances.”

Kuzo opens his mouth and promptly closes it again. Is she—is she quoting?

“That would be too bad for you guys,” she adds, smirking. “Wouldn’t it.”

“You can’t…”

“I can,” she says, gleeful.

“I’ll just write it for you,” Kuzo huffs, grabbing up a piece of scrap paper and casting around for that open ink well. “The code permits for a message to be dictated, so let’s just do away with all this ridicule—”

“Ah, ah, ah,” she interrupts, suddenly rolling fluidly up to sit cross-legged. “The code permits. The code does not require.” Cha Ming looks down at the code in question, eyes wide. “I want to write it myself.”

“That’s absurd,” Kuzo protests, feeling something sputter and die in his chest as Cha Ming’s expression slowly goes to horror. “You can’t expect us to spend that kind of money on one letter.” Agni’s nails, that’s over half their annual budget!

“But how can I trust you’ll transcribe it correctly?” she asks, all faux innocent and someone must have taught her that look. “I can’t exactly read it to be sure, can I? I’m blind after all.” And sounds nearly gleeful about it.

“We’d have to send away for it,” Kuzo says faintly as he tries to calculate who in the town could even—they might have to find a coastal trader, Agni, the markup—

She snorts, waving a hand around her cell. “Does that look like my problem?”

“It could take weeks!”

“It could, couldn’t it?” she says serenely, grinning. “Good thing you have such a lovely comfortable floor here,” she adds, the earth suddenly rippling underneath her, Kuzo tensing and Cha Ming shouting in alarm as…an earthen chaise lounge rises up out of the floor, with the girl on it.

Kuzo stares a long moment, then turns to Cha Ming, lowering his voice. “This feels like another scam,” he mutters, rubbing at his temples and already feeling a headache forming.

“I’m not sure how we get out of it, though,” Cha Ming frowns, waving the new edict helplessly. “The Fire Lord…”

“Maybe we can add the cost as part of her fines to be assessed after the trial…” Kuzo says, dubious.

“Not going to do us much good if she doesn’t have any money,” Cha Ming huffs, echoing his thoughts, both of them wincing as they realize they’re in for another year of not being able to upgrade their fire mitigation protocols from sand to water.

“So?” the girl asks, pointed, like she somehow knows they’ve just come to their conclusion. “My ink?”

“We’ll get it,” Kuzo sighs.

“Wonderful,” she grins, making a show of settling in to wait and oh, Kuzo’s headache is definitely settling in, too. And probably won’t be leaving soon, either…

“Agni’s flapping—who are we sending this thing to?” Cha Ming grumbles, nearly dragging his topknot out as he shoves a hand through his hair. “Are you wanting us to get you a special bird for that too? Send it by phoenix, maybe?”

“Oh, nothing as fancy as that” she says breezily, as if she doesn’t notice his grouchiness. “A regular hawk should do.” Her lips curl in that grin that definitely makes Kuzo’s head throb harder. “It’s just going to Caldera, after all.”

Which…is normal enough. A bit of a surprise, given they’re in the outlying islands, but certainly common. “Which relay?” he asks, trying to remember if Mai Tin’s letter had come back yet and brought its hawk back with them, or whether he should go asking—

“The palace,” she says, serene.

Kuzo coughs, stuttering a bit. That—that is less usual, certainly, but not—not entirely unheard of. It’s just that he doesn’t trust that serenity one bit. “To the care of?”

“The Fire Lord,” she says, even serener.

“The Fire Lord,” Cha Ming repeats, numb, then again, “The Fire Lord. The Fire Lord,” he finally guffaws, cackling—or cracking, maybe—holding himself over with the force of his wheezing laughter, Kuzo sighing and patting him firmly on the back.

“Mi—girl, the Fire Lord isn’t going to read your letter,” he says, grasping for patience and so, so ready for this shift to be over. It isn’t even noon. “I’m sure it works like that in the Earth Kingdom, but that’s not how it’s done here.”

“Maybe he’ll make an exception for me,” she shrugs, unbothered and picking a piece of food out of her teeth.

“…Maybe.”

“Maybe,” Cha Ming huffs, still wheezing. “Maybe. Maybe I’ll grow wings and fly, too!”

She lolls her head to look at him, eyes narrowing. “I can help with the flying part,” she says, grin suddenly sharp-edged. “Temporarily.”

“Look,” Kuzo sighs, trying to breathe his headache away and realizing that she seems quite young, just at her majority, probably. “If you don’t have anyone to write to, we can recommend some lawyers, or the magistrate. We can even send to someone in the Earth Kingdom.” They’ll send wherever they need to, for someone to take her away. “You must have been staying with someone, right?” Please let this girl barely older than his daughter not have been sleeping on the streets. “Had some reason to visit?”

“I was making my way to a friend,” she offers after a moment’s considering.

“Well then,” Kuzo says, trying to restrain his audible excitement, “Let’s write them.”

“Good idea,” she nods along. “The Fire Lord.”

Kuzo sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He hates the ones determined to be difficult.

“Kid, just tell us who to really send it to,” Cha Ming says, still sounding a little hysterical around the edges but hauling himself back up to deliver Kuzo a bracing wallop on the back. “We’re not going to send it to the Fire Lord, I don’t care what joke you’re trying to play.”

She gives a flat, unimpressed look to their general direction. “So we’re breaking the new edict before the sun even sets, are we.”

“We—I’m—you’re the lawbreaker here!”

“It was just a little light fraud,” she sniffs, biting off a nail. “Not like violating a direct order from the Fire Lord, oh no, that’s all you.”

“I’m not…” Cha Ming trails off, looking undeniable queasy.

“I’m not the one who was told in the Fire Lord’s very own hand—”

Kuzo blinks. How would she—?

“—that every prisoner gets to communicate to the individual of their choice, and then chose to ignore it. No, that’s all you. But hey, you want to violate the will of a Child of Agni that way?” she gives a low, impressed whistle. “Your pyre.”

“Fine,” Cha Ming says, pulling his topknot out completely to grab onto his hair. “Fine. We’ll post it ot the palace, and see what good it does you. You’ll be waiting here for a reply for the rest of your life,” he snaps, and Kuzo pulls up, horrified, as he registers the words.

“Hm,” she grins, slow and smirking. “And wouldn’t that be awful,” she muses, making of show of examining her nails again as Kuzo watches Cha Ming freeze and look down to the scroll again, to the part where its dictated that a message and a reply or proof of failed delivery need to be received before a trial can commence.

He doesn’t think either of them make a sound in their horror, but her grin is still sharp and toothy like she heard it anyway.

--

Sheyeng can barely walk from trembling as they’re escorted—escorted—by a brisk, efficient looking aide—an aide to the Fire Lord­—down the bright hallways of the palace—the Fire Lord’s palace. The message worth more than their life, probably—because its written in gold—is clutched so tight in their grip they don’t know if they can actually unclench their fingers from it anymore, even as they’re ushered past a pair of stern guards—oh Agni, oh Agni, oh Agni—and into a room lined with braziers pressing an unnatural heat against their skin, a reminder of the blessing given to the Children of Agni oh Agni blessed Agni that’s—that’s—

The Fire Lord glances up in a flash of sunlight off his headpiece and earrings, single eyebrow raised. “Can I help you?”

Sheyeng squeaks to suddenly find themselves pinned by that unmistakable gaze without any further ceremony, nearly falling on their face in their rush to bow and pass over the letter at the same time, hand jerking so quick and uncoordinated that they nearly throw it on the Fire Lord’s desk, right on top of his papers and nearly onto his lunch oh fuck oh Agni oh—“Please don’t kill me.”

The Fire Lord pauses, eyebrow ticking higher, and Sheyeng cringes as the guards shift threateningly behind them until the Fire Lord waves them back and cracks open the scroll, face impassive as he reads, nothing at all in his expression giving a single thing away and oh Agni’s cock, Sheyeng should be looking at the floor not right at—

“I think,” the Fire Lord suddenly says, voice mild and raspy, “That we might need to amend a recent edict.”

“Of course, my lord,” the very efficient aide immediately says, whipping an ink brush out of nowhere. “How, my lord?”

“I’m not quite sure yet,” the Fire Lord says, considering. “I’ll think about it on the way, though.”

The aide blinks. “On the way?”

“Yeah,” the Fire Lord says, pushing back from his desk to stride out of the room, aide and guards scurrying behind him and leaving Sheyeng shaking and wondering if they hallucinated the Fire Lord’s casual thanks for this on the way out. Thanks. Thanks. The Fire Lord wouldn’t—he didn’t—but if did—

Eventually Sheyeng hauls themself back to their feet, cringing a little at the boldness but using the leg of the Fire Lord’s desk to help since there’s no one around to see it, and unable to entirely resist glancing at this insane, expensive ink that they spent four weeks shipping in and nearly keeling over all over again to see, ‘I’m in your stupid jail, idiot. Food is good but it’s too fucking hot. If you please come get me. I have some suggestions on your law.’

[naha-division]

Round 1 - Fashion Show

Theme: “Fairy Tale Beginning”

Contestant: Kyō Sakuma

Division: Naha

"Fairy tale, huh? that's an interesting concept to start the event. Ok I'll give it a go! I'm pretty sure you're familiar with "One Thousand and One Nights", right? I really dig with Middle Eastern aesthetic or you rather want to call it "Arabian Night" fairytale cuz I like how silky the garments were, especially so many accessories and it's easy to wear! I found something interesting where Aladdin and Ali baba were involved in the story other than in the movies. This is the first time I’ve been to the pageant. My friends told me I should join the pageant, even my teammates thought the same thing because of how good looking I am. Well, I have no trouble to go if Ryuunosuke will come but he said he wasn’t interested in dressing up “fancy-schmancy” on stage, saying it’s not his thing. Good thing Naoki is there with me as my consultant since he’s way more experienced when it comes to fashion. Hmm...I don't know what I am supposed to be, how about....a handsome spoiled Sultan, maybe?"

[girderednerve]

i've been having a bunch of fun with my rigid heddle loom & am excited to try out double-heddle twill, but the rigid heddle loom is a strange object. on the one hand, the action of weaving—throwing a shuttle, beating the weft—is pretty consistent among many types of loom, but on the other, the rigid heddle loom is mostly a lap loom or a tabletop loom best suited to weaving smallish pieces of plainweave. yes it's versatile, it's portable, you can put on a second heddle block and make twill or doubleweave, you can use your knitting yarn, you can get out pickup sticks and heddle rods, you can complicate things to your heart's content, but the thing it is easiest to do on a rigid heddle loom is, without contest, to make narrow tabby rectangles. which is fun! but if you're supposed to be engaged in serious textile production to make warm cloth garments, it's not the most useful loom, and although all of the marketing copy for them is happy to tell you that rigid heddle looms have been discovered at roman archaeological sites, they don't point out to you that the rigid heddle got popular in roughly the 1970s during the neo-medieval turn, alongside other handcraft revivals. the actual appeal of the rigid heddle loom is that it's reasonably small, easy to warp & weave on, and fun; you can make scarves and table linens. knitting is much the same! if you actually need to make a lot of fabric as efficiently as possible, knitting is not nearly so useful as weaving, but knitting is fun, very portable, and it lets you make some striking garments & accessories. nevertheless, if you get into fiber crafts, you will be encouraged to think of yourself as standing at the end of a long, uninterrupted line, dancing awkwardly around the violent lurches of industrialization in global textile industries

[cheshire-shuntaro]

Alice in Wonderland AU based on these posts by @somatheking and @prosopagn0sis This piece has been written for @k-y-u-m-a-clubs since you were my partner for @all-mad-hare's event. Hope you like it darling!

Aeons ago, when Cheshire came into existence out of the sweet void into these lands there was nothing but sprawling jungles, endless crystal-blue oceans stretching far, far into horizon, scorching-hot deserts with blinding white sands that reflected sunlight, and a few other creatures who came with him, interested in their own schemes and machinations. Slowly but surely, the landscape began transforming into castles and cities, Cheshire observing every brick that was placed to form the Red Queen's castle but also every common man to fall into the grasp of her bidding.

Mira subordinated every last creature who dared to oppose her, her army soon becoming the most disciplined and vast amongst the land. It was natural for the course of events to take such turn - the Red Queen proudly announcing that she's mustering the best men amongst her army into elite forces she called The Scarlett Squadron. Cheshire could not believe his ears, but he was intrigued: Life-and-death tournament whose champion is going to become the head of the Squadron. The madness that has overtaken her mind was very much visible on her face when she uttered the words with indescribable excitement, hardly able to contain her giggles and attacks of uncontrolable laughter.

And so, Cheshire observed from the shadows as the whole castle prepared for the event over the next few weeks, building the arena that would test the best amongst Mira's men on their endurance, fighting spirit and mercilesness. Sometimes, Cheshire would simply stay away from the prying eyes, invisible, sitting astride on unfinished arena walls as the Queen's men built intricate contraptions and death machines more similar to torture devices than apparatuses that were supposed to, in theory, test someone's abilities. Other times though, he would change shape and trot amongst those ready for death, listening to gossip and getting to know the contestants. He noticed him right away, a man built as if he was a cliff chisled by the waves of the crystal-blue ocean waters, long, raven curls falling upon his shoulders, gentle eyes, treating his fellow contestants with utmost respect and friendliness worthy of a noble knight. Though, this whole image of gentleness and kindness was not why he got noticed by the kitty-cat, he stood out like a sore thumb because he wore nothing more but a little brown modesty garment upon his groin, proudly putting his sharp muscle lines on display. His name, Cheshire later learned, was Kyuma, he thought that it was absolutely ridiculous and that if anyone should be in charge of the murder squadron of the mad queen, it should and will be him and Cheshire will make sure of it.

The games began with a lavish last supper in the now extravagantly decorated courtyard of the Red Queen's castle, where the contestants drank and ate to their heart's content, having the time of their lives before most of them would perish under the queen's death machines and other tournament participant's swords. That night, during the time of the feast Cheshire took an image of the common man and mixed in with the drunk crowd, wanting to assure himself for the last time that he chose the head of the squadron well. Of course, as it was in his nature, he could not help but play a few tricks on the party-goers, a handful of people got their shoelaces tied together, others their beer swapped out with toilet water. As it tends to be, intoxicated creatures caused fights where many lives were lost prematurely, before they had the chance to prove themselves before the queen, and as Cheshire was trotting amongst the chaos of the party he observed a scene that only confirmed that the choice he had made was correct. The scene playing out before him was almost tear-inducing for Cheshire, but also strange, given the circumstances - the chiseld future champion Kyuma, bleeding and wounded, tending to another man's injuries with gentleness and kindness Cheshire felt beaming from him before. That evening the kitty-cat swore that he will do everything in his power to help that man win.

As he foretold, so it happened. The tournament had begun and over the next few days many men lost their lives to the whims of the Red Queen. Dying in complicated death contraptions and fellow participant's swords, falling to their death, losing their heads, breaking bones and backs until there were only two final contestants left to stand - Kyuma and a strange, older man of long beard and sun-kissed complexion, both beaten and exhausted. Throughout the games Cheshire helped the gentle champion in various ways, as much as she could, he would trip his opponents, throw sand in their eyes or gently tap Kyuma on the shoulder if he did not see a blow coming, it all payed out in the end. The last phase of the tournament - a classic, noble duel to life and death with bare hands. As the sands of the arena swiveled, mixed with scarlett blood and Mira gave the final speech in which she wished the contestants good luck, the two men faced each other, their eyes determined and their heads held high. With the roar of the spectators the final champions flung at each other with impressive speed, and soon their bodies were tangled, and their limbs twisted. Cheshire floating in his invisible form right above them, mixing in with the swivled sands of the arena. For a brief moment it seemed like the old man would come on top but Kyuma's body twisted and a final punch was delievered, leaving the older man knocked out on the floor of white sand. Kyuma stood up, as the crowd roared once more to greet the new head of the Scarlett Squadron. He sprawled his hands to his sides and begun roaring with the crowd, to celebrate his victory, not noticing the slight twitch in the older man's leg. The opponent was not done, luckily Cheshire caught it in time, he appeared next to a wall where the bearded man lay, with a slight push he knocked one of the loose, red bricks from the wall. It spun around in the air and fell upon the older man's head with a dull thud, caving his face in, scarlett blood pouring under him. Cheshire looked around, as usual he was unnoticed, this whole scene was drowned out by the victory celebration and spectator's shouts. Kitty-cat grinned to himself, successful in his scheme he floated away to rest on one of the nearby oak branch, to become unpartial one more.

Years later, when they all went mad here and the King of Heart's head rolled upon the castle's courtyard for the countless time, Cheshire remembered this story, how he made the right choice which turned out wrong in the end. Kyuma became the one to bring Soma back from his escapades with The White Queen, the head dog of Mira's guard. Still gentle and respectful but now, completely and utterly under the Queen's bidding.

[warpedlegacywrites]

Writing Forum Prompt - Dialogue

Write a dialogue between two people who know each other, each taking the opposite side of an issue or problem. This should be a verbal dance, not a shouting match. The issue you choose should be something immediate and particular (like whether to spend money on a vacation or put it in the savings account) rather than abstract (Communism is going down the tubes). Keep it simple and emotionally close to the two people involved. The speakers should be equally convincing. That is you, the author, can’t load the argument on one side or the other. 

Objective: To learn to use dialogue to reveal character and human dynamics and to understand that speaking style says as much about a person as their behaviour does. Incidentally, you should also recognize that dialogue should not be used for the following: for lengthy exposition, to furnish your stage, as a substitute for action, and as a vehicle for showing off your own vocabulary and education. A false line of dialogue can ruin an entire scene. 

Cullen stands in the doorway, exasperation barely concealed behind a slipping mask of patience, currently engaged in a staring contest with a much shorter but no less determined opponent. She has made herself an immovable object, seated in the middle of the floor with legs crossed beneath her, arms folded, face upturned and defiant. 

“Alright, dearest,” Cullen begins, with no small amount of trepidation. “It’s time to put on the dress now.”

“Nu-uh!” Ellie responds, plaintively, clearly expecting that to be the final word on the matter. 

“Now now, we discussed this. You agreed to put the dress on for the parade.” 

Her eyes brighten and she sits up with interest. “Horsies!” 

“Yes, you’ll get to see lots of horsies. Don’t you want to look nice for them?”

Interest contorts to disgust, as she sticks out her tongue and points imperiously to the offending garment, sprawled across her bed. “I don’t like that dress.” 

Cullen represses a sigh. “But that is the dress you picked.” He’s not sure why he’s bothering, but part of him just can’t help but point out the obvious discrepancy. 

“No more. I un-pick.” 

“Well, I re-pick.”

“No Papa, that’s silly! Re-pick is not a word!”

“Well, I suppose you have me there.” Maker save him, he was losing a battle of wits with a four-year-old. “I just thought you liked that dress. You refused to take it off all last week.”

“It’s stiff-ing.” 

“...Stifling?” Cullen corrects, behind barely repressed snickering. 

“Stiffff-ing,” she echoes, still not quite getting her tongue around that “l”. 

He lets her have that one, far too charmed by her mangling of the word to bother arguing. Maker knows who she heard it from - her mother, at first guess, though Varric is another likely culprit. 

“Alright then. You don’t have to wear that dress, but you must at least wear something clean.” 

The tunic she’s currently wearing is in an appalling state, the victim of too many afternoons with mud pies and mabari-wrestling. But her scowl returns, and he knows this fight isn’t over yet. She unfolds and refolds her arms more firmly, shaking her head no so emphatically it spreads to her torso, as her arms hug protectively over the soft and soiled linen. 

But then an idea strikes him, and he leans forward, hands on knees, to bring his face closer to hers. She watches him, doe-wide dark eyes tilted up with interest, waiting for his next manoeuvre. 

“What if I said you could wear my fluffy coat?” 

The light in her face might as well come from the sun itself, as she grins ear to ear at that prospect. Yes, he’d thought that would do the trick. How many times had he watched her sneak into Mama and Papa’s room, stealing away with the mantle that had once been his most defining feature in his years at Skyhold? How many hours had she spent shouting orders in a higher-pitched version of his Commander voice at Cal, while he wiggled his tail eagerly and she drowned in the many folds of fabric? 

“But we mustn’t get it dirty, do you understand?” he cautions, treating this as a most serious issue. 

Ellie takes her cue from him, nodding solemnly. “I promise.” 

“Very well. I’m going to entrust it to you for the day then. Let’s get you something nice to wear under it, shall we?” 

“Alright!” 

He straightens, but not before lifting her up into his arms, and together they approach her wardrobe to find something that is both not “stiff-ing” and also “nice”. 

[miranj8]

Deconstructing Gender and Confronting Stereotypes: A Dive into Judith Butler's Theory and the Power Dynamics of Orientalism

That Welcome to our blog! Here, we look at the fusion of two different media sources. In this short film, Judith Butler discusses gender as a "performative" concept. According to postmodernism, the way something is presented or performed is more important than the reality it is supposed to represent. While our bodies may appear to be inherently tangible, Butler states that our gender identity is not based on our physicality. Instead, she argues that our gender identity emerges from the ongoing practice of gender in our everyday lives. Every interaction therefore becomes an opportunity for us to express and affirm our gender identity. An illustrative case of Butler's concept of gender performativity can be observed in societal norms surrounding attire and conduct. For example, in Western culture, it's customary for women to wear dresses and men to don suits for formal events. However, these fashion choices are not inherently connected to biological sex. Rather, they represent a sequence of performative acts that people partake in to conform to societal standards of what is considered feminine or masculine. By opting to wear garments or partake in activities typically tied to the gender opposite of their own, individuals contest these established norms and challenge the idea that gender is a natural and fixed attribute. Having said that, Butler's emphasis on the socially constructed nature of gender challenges us to reconsider the binaries that frequently limit our understanding of identity and expression. This viewpoint encourages us to embrace a wide range of experiences and identities that challenge rigid societal norms, resulting in a more inclusive and nuanced understanding of gender.

            On the other hand, in today's world, Edward Said's "orientalism" theory remains an important tool for deciphering and dissecting current stereotypes. Said's seminal scholarship revealed how Western societies created a standardized perception of the "Orient," perpetuating power imbalances and strengthening cultural hegemony. One clear example of Orientalism is how Western media and literature depict the Middle East and its inhabitants. Such portrayals often freeze Arab societies in a bygone era, presenting them as exotic, static, and backward. This perspective is rampant in many Hollywood movies and European artworks, where the Middle East is reduced to a landscape filled with deserts, camels, harems, and belly dancers. Moreover, people are frequently shown as being illogical, prone to violence, and overly zealous in their religious beliefs. This Orientalist viewpoint fails to recognize the rich diversity and intricacies of Middle Eastern cultures, instead boiling them down to simplistic stereotypes. These stereotypes then become tools to rationalize and support Western political and economic agendas in the region. While rooted in historical contexts, this theory is especially relevant in today's world, where stereotypes continue to shape perceptions and behaviours. Orientalist ideas persist in media representations shaping public narratives and influencing societal attitudes toward diverse cultures and populations. By acknowledging and critically analyzing these entrenched stereotypes through the lens of Orientalism, we can begin to deconstruct harmful narratives and cultivate a better understanding of identity and culture in our current global context.

Furthermore, Judith Butler's sociological concept of gender performativity and Edward Said's orientalism intersect in their exploration of how social constructs shape our understanding of identity and culture. Both theories challenge conventional wisdom by emphasizing the fluid and socially constructed nature of concepts such as gender and cultural representations of the "Orient." Butler's concept of gender as performative emphasizes the importance of daily interactions in shaping gender identity, whereas Said's orientalism theory reveals how Western societies construct and perpetuate stereotypes of Eastern cultures. These theoretical connections help us better understand contemporary social issues like cultural representation, identity politics, and power dynamics in a globalized world.

Moreover, examining how stereotypes are constructed and perpetuated through gender performativity and Orientalism provides insight into how societal norms and power structures influence our perceptions and behaviours. For example, studying gender performativity can shed light on the experiences of marginalized gender identities while also challenging traditional gender binaries. Similarly, Orientalism analysis can help us understand the persistence of stereotypes and biases about Eastern cultures, which have an impact on issues like racism and cultural appropriation. Overall, both theories emphasize the value of critical thinking and cultural empathy in navigating our interconnected world.

[garland-on-thy-brow]

@finelythreadedsky there is an attested link between Caesar's funeral and the Orestes plays! Not specifically Aeschylus' Oresteia: rather, Atilius' Electra. However, it is hard to imagine Atilius owing nothing at all to Aeschylus, so like. the reception lives and fucks.

"At the funeral games, to rouse pity and indignation at his death, these words from the "Contest for the Arms" of Pacuvius were sung:— "Saved I these men that they might murder me?" and words of like purport from the "Electra" of Atilius." - Suet. Iul. 84.

I do not know enough to talk about whether Shakespeare could be drawing on the Libation Bearers. But here are some other connections that could be interesting to explore:

(1) Appian (Civil Wars 3.143-7) concentrates on the theatrical aspects of Antony's speech, describing it specifically as performance in a tragedy, with the crowd as a chorus. I cannot say to what degree this is constructed by Appian vs. represents what actually happened, but either way this description seems relevant here.

Some quotes:

"Having spoken thus, he gathered up his garments like one inspired, girded himself so that he might have the free use of his hands, took his position in front of the bier as in a play";

"Carried away by an easy transition to extreme passion he uncovered the body of Caesar, lifted his robe on the point of a spear and shook it aloft, pierced with dagger-thrusts and red with the dictator's blood. Whereupon the people, like a chorus in a play, mourned with him in the most sorrow­ful manner, and from sorrow became filled again with anger. After the discourse other lamentations were chanted with funeral music according to the national custom, by the people in chorus, to the dead; and his deeds and his sad fate were again recited. Somewhere from the midst of these lamentations Caesar himself was supposed to speak, recounting by name his enemies on whom he had conferred benefits, and of the murderers themselves exclaiming, as it were in amazement, "Oh that I should have spared these men to slay me!"";

"While they were in this temper and were already near to violence, somebody raised above the bier an image of Caesar himself made of wax. The body itself, as it lay on its back on the couch, could not be seen. The image was turned round and round by a mechanical device, showing the twenty-three wounds in all parts of the body and on the face, that had been dealt to him so brutally".

(2) A contemporary figure had a connection with Orestes: Octavian was described and self-presented thus (Champlin's article - cited in the next paragraph - deals with this in detail in the Orestes section). [Later Nero (Antony's descendant on both sides and his "double" according to some) becomes the most famous Roman Orestes, but this is perhaps less relevant to the discussion.]

(3) Drawing on the house of Atreus plots to describe contemporary politics was very much expected in 1st century bce Rome: cf. for example Matthew Leigh - Varius Rufus, Thyestes, And The Appetites of Antony; Edward Champlin - Agamemnon at Rome: Roman Dynasts and Greek Heroes.

Tangent: I do not know who first presented Caesar's spirit as bursting out from hell accompanied by the Furies, but the image already in place in 16th century plays (e.g. the anonymous tragedy of Caesar's Revenge, written a few years before Julius Caesar) and I would expect it to have an earlier source. Would love to know where it came from. There might be a connection to Agrippina's ghost in the tragedy Octavia who very much bursts out from hell in this manner (I've tried to draw some connections with the ghost of Julia and of course the blueprint Clytemnestra here).

So I was thinking about how this is very Antony's funeral speech: the body is substituted by a piece of clothing, a (theatrical) device.

And then there are also the dogs of war.

[All quotes are from Libation Bearers trans. Sarah Ruden.]

[heliads]

Who Could Stay

Based on this request: "Robin Hood AU, Newt x female reader. Ava Paige is King John. Janson is the sheriff of Nottingham. Reader is Robin Hood. Thomas, Minho, Gally, and Chuck are the Merry Men. Newt is Marian. He’s a nobleman who the reader falls in love with."

vibes off the charts

masterlist

The morning of the contest looms. Across the fair city, scores of archers are readying their bows, fletching their arrows, parading towards the grounds in waves of checkered cloaks and satin garments. The prize, a bag of coins, doesn’t mean much to them by way of money. They’re more interested in the fame it would bring to their title than anything else. 

You, on the other hand, are distracted by something far more interesting than even the brightest compliment to your rank. Esteem is one thing, but gold? That’s of far more use to you. You are an outlaw, after all, and that means steady hours aren’t exactly your sort of thing.

Then again, you’re not just any outlaw. You’re the one that lingers in the rumors dotting town streets, the name whispered again and again over darkened thresholds and gossip mongers’ dens. You’re Robin Hood, and around here, that means something quite important.

No, you have no need for a title. You shucked that from your shoulders yourself when you chose to live in Sherwood Forest and spend the rest of your days on the run from the law. It’s not like you would ever want to retreat back to society, anyway; to take part in any action that might help the ruling class is strictly against your best wishes.

It hadn’t been like that all the time. There had once been a kind and fair leader over your people, King Alby, although the man hasn’t been seen in a very long time. You think some folk still harbor a belief that he might come back and save all of you, but you’ve long since accepted that such hope is worthless.

What matters now is trying to survive under the current regime. You’re sure that Queen Ava Paige ascended to the throne with at least the barest aspirations of doing good to her people, but those beliefs have long since been bled dry. Now, she terrorizes the towsfolk in search of more resources, more results, and never do the benefits ever reach the people they were supposed to help in the first place.

Additionally, her right hand man is something of a menace all by himself. Sheriff Janson of Nottingham is a foul, rattish man, given to seeking out people in need and leaving them even worse off than before. He’d kidnap or kill anyone he needed to if he thought it would get him a step ahead.

That’s why you left all of that behind. You live on the fringes of society, delving deep within Sherwood Forest every night to find a home far better than anything civilization could offer. When Ava and Janson’s men dare to venture within the bounds of your forest, you take their riches and redistribute them to those who could actually use the gilded trappings.

It’s more far this way by a long shot. Over time, you started to gain more supporters, and your band of outlaws grew. Now, you call yourselves the Merry Men, and your numbers only rise by the month.

Your friends survive not just by your own resources, however, but by constantly dancing in and out of skirmishes with Janson’s soldiers. That’s why entering today's archery contest would be a terrible idea, yet you’re still doing it anyway. There’s no doubt in your mind that Sheriff Janson will be there looking for the one they call Robin Hood, but that’s precisely why you have to go in the first place.

There’s something to be said for the fun of outsmarting the Sheriff. It’s quite easy to do, actually, and the rewards feel all the more pleasant for it. Although Robin Hood is technically an outlaw, there are no rules on the entries to this particular contest, so of course you could enter. The only problem comes with escaping after the contest ends and you’re right in the Sheriff’s clutches.

Then again, if you were the kind of person to back down from a good challenge, you’d never have made it as far as you have. You enjoy a good bit of fun, and this contest seems like just the right avenue for it.

Besides, if you’re willing to admit it to yourself, you’d share that there’s one more reason that you’re inclined to attend this archery contest in particular, other than the thrill of a cash prize and humiliating Janson:  namely, the young man you can just make out arriving at the scene of the contest, the sole nobleman you can’t find it in yourself to hate.

Lord Newt is well known throughout the town and surrounding lands for being a genuinely good person. He helps out those in need, he offers advice to those who come searching for it, he does everything in his power to make sure he uses his station to aid instead of harm.

He’s also way out of your league, even if you weren’t an outlaw. You’ve never had cause to meet him, obviously, but that doesn’t stop you from wishing you could. You lean against the trunk of a nearby tree, staring out at him as Newt crosses the field to greet some other nobles.

Behind you, a few of your Merry Men have noticed your distraction and feel it necessary to comment on the matter. Your newest arrival, Thomas, starts talking in a low voice.

“You know, I was so keen on figuring out how we were going to use that gold, but I’m starting to think that we might have to think more about getting our Robin Hood in line than anything else.”

The brusque voice of one of your best fighters, Minho, answers him soon enough. “You might have cause to worry after all, Thomas. Y/N’s not focused on her bow in the slightest, she’s too busy pining over some rich boy who’ll never pay her any attention. It’s a hopeless case.”

You respond to your friend’s retort without bothering to turn around. “Shut it, Minho, I’ve got enough skill with a bow to never have to practice. And besides, I wouldn’t exactly call my case hopeless.”

Minho lets out an obviously staged gasp of surprise. “Why’s that? Have you actually talked to him?”

You grin, and finally look over at him. “No, something better. He’s talked about me.”

Minho throws a hand in the air, whereas Thomas starts to laugh. “That’s not any indication of anything,” Minho says, “only that he’s aware of the local criminals. Everyone else is, too, does that mean the blacksmith is fond of you?”

“The blacksmith is incredibly fond of me,” you answer, eyes wide, “we give him ten gold pieces every time we see him.”

Another one of your Merry Men, Gally, snorts. “Well, if all it took to appease your nobleman were a few bribes, I’d say you’d better get to winning this contest. You’ll need every bit of that gold to attract someone so rich.”

“Ah, Gally,” you counter, “I don’t need money. I’ve got my dashing personality, and I don’t think there’s a soul alive who could resist that.”

“Even the Sheriff?” Gally asks, eyebrow raised.

“Even the Sheriff,” you grin, and reach up to pull the hood of your cloak over your face. It’s time to win this contest.

Despite your favoritism for causing a scene, you do know enough to keep your identity hidden. Entertaining a little bit of secrecy allows you to visit the town when you need to, especially when you’re not interested in leading the soldiers of Nottingham on a merry chase through the streets. You doubt any of the Sheriff’s men even know that you’re a girl. All they see is a deep green hooded cloak and nothing else.

You’re perfectly fine with staying hidden. Thus, when you arrive at the archery contest, hood casting your face in shadow, you don’t even have to say your name before the officiant announces in a surprised voice that Robin Hood has arrived to compete.

It does earn you your fair share of scathing remarks from your competitors as you take a position in front of an available target, but you could give less of a damn about what some nobleman’s useless sons think about you.

Instead, you allow yourself to glance casually over at the audience, where a certain someone resides in the box reserved for the wealthy. Lord Newt is already looking at you, and flushes a quiet scarlet when you flash him a quick smile. Looks like Minho doesn’t know what he’s talking about in the slightest.

The contest starts soon enough, forcing you to divert your attention away from Newt once more. As the officiant drones on about the rules, you notice something strange about your target. You swear it looks further away than the others, and the surface of the painted circles looks strange. The other competitors have hay bales with canvas stretched over them, but you could swear that yours is of a different material, likely not as easy to hit.

It wouldn’t surprise you that the Sheriff would resort to such tactics. He’s looking to humiliate you by taking away your skill with the bow. It’s a shame, then, that you’re used to practicing in far worse conditions. It’s almost fun to see the look on his face when you hit the dead center of the target anyway, despite all his meddling.

What’s less fun is when the Sheriff doesn’t even wait for the end of the contest before calling his soldiers to attack you. You were waiting for a trap, of course, but that doesn’t mean your escape isn’t fairly difficult to achieve. Within an hour, though, you’re meeting your Merry Men in the outskirts of the forest as planned, only a little worse for wear than before.

You’re ready to head back into the depths of the forest and lose any soldiers that might still be following you, but just as you’re turning to leave, Thomas gestures behind you with a jerk of his chin.

When you turn around, you’re surprised to see Newt standing there before you. If anything, he looks just as confused about the whole thing, but pulls out a bag from beneath his cloak before you have the chance to ask him what he’s doing. Judging by the way it clinks with every movement, you have a guess as to what it contains.

Newt explains anyway, clearly glad for some script to follow. “I know the contest was interrupted, but you still won fair and square. Figured you would be more deserving of the prize than if it just disappeared back into the Sheriff’s coffers.”

He holds out the bag to you, but you just grin. “I didn’t think you were in the habit of talking to criminals.”

Newt’s face flushes again, and when he speaks, his words are clipped, precisely controlled. It’s a very sharp contrast to the easy words of you and your men. “I’m not.”

You chuckle. “I can tell. Hideous accent. Atrocious. You sound like a nobleman.”

Newt blinks at you in surprise. “That’s because I am.”

You shrug. “Figures. Anyway, are you coming or not?”

“Am I coming?” Newt repeats, “What are you talking about?”

You allow yourself a small smile. “Back to our camp, of course. If you’re bringing us money, you’re clearly our friend. Maybe you could use a chance to get to know some of us petty thieves. Besides, if you’re having doubts please know that I will be leaving you with the money, and if you don’t follow us to hand it over that might be considered stealing.”

Newt stares at you a second longer, then starts to laugh. It’s a good look on him, you can admit it freely. “I think I can see why the Sheriff wants you dead.”

You grin back at him. “What, because of my winning temperament?”

“Something like that,” Newt says, and falls in line with the rest of you.

Thomas and Minho exchange surprised looks over your shoulder, but you’re not taken aback by Newt’s sudden decision in the slightest. Every time you’ve seen Newt out with the other noblemen, he looks distinctly uncomfortable, as if he’s more than aware that he isn’t quite like the others. It seems that your men might not be the only ones who want more from society than they’re going to get.

As it turns out, your hunch is spot on. It only takes a few minutes before Newt’s conversing with your friends as if he’d known them his entire life. He even manages to befriend Gally, a task that took you several weeks and the others ranging up to a few months. Newt’s just a nice guy, that’s all, and you certainly don’t mind his company in the slightest.

Newt’s position as an inhabitant of Sherwood Forest only seems to grow more permanent as the weeks pass by. He ends up visiting at least every couple of days to bring food, supplies, and news of the Sheriff. Newt’s basically a spy on the inside, and his information proves to be quite valuable on more than a few occasions. 

Thanks to his warnings, you and your Merry Men are able to avoid traps and ambushes, even despite Sheriff Janson’s best attempts to catch you. You can tell that it’s driving the man insane, even without Newt’s laughing stories about how Janson looks one minute from a heart attack.

Yes, Newt fits in quite well with your band of thieves. He even ends up bringing his younger sister, Lady Sonya, and her good friend, Lady Harriet one day, to the enjoyment of the whole party. Your newest addition, Aris, is particularly delighted to see them. As it turns out, he’s been friends with Sonya and Harriet for quite some time.

Aris had been a nobleman’s son before he joined your ranks. Just like you, the hypocrisy and inequality of it all got to him and he decided to run away. Aris hadn’t had much of a chance to warn Sonya and Harriet about his whereabouts, but they’re all certainly happy to catch each other up on all that’s happened in his absence.

You find Newt standing by the edge of your camp one night, watching the three kids talk. He’s just on the outskirts of the campfire, more in shadow than in light. All the same, you’re still able to see the quiet emotion flickering across his face as he listens to Aris regale the girls with stories of his newfound freedom. If you didn’t know better, you’d say that it was almost envy.

“You could do it too, you know,” you whisper, “Join us. Leave the rich and their self serving gambles to someone else.”

Newt sighs. “I wish I could. More than anything.”

You get the sense that he truly means it. “Then do it, Newt. You’ve heard Aris talk, he was able to make the trip. I know our way of life isn’t all velvet cloaks and grand palaces, but it’s worth something, too.”

Newt looks at you dead on, and you’re startled by the bleak hopelessness in his gaze. “It was feasible for Aris, but not for me. Aris is different, he doesn’t have as many people surrounding him all the time. I’m more chained up than Aris ever was, I couldn’t possibly be able to leave forever.”

Newt speaks quickly, the words hastened out of his mouth by something that could even be guilt. You’ve never wanted your friend to suffer, so you ease his burden as best you can.

“It’s not your fault,” you reply, “Besides, you are rather useful in your information. We wouldn’t know about half the attacks if you weren’t here.”

Newt smiles softly. “It is pretty fun, I can admit that. All the spying makes one feel rather daring.”

You laugh at that. “See, what did I tell you? We’ll make an outlaw of you yet.”

Before Newt can respond to that, you hear something, a sound carried over the whisper of the wind. You hold up a hand to ask for silence and listen hard. A moment later, your eyes widen as you realize just what’s coming for you.

“Soldiers!” You shout to your friends, “Everybody, run!”

There’s just enough time for your friends to register your words before the horses are upon you. They break into the clearing, hoofs rearing as armored men leap down at you. Newt grabs at your arm, dragging you away. This is no time for a fight, you’ve been heavily outnumbered and taken by surprise. You can see the others making the same choice as you, melting away into the forest before the soldiers can spot them.

Newt’s breath is harsh in your ear. “What do we do? Where do we go?”

You pull at your arms, still intertwined, and start to run in a northerly direction. “We established a safe location some time ago, everyone knows to meet there. Follow me.”

“As if I was going to leave you,” Newt mumbles under his breath, and runs after you.

The flight through the trees is dark and full of danger. Although you’ve always known Sherwood Forest well, it seems even more perilous now that you’re being pursued. The sounds of baying hounds and shouting men echo behind you, driving you forward as fast as you can. Branches whip at your face, roots seem to lunge towards your feet, but you and Newt fight on anyway.

Eventually, you gesture for him to come to a stop. This is the safe haven, a spring hidden deep in the crevices of a rock face. Only your Merry Men would be aware of its existence.

The two of you pause to catch your breath and wait for the others to arrive. Now that the danger is past, Newt glances at you, and his hand raises unconsciously to your face.

“You’re bleeding,” he says, gently wiping away a scarlet smear with his thumb.

You freeze there for a second, his hand still on your cheek. Neither Newt nor you appear willing to move. Why should you, anyway, when you’re so deeply cloaked in darkness that neither of you could be seen? The moonlight is soft, dappling his hair such that it seems more silver than gold. Perhaps the two of you will stay here forever, locked into place, twin statues that could never be separated. It is certainly a better fate than any that might befall you.

A crashing sound from the forest is the only thing capable of breaking the two of you apart. Within moments, Thomas is skidding to a stop in front of you, Gally and Chuck right behind him. Sonya and Harriet emerge from the woods a few paces back, looking just as worse for wear as the rest of you.

“Everyone here?” Thomas asks. Evidently, he had taken as many people as he could and just ran.

You start to do a head count, then panic. “Where’s Minho?”

Chuck’s eyes are wide. “He told me to run, and that he was going to distract a captain who was charging at us. Has he not come back yet?”

Your blood runs cold. “Not yet, but that doesn’t have to mean anything. Maybe he had to take a looping way here and he’ll show up later.”

A few hours later, though, even you have to admit that Minho won’t be coming. He’s likely been captured, something Newt confirms when he risks a trip into town to check it out for himself. Apparently the Sheriff is holding him hostage in one of the prisons. Minho himself is a little battered, but not too bad.

It’s a pretty obvious trap. The Sheriff is clearly waiting for you, but even in the face of such terrible odds, you know just as well as the rest of your friends that you’ll be coming for Minho anyway. Minho is one of your eldest friends, your bravest fighter. You’ll save him even if it damns you.

Newt still tries to talk you out of it, just in case. “Don’t go, Y/N. The rest of us can sneak around a lot easier than you can. Sheriff Janson’s got scores of men combing the streets in search of you, it’s not worth it.”

“It is,” you say simply, “Minho’s family. Besides, no one knows that I’m a girl. I’ll just act like a normal townsperson and we’ll be out of there in no time.”

Newt doesn’t seem convinced, but he can tell that you’ve already made your mind up. “I’m helping too,” he replies, “and don’t even think about trying to talk me out of it.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” you grin, and Newt smiles at last.

Thus the plan unfolds:  you and your Merry Men will wear disguises into town, as if you were nothing more than ordinary citizens of Nottingham. You’ll divert the guards and rescue Minho before Janson realizes that his infamous Robin Hood is a teenage girl. After that, you’ll have to keep your heads down for a while, but at least you’ll all be out.

The first part of the plan goes well enough. You and your friends enter Nottingham from different points, slowly but surely converging on the prison. You’re able to enter the jail under the guise of serving food to the prisoners, but that’s where it all goes wrong.

For one thing, the jail is empty. You check and double check the cells, but it’s true. Minho isn’t there. When you try to leave, soldiers arrive to block the doors. Obviously, they’ve been expecting someone would try to spring Minho, and the only ones who wouldn’t know about the switch would be you and your allies.

You’re able to fight off the soldiers reasonably well with the help of Gally and Thomas, but the element of surprise is gone. Newt races up to you, sharing through deep breaths that he heard Minho is being held at Queen Ava’s palace instead. The reward of capturing Robin Hood would be enough to even involve royalty. It would be a wonderful compliment were it not for the fact that you’re terrified you won’t be able to save Minho.

Newt knows secret passageways into and out of the castle thanks to all the hours he had to spend there in his youth, and is able to lead you and your friends to one of them. He does caution you about jumping out of windows any taller than the ground floor, and points to his leg with a wry grin.

“Got bored of a stuffy banquet and tried to escape,” he whispers, “Didn’t end too well. Now I’ve got a limp for life and not a whole lot to say for it.”

With that warning in mind, your group sets off. You don’t entirely know where Minho is being held within the bounds of the castle, so you split up into groups of two. All parties involved have the directions to head to the safe haven in the forest should anything happen, and then the searching begins.

You’re working with Newt, and the two of you check every room on your designated sector, the third floor, before coming up blank. As you’re turning around to head back out, your path is blocked by one of Ava Paige’s knights. You’ve heard a lot about this man in particular; a more dastardly blackguard has never been seen.

He’s even a worse foe than the Sheriff. This knight has spread his cruelty over the lands like a virus, infecting the minds of otherwise rational men with the urge to pay him off, to commit crimes in his name and give this treacherous man as much leverage as he could possibly have in the palace. He’s even been given a nickname by those unfortunate to come in contact with him:  the Flare, for how he burns his way through civilized society.

Newt stretches an arm in front of you, as if to keep himself in between you and the Flare. The knight cocks his head to the side, evidently curious as to what’s happening.

“Lord Newt, I haven’t seen you in quite some time. You know, I was hoping we’d meet. I hear we might have much in common.”

Newt shakes his head slowly. “I fear our meeting will have to be delayed a little longer. I must be off.”

The Flare’s eyes narrow. “You’d deny me my right? To induct good men such as yourself into my ranks, as my status allows?”

Newt’s gaze flickers briefly to you, and you can see the warning written there, clear as day. The Flare’s attention drifts to you now. “And who’s this lovely lady with you? You know, I’ve heard rumors that Robin Hood might not have the face we expected. You wouldn’t happen to know about that, would you?”

You and Newt start to make for a nearby exit, but the Flare draws his sword, stepping calmly in front of it. “I think the two of you know more than you’re letting on. I’m going to have to stop you there.”

Newt’s hand drifts to his sword, but you can see how this battle would turn out even before they cross blades for the first time. The enemy knight is armored, ready for a fight, not held back by something as foolish as a conscience. Were they to come in contact with each other, the Flare would kill Newt without a second’s hesitation, and you will not allow that to happen.

Instead, you grab Newt by the hand and sprint in the other direction, pulling him towards a nearby stairwell. The fact that neither of you are in armor does give you the advantage of speed, and you and Newt hurdle headlong down the stairs as fast as you can. Newt leads you through a whirlwind of quick turns, doubling back a few times just to make sure nobody could follow you.

When you’re certain that the Flare is nowhere to be seen, you and Newt slow down at last. You’re met by Thomas and Minho by the entrance, both of them bent double and gasping for breath.

“What happened?” You ask, fighting the wave of relief that crashes over you at the sight of your friend.

Thomas leans back against the wall. “Found Minho, but nearly got myself locked up instead. Janson had me, I swear it, and he was ready to kill me. He left the room for a minute, but Ava Paige let me go. It sounds strange, but it’s true.”

Newt frowns in bewilderment. “Queen Ava? What would she do that for?”

Thomas shrugs. “Beats me. Maybe she had a brief glimpse of a conscience or something. Anyway, we’re all out, I sent Gally and Aris out ahead of us to track down Sonya and Harriet. They all seemed fine. How about you guys?”

You smile grimly. “Nearly got murdered by a sickeningly bad knight, but other than that, we’re all good. Shall we leave this place before our luck runs out?”

“Sounds great to me,” Minho says fervently, and the four of you head for the forest.

Luckily, you encounter no further resistance on your troop back through the city. As you reach the edge of Sherwood Forest, however, Newt’s footsteps start to slow. You look back at him, and realize that he’s stopped walking altogether. He stares up at the horizon, where the outline of the palace is just visible amongst the tops of the nearby cottages.

You walk back to him, signaling for Minho and Thomas to continue without you. “What’s wrong, Newt?”

Newt shakes his head slowly. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just thinking about how glad I am to leave that place.”

You stare at him, a slow realization dawning upon you. “What does that mean?”

Newt glances back at you at last, smiling as brightly as the morning sun. “I think you know perfectly well what it means.”

“Spell it out just in case, why don’t you?” You say faintly, “I don’t want to get my hopes up for nothing.”

“Very well,” Newt replies, “I’m leaving Nottingham for good. I hereby pledge myself to be one of the Merry Men, to fight by your side as long as we both shall live. How’s that for an explanation?”

You beam at him. “It sounds perfectly alright to me. You really mean it? You’re leaving your old life for good?”

Newt nods solemnly. “I want this life, Y/N. I have for a while. It feels more real than anything I ever had before. The only question is if you’ll have me.”

You get the feeling he’s asking a different thing than just if you’ll let him be one of the Merry Men. So, you nod, and answer his unspoken question by kissing him. It seems an excellent answer to both of you.

maze runner tag list: @rogueanschel, @ellobruv, @retvenkos, @neewtmas, @thatfangirl42, @hiya-its-amber, @gods-fools-heroes, @hope92100, @23victoria



requested by @thornyrose463, who also made this moodboard!

[sigmafied]

hiii love, may i request dazai x reader where dazai finds out that the reader has a fever and is sick, and how can he take care of her? :)

this request is so cute shrimp thank you for sending it in! 💕 i saw that you weren’t feeling too well so i hope you feel better soon!

Under The Weather - Osamu Dazai

- pairing: osamu dazai x fem!reader

- warnings: none

- notes: my heart while writing this wholesome fic🥰 i wanted to try and get this out by today or tomorrow, so i do apologize if it sounds rushed. i hope you enjoy, shrimp!

You hated hiding yourself from Dazai, especially when you were supposed to be enjoying yourself. Your whole body was covered up with one of your soft grey hoodies, your face barely showing under the hood. You would’ve taken the jacket off when Dazai asked you if you were alright being stuffed up in such a garment had your face not have shown the physical pain you felt from your fever.

The agency had decided to take the week off to enjoy the cool weather by attending a local fall festival. While everyone else ran off to participate in apple bobbing contests and drink tall glasses of cider, you and your boyfriend decided to take a more relaxed approach and walk along the leaf-covered trails. The stroll through the festival started out alright until you felt your face burning up more as each minute passed by. You knew that you should’ve stayed at home when you heard the thermometer beep as it displayed your 100.2 degree temperature. But you also knew that everyone including yourself was so excited to ditch work and partake in seasonal activities. It’ll be alright, it’s just for another half hour. I’ll live.

“Y/N? Are you alright?” You abruptly stopped as your boyfriend spoke, his hand slightly pulling yours back so you wouldn’t lose your balance from walking too far ahead.

“I’m fine, honey. Why don’t we keep walking?” You tried to keep going down the path when you felt Dazai’s hand tug yours once again. He looked down at your face and noticed your cheeks. They were almost beet red with heat. He broke the connection that bound his hand with yours and brought it to gently cup your face. “Belladonna, you’re burning up. Do you wanna go home and rest?”

“No no, it’s alright! Let’s just stay and enjoy-” But before you could finish your sentence, chills ran up your spine and made your body shiver in reaction. Dazai pulled the hood that covered most of your face off only to reveal your flushed face. Based on your facial expression from the chills that coursed throughout your body, he could tell that you were in no condition to continue this walk. So, he made the decision to swoop you up by your legs and carry you back to his car, which definitely shocked you. “D-Dazai?! I can walk just fine, you know?” “Oh, I bet you can. But right now, you need to rest as much as you can.”

Once you guys got back to your shared apartment, Dazai insisted you lean on him as he helped you over to your bed. You retorted and said that you were fine and didn’t need to lay down, but he refused to accept your request. He lifted you up carefully on the bed so you could be embraced by the silk sheets and fluffy pillows that lined up against the headboard.

“Do you want anything to eat, love? I’ll order whatever you like,” Dazai said softly into your ear, making sure that his voice wasn’t too loud. He didn’t know how bad you were really feeling so it was better to be safe than sorry. “I could go for some curry rice, if you don’t mind. But if it’s too much then I can just-” Soft lips silenced your own as Dazai gave you a light kiss, your eyes instinctively closing as you melted into his affection. “You can never be too much for me, Y/N. I’ll be right back, okay?” Dazai got up from the bedside and walked towards your shared bathroom, washing a white rag and placing it on your forehead to try and alleviate your pain. He then walked out of the room, closing your door until a small crack was left open and leaving you with a smile. You could feel your heart start to beat faster, still awed by how caring your boyfriend was. How the hell did I get this lucky, you thought.

After you finished eating dinner, you asked Dazai to dim the lights so that the brightness wouldn’t hurt your eyes. You pulled the blanket you had been tucked in over your face, ready to go to sleep until you felt your lover’s arms wrap around your fatigued body. You rolled your body so that your head rested on top of Dazai’s chest.

“Honey, you’re gonna get sick if you cuddle me,” you said trying to untangle yourself from his embrace, but that only made him hug you tighter as he planted kisses across your forehead and cheeks. “Your health is way more important than mine, dear.”

“Don’t say that, Dazai. You need to go to work tomorrow.”

“Nonsense, I’d rather stay here with you.”

You couldn’t help but shed a few tears from all the love you’ve been blessed with. No one in the world could take care of you better than Dazai could, and yet no one was there to take care of him. When you were off on missions late in the night, he had no one to lay beside him in bed until it was too early in the morning to be awake. You couldn’t even imagine how Dazai felt on lonely nights. You made an unspoken promise to yourself that you’d be by his side in sickness and in health because you already knew he had done the same.

“Y/N? What’s wrong?” Dazai had noticed the tears that had dried up on your face thanks to the moonlight peeking through the window. He brought his thumb to your cheek and wiped it dry. “Talk to me belladonna, it’s alright.”

“I’m alright, Dazai. I just can’t imagine what I would do without you here with me. Thank you for everything. I mean it.”

Now it was Dazai’s turn to feel a stirring in his chest as his heart slowly started beating faster. Rarely was he ever thanked for such minimal tasks, so he couldn’t help but give you a smile. A genuine sign of gratitude.

“Of course, Y/N. I’ll always be here to take care of you.”

tags: @nameless-shrimp

if you would like to be added to the tag list, feel free to reply to any of my fics!

fic requests are open!

[20dollarlolita]

Pattern Review: CUT/SEW 016 Lolita Victorian One Piece Sewing Pattern

CUT/SEW is a very small patternmaking company that released a few lolita patterns. I bought one, and here's my review. I've rewritten this review several times because I keep having issues staying neutral, so we're going to start out with the questions that patternreview.com asks, and then I'll add my main personal issues with this at the end.

Pattern Description:

A lolita fashion staple, this one piece dress (OP) is meant to be customized with fabric choice and trim to fit your favorite style or subculture. It includes a pleated yoke, no closures, and an extremely gathered skirt for a full babydoll silhouette. Mix and match fabrics like chiffons and charmeuse on the sleeves and bodice for an extra elegant look. For maximum fullness, we recommend a petticoat with this dress.

From the CUT/SEW website.

So, there's two descriptors of this garment, and "lolita" and "victorian" are both things that don't describe this garment. CUT/SEW has more than once said that they're an American company making J-Fashion inspired patterns, but slapping a couple of "inspired" into this descriptor could really go a long way. Someone buying your product should have that information available to them on the item page, not deep in the brand's official instagram stories from 18 months ago.

Pattern Sizing:

The sizing of this pattern confuses me. The instructions do not provide any finished garment measurements. The envelope itself does not provide any sizing guidelines; that has to be downloaded off their site. Once you go through the "size calculator" on their site, which isn't a calculator as much as a list of sizing options, you'll see that there's no vertical measurements listed at all. Maybe I'm just too tall for this pattern? We won't know, because no one has posted that information.

In addition, this pattern calculator includes a waist and hip measurement, but the waist and hip measurements of the actual garment are about as free-size as you can get. It doesn't matter if my waist measurement is larger than my hip or bust measurement, because it doesn't matter on the garment at all. Why are they listed there, when the only measure that matters in this list of measurements is the bust? That just serves to confuse new sewers and help them make bad decisions.

Does it look like the photo/drawing on the envelope once you were done sewing it?

Yeah, here's my beef: based on the CUT/SEW website, there is no way to tell what this pattern is actually supposed to look like. Their model is obscuring the details of the dress with the pose. Someone decided that only one picture of the sample garment was needed, instead of posting a front and back image in addition to their model pose. The fashion illustration shows the yoke to be going down below the bustline, but the actual pattern has it fall above the bustline (which is in line with the site description calling it a yoke). Their technical illustration is nice-looking, but it's not a proper fashion flat. I really cannot fault a company for not making a technically correct fashion flat when they're this size, but the fact is that this flat does not communicate the proper proportioning of the finished garment. This would be completely acceptable if there were three more pictures of the test garment.

I've measured the pattern and I've measured my garment, and it's the length that the pattern dictates that it should be. My garment does not look like the pattern.

We're not going to complain that the model isn't styled in a lolita way. They're just there to show the garment, not to enter a coordinate contest. However, we are going to complain that the only image they have of this garment does not actually show you the garment.

Were the instructions easy to follow?

The instructions were an ABSOLUTE DREAM to follow. I'm not joking. They are the best newbie-friendly instructions that I've read from any pattern in my life. Everything is worded clearly. The diagrams are useful. It has helpful advice for new sewers. They were, undeniably, fantastic. No only is a new sewer going to be able to follow these instructions, but they will finish the project with more information about how to sew than they had when they started the project.

There is one part where the instructions say to press the tucks towards the center of the yoke, and the pattern is made for them to be pointed away from the center (the proper way, btw). Since the instructions are DLC and don't actually ship with the pattern, this would be an easy fix on CUT/SEW's part if they would like to correct that.

Also, one of the pattern pieces has completely incorrect instructions on it. You can tell, both by the fact that the place on fold symbol is lined up with the resizing lines (which is a patterning no no) and by the fact that it's upside-down relative to the rest of the pieces, that this was a change that was made after the pattern was already completed. It's also also incorrect instructions. If you cut the collar like this, you will not be able to complete the collar. You will be two front pieces short and have a collar 8" too long for the neck hole. All that is required is to label this "cut 4" instead of "cut 2 on fold" and the whole thing would be perfect. Also, since the instructions are an additional download, again, it would be easy for them to modify the PDF to warn people that a piece might be misprinted. When your goal is to make something for new sewers, you owe it to them to make sure your pattern will not stop them from making the garment. That needs to be part of your dedication to helping your client base, especially when your client base is paying money for your product.

Also, there are NO NOTCHES at all, except to mark the yoke. There are no sleeve notches. There is no center back notch. There are NO SLEEVE NOTCHES. Notches don't make a pattern more complex; they're guidelines that make things a lot easier. Please slap on like 1 per seam. It makes things better for everyone.

Also, there are many steps where a very simplified instruction is given. There's a lot of better ways to construct this garment, but there were a lot of times where ease of assembly was chosen over a fully professional finish. I completely support this decision, as their customer base is largely new sewers who don't want to be overwhelmed by complex steps.

Fabric used:

I used some heavy matte satin from the Joann Fabrics Casa Collection for the bodice, and some thin halloween satin from Joann Fabrics for the skirt. The white lace was from Dharma Trading and the black lace was stash that I think I bought at Joann back when I had 30% off the 20% off the clearance price on trims. My original goal was to also add a chiffon overskirt, but I scrapped that when I realized that the bustline/waistline on this doesn't actually go below the bust.

I want to describe my dress as "I can't believe I used the good satin for this".

Pattern alterations or any design changes you made:

I did some alterations on the front yoke because I wanted to put in some lace. I did ensure that the piece was the proper size and shape after the alterations. I also changed the neck bow and the waist ties into a wide ribbon, because I ran out of fabric to do them of the main body.

Would you sew it again?

No, I would not. First of all, this pattern has 1/4" seam allowance included, which is just frustratingly small. I don't know how any kind of company that makes garments can find that it's enough seam allowance for this.

Second, while this was pretty easy to complete, once I figured out the misprinted collar bit, it just doesn't make a garment that I would ever want to wear. It's not a bad garment, but it's not lolita.

Because this has no closures, the neck has to be big enough to fit over my head, and that ruins the lolita silhouette. If I was going to make this again, I'd pattern in a back keyhole and make it out of a fabric with a slight stretch, and then go down a size or two.

Would you recommend it to other?

This is a case where I really can't tell if I recommend these. The pattern literally only needs to expand their seam allowance to 5/8" and they'd have some of the easiest patterns out there. That's a really big deal. However, the fact that you have to go into this pattern completely blind is something that's ruined it for me. I'd recommend this company again if they have very clear photos of what the garment actually looks like. If you know what you're making, and you think that is what you want to be making, and they fix any misprints in their pattern, then it's a really good company.

But, as it currently stands, there's just a couple of things that are so confusing to me (1/4" seam allowance?? really?? on a garment???) that I'm hesitant to recommend them as a blanket term.

I definitely do not recommend this garment for lolita, but if I had a nickle for every pattern sold as lolita that isn't remotely lolita, I'd have an original release of Honey Cake in my closet. As a handmade lolita community, we have to know that checking to see if the pattern is actually lolita is our responsibility. However, to be able to check that, we need to actually know what the garment the pattern makes will look like.

Conclusion:

I have said it before: I really, REALLY want to like CUT/SEW as a company. They're a small number of people who work really hard and have a company mindset that really sits well with my own mindset.

A lot of work went into patterning and then making instructions for a beginner-friendly garment. I want to recognize that.

However, there's just a ton of very small things about these patterns that confuse me so much. Why the tiny seam allowance? Why no notches? Why no vertical measurements? Why no physical instructions? Why no good picture of the sample garment?

Why are there size differences on the skirt between sizes when the skirt is so large? The 1" between sizes doesn't really matter on a piece that is 180" wide. That's less than a 1% difference between sizes. Why are the sides of the skirt cut at an angle when the skirt is 180" wide?

I think it's possible that this pattern, which was one of CUT/SEW's first patterns, doesn't reflect recent changes that they've made as to how they make their finished patterns. However, since this was like $26 with shipping, I'm not going to review another of their patterns unless someone sends it to me for review.

BTW, if anyone from CUT/SEW wants to use pictures of this dress as promotional images, contact me (pink @t pinkandthekeytarcat dot com). I worked hard on this dress and someone might as well benefit from that work. I'm happy to help a small company be better able to communicate to their customer what item they're buying. If y'all want more than just those pictures up there, though, contact me pretty soon, because I'm going to disassemble the dress pretty soon to reclaim that cool skull fabric.

Pattern: 7/10. The lack of notches, the absurd seam allowance, and the one part with the bad instructions are the negatives. The very clear instructions and simple construction are the positives. Overall Experience: 4/10. The instructions and sizing being not included (seriously just print them out and shove them in the envelope; it's an easy fix), and the really poor representation of the pattern on the website are the negatives.

I do want to point out that there were two other negative things, but they're side-effects of CUT/SEW being a very small business, and I can't hold it against them. First, I hate patterns printed on bond paper. It requires you to cut out the pattern out first, and then cut the fabric, or else it requires you to wreck your sewing scissors. However, they're a small company and probably don't have access to have their patterns printed onto tissue paper on an as needed basis. The second is that this pattern was about $26 with shipping. Again, they're a small company printing patterns on an as-needed basis, and they're probably barely breaking even on a lot of these designs. They operate with a smaller profit-margin than the big 4 patternhouses and it's not reasonable to ask a company that small to put out patterns of this quality for $5. These are things that negatively impacted my experience, but the fact that I was supporting a small indie business that I really like the concept of made it so that I won't hold it against them, so they're not part of this review. They can easily change the pattern misprint, the 1/4" seam allowances, the bad pictures of the sample garments. I don't think they can easily change their prices.

Anyway, that's my experience with this pattern. The company has a ton of potential and I'd love to see them improve on a few small things.

[prettyiwa]

AO3 | Mythos Collection | NSFT 18+ | Playlist 🎵 | I of III

I do not authorize the translation or reposting of my work anywhere. Do not mention me or my work on Tik-Tok.

Relationship: Kuroo Tetsurō x F!Reader Rating: Mature Content Warnings: Trojan War!AU, Greek Heroes!AU, Royal!AU, Political Games, Strangers to Lovers, Misogyny, Suggestive Themes, Mentions of War Summary: Kuroo liked to fashion himself as one of the smartest men in the known world. While his cunning managed to win your hand and your heart, it was unable to save him from going into a war unrelated to him. Word Count: 3,215

A/N: This is my [late 😨] submission for @angelashido's Mythology Collab! It directly ties in with Maker of Myths, with this chapter ending shortly after the first chapter of Maker of Myths.

Even if he’s a soon-to-be King, Kuroo Tetsurō has no taste for politics. He hasn’t the patience for fanciful words that ultimately mean nothing—even if he excels at it. It’s a waste of time, a verbal dick-wagging contest when they’re all unable to host a real one. An extravagant display of wealth and power, both to the citizens and to kings of neighboring lands.

And this? This is to choose a bride, a queen. She is to inherit her father’s land while her yet-to-be-determined husband will be made her king, taking on the responsibility of not only her nation, but his as well.

It’s rumored that she’s beauty incarnate, something he supposes is said to make the pairing more desirous. As though the promise of her land isn’t enough—protected by the mountains that mark its landlocked borders, soil rich and fertile with rivers that run through its valley.

Tetsurō knows he’ll be returning home without her. Not only does he have little to offer as the heir apparent of a kingdom with little more than ample rocks and goats, but to accept such a union would be irresponsible. The distance between the two lands is too great and he has no intention of abandoning the land to which he was born.

Nonetheless, he’s stepping onto the dock in their bay at the behest of his grandparents. He needs a wife—he knows he needs a wife—but to find one this way? It’s an insult to the bond that spouses should share. Rare is it that he finds himself wishing to have been born to another family, but he desires the freedom that commoners have when choosing their partners.

If he could do just that—choose a partner who chooses him in return, one with whom he has a genuine connection—he could be happy.

But he has responsibilities that carry him forward through the polis toward the palace. He has a duty to his grandparents, to his kingdom, to his people, one that he’ll carry through no matter his personal feelings on the matter.

Upon entering the great hall, he recognizes the crests and seals of the other kingdoms. Many have much more to offer, even if the suitors are—to be succinct—dicks. Some suitors would make—to be generous—decent husbands with little to offer. All of them are far more vested in this event than he, not that he can really be bothered to care.

As it is, he’s counting down the hours until he can return.

“You’re here for my cousin’s hand in marriage, but you don’t seem too keen on being here,” a voice behind him says. He turns, a self-satisfied smirk adorning his features as he prepares himself to finesse his way out of accidentally insulting the royal family.

It immediately disappears as he catches sight of you—casually propped against one of the pillars with such a look of blatant boredom that he almost feels offended. It’s clear that you’re of royal lineage by the quality of the garments you wear, explaining the leniency you must have to show such disinterest.

Which makes you utterly interesting.

Your beauty is almost nondescript, not overt as the princess has been described, but to assert that you aren’t beautiful is to announce that one has no concept of aesthetics, of beauty in and of itself. He finds himself drawn to the wry curl of your lips, an expression that almost matches his own.

There’s a quiet grace about you, even as you lean against the support column in a similar fashion to the commoners he had seen in the polis. Most of all, your beauty is held in your eyes.

They’re sharp, cunning, far more expressive than any other part of you. You’ve spent your life being molded into a royal—not an heiress, perhaps, but certainly a pawn for a political marriage. You could be sculpted from marble during an actual appearance and none would be the wiser, save for your eyes. They hold emotions that you feel so strongly but refuse to give name to.

“Neither do you, it seems,” he replies, that grin reappearing before he bows. “Allow me to introduce myself: I’m—”

“Kuroo Tetsurō. I’m aware of who you are and which kingdom from whence you reign.”

“You know of me? Should I be flattered?” His grin widens of its own volition, the first time he’s attended a political event and felt… genuine.

“Perhaps,” you tease, pushing off from the pillar, bringing yourself one step closer to him. “I’ve heard much about you.”

“Do you plan on keeping me in suspense?”

Humming, you glance around the room, playing coy. Maybe it’s that he’s so enchanted by you that he’s absorbing any and every detail he can, maybe it’s that he’s good at reading people, but you’re enjoying this. There’s a little bit of victory and humor dancing behind your eyes like the flickering flame of a candle in a dark chamber. Turning your attention back to him, you grace him with a smile.

“You’re clever, more than you let on. You don’t like standing still, much preferring to be in the thick of the action. And, if I had to guess, you don’t go anywhere without a contingency plan for your contingency plan.”

“If you had to guess? I thought you had said you heard about me?”

“Oh, I have. These are just educated guesses if you will,” your smile turns conspiratorial, eyes flickering to the end of the hall.

The king, their host, calls for the attention of his daughter’s suitors to explain the itinerary for the duration of their stay. You nearly succeed in your attempt to slip through the crowd of suitors and their entourages, if not for the way Tetsurō’s hand shoots out, wrapping around your wrist.

He expects there to be indignation at his familiar touch, but you turn back with a knowing smile.

“What’s your name? How do I find you if I wish to speak with you again?”

He really, really shouldn’t pursue this, you, but there’s a nagging in his mind that tells him that he can’t leave this be, that he can’t let you slip from his fingers.

“You want to know what I heard about you?” you ask, side-stepping his questions. “I heard that you are very good at getting what you want. I’m certain you’ll find a way.”

Slipping your wrist from his hold, you’re prepared to leave until his quiet wait! reaches your ears. “At least tell me your name.”

He’s not used to this, to this kind of a chase. He shouldn’t be getting used to this kind of a chase; he has other responsibilities in this land.

“My name? You haven’t earned it.”

The rumors of her beauty weren’t exaggerated, but Tetsurō couldn’t care less—she doesn’t hold a candle when it comes to you.

It’s not that she’s uninteresting—surely a young woman with a face like hers has an interesting story to tell, if these barbarians’ reactions to her are any indication—but that she’s a little… predictable. She does her job and she does it well, as though someone had told her that her life would be mapped out for her, as though someone had stripped all choice from her until she believed it to be true.

Which is sad, he thinks. It’s already a burden to be born a royal with responsibilities thrust upon you at birth, a vague destiny set before you, but to have any semblance of agency torn from your life in addition to that?

He understands. And it’s sad. If he were to marry her, he would want to go into that union as equals, in mind, body, and spirit. However, in the short time he’s been here, it's obvious that someone else has claimed all three.

Unlike your cousin, you scoff at any additional propriety. You speak up and challenge the men—and do a wonderful job of making them face their shortcomings with a simple conversation—while still maintaining the dignity expected from someone in your position. You’re an enigma with entire galaxies within you.

If Tetsurō had to describe you both as fires, he would have previously thought himself to be that of a beacon, bright and unwavering, only for you to come in and reveal that, while you’re a raging forest fire, he’s nothing but smoldering embers on a burnt log.

And it’s not a bad thing—far from it.

He came here expecting to leave with no prospects of a wife, but then he met you. He knows it’s far too soon but he would at least like the opportunity to get to know you further, to court you properly. It’s what you deserve.

The main problem is that he came here as a suitor for your cousin, something achingly apparent to you both. It’s not lost on the king, his preference for you, but His Majesty says nothing as Tetsurō’s done nothing to act on it, nor has he done anything to risk the integrity of this event.

It’s no secret to the three of them that Tetsurō has little to offer, even for the opportunity to court you. Even if the king likes him for his niece. Even if you are just as interested in Tetsurō as he is you.

Hope comes in the form of mounting tensions, of declarations of war without real power behind them. The other men have grown desperate for the hand of the most beautiful woman in the land, for the title of king that is too slow to come naturally, for the vast resources available by her kingdom. It’s amusing to watch, at least it would be if he were able to leave or able to be with you.

He came here knowing full well that there’s no real competition, that he’s not leaving with a bride and the keys to a new kingdom. There’s nothing desirous about his land, nothing that’s worth starting a war over, anyway. He has no horse in this race.

Except—

Shit. That’s it!

“There is a solution available, if you all calmed your minds and think about it,” he calls out, his surprising participation enough to silence the room. “If we cannot trust the king’s judgment, then judgment must be given to someone else.”

“Who else would make that decision? We can’t hold a vote for who inherits this kingdom and marries the bride. Everyone would vote for themselves.”

“True. But that’s not what I’m suggesting. We let the bride decide her groom. It is her life, after all; her kingdom.”

“A woman decide? They said you were intelligent, not funny, Kuroo,” scoffs Prince Gōra to his left.

“Would you say that to the goddesses? Insult them to their faces? Who’s to say that they are not here in disguise to bear witness? That’s the problem with you all. You don’t see women as equals. You see them only as stepping stones and property. The goddesses have strength that the gods do not and it is mirrored on this mortal scale.”

“You’re only saying that because you stand no chance, otherwise! No one is gonna want your island full of sheep,” dismisses the recently named King Terushima.

“Goats. But that doesn’t matter. I do not want to continue in this mad bid for power. There is another I have my eyes set upon.”

This grabs the king’s attention, understanding that Tetsurō is plotting, that there’s a careful plan that’s been set in motion to get what he wants. “Prince Kuroo,” he addresses, “is there more to this plan, or is it that we simply allow my daughter to choose her suitor? That still doesn’t solve the issue of one of you taking offense to her choice and declaring war on us once you return to your kingdoms.”

“Which is exactly why you will swear to uphold her decision and to become allies to defend her choice, and, in turn, this land and its people. Any of you unwilling to do so is immediately rejected as a possible suitor. Not only will the men present use their power as future leaders to swear allegiance to defend the decision made, not just in the coming days, but for all of their days. You will act if ever there is a direct threat made to the union.”

“Is that all? And you don’t want the chance to be chosen, even if the odds were to favor us equally?” Of anyone unaware of Tetsurō’s affections towards you, King Yaku is the most likely to believe him. The perks of having the kingdom closest to him, Tetsurō supposes.

“No. In exchange, I would like to ask for another’s hand in marriage. As a show of goodwill, you are welcome to keep my offerings for your daughter’s hand in addition to offerings I may make for your niece.”

“That… is amenable,” the king decides. “However, in the name of what is fair and right, you, too, shall swear to uphold my daughter’s decision and to come to her aid should the need arise.”

Fuck.

He can work with this, figure something out. The majority of the modern world is in this room. Who would be stupid enough to challenge such an alliance? All the same, there’s a distinct sinking feeling in his gut that this won’t end well.

“Of course.”

“You’re a fool, Kuroo Tetsurō.”

He looks over at your silhouette, perfectly illuminated by the moonlight until you look as though you belong in the heavens. Perhaps you do.

It would explain the euphoria he feels when you give him that teasing smile of yours. It would explain your keen intellect and quick wit or even the way you’re able to understand a person so completely that a single observation cuts them to the core. It would explain the way the room brightens when you enter, the way that you provide instantaneous relief with a single word spoken. It would explain how quickly he’s fallen head over heels for you, how you could decimate him, devastate him, devour him and he’d still ask for you to do it again if it would sate you.

It would explain why he says, “I am, but I promise you this: if you were to be my wife, you would be my equal. If you accept my proposal, you would be queen of my land with rights equal to mine.”

“And if you get called away because some idiot decides to interfere with my cousin’s marriage? If you die in war all because you wanted a chance to court me?” You don’t shout, don’t yell, for your anger isn’t explosive. Your tone is steady, calm, but there’s a bite to your words that he can pick up on, one that tells him just how fearful you are.

“It’s more than that and you know it. I’m giving you a choice. After this last month spent getting to know you, I am confident that you are the person I want by my side, but I can’t speak for you. If you don’t want me, tell me and I will give you a ship and my most loyal sailors so you can travel the known world or discover all there is to discover.”

You turn and his breath is stolen because, for the first time since he met you, your guard is completely down. For the first time, he can see you clearly, without needing to decipher, without needing to work for it.

“Do you promise, Tetsurō? That if I agree to be your wife, I will be your equal? Not just as your queen, but as your partner? Do you swear it before the gods?”

“I swear it before the gods.”

He swears his heart stutters in his chest when you step forward, working to close the distance between your bodies.

This has to be some divine gift, the way you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling yourself flush against him. Your gaze is imploring, hopeful, absolutely breathtaking and he stills as you lift yourself so you’re as close to his ear as possible before giving him your name.

There’s little that Tetsurō loves more than touching you, than feeling your skin against his.

When he loves you, it feels as though you and he are one, as though your pleasure is his pleasure. He loves spending hours worshipping you, laying kisses upon your skin, adorning you with praise and affection, loving every inch of you.

How he ever convinced a woman such as yourself to marry a man such as he will confound him throughout the rest of his days. How he could have ever thought that the two of you were equals is beyond him when—of the two of you—you have to be descended from divinity, crafted by the gods themselves.

He never considered him to be a particularly devout man, someone who did little more than what was expected of him, but since you entered his life, he has been making offerings to the goddess of love and beauty every chance he gets.

Your soft whimpers and moans are so euphonious, he’s certain he’s never heard anything more lovely. His name falls from you, slow and sweet like honey dripping from the honeycomb.

Fingers trail the contours and curves of the other, curious despite charting this path many times before. He kisses you, slow and languid, pulling you apart like the sea laps away at the shore until he’s swallowing your cry, the expression of euphoria that washes over you.

Separating, he rests his forehead against yours, chasing his own end until you cup his cheek and make him look at you.

Tears gather in the corners of your eyes along with a weary smile and the fervent prayer that takes place in the form of

—I love you, I love you, I love you.

There is little more that Tetsurō cherishes than you, than having been afforded the opportunity to love you and have you love him in return.

Tears stream down your face as you cradle his son to your chest, as you scowl at Yaku, though he can hear your angry words that go unsaid.

It’s been years since that pact was made, since the oath before the gods, and he should be ashamed for trying to escape it, escape his duty, but he can’t find it in him.

How could he, when he’s being torn from the people he loves most, from the ability to care for his wife and raise his son? How could he, when he had similarly sworn to care for you and your child under the sight of the goddesses of marriage and of fertility?

He hates the men beside him, the ones who escort him throughout his palace to ensure he doesn’t wile his way out as he calls his army. But he’ll support them, provide his insight and strategy. He’ll do it because he has to if he wants to return home before his son can support the bow of their family.

“Come back to me, Tetsurō,” you murmur against his lips, the kiss stained by your tears. “Win the war and come back to me.”

“I promise you that I will.”

[littlescaryinternetguy]

Of Judith

cw: violence, gore, Christianity

A little preamble to the story (there's a story) (I wrote it) (it's farther down, feel free to skip this bit).

I have been listening to Spem in alium by Thomas Tallis a great deal recently. If you don't know the piece, it is, in my opinion, one of the most beautiful pieces of music ever written, a motet meant to be sung by forty voices, I think it's supposed to be eight groups of five voices, positioned around the church. The music swells and swirls and draws itself up and... well, maybe you want to check it out. Tallis Scholars - Spem in alium

It was sung by Judith, according to the Apocrypha, after she had slain the Assyrian general Holofernes. She presented herself to him, got him drunk; after he passed out, she decapitated him. There are many many paintings of the act, some quite beautiful, others terrifying. Afterwards, according to the deuterocanonical Book of Judith, she sang this hymn: I have never put my hope in any other but in You, God of Israel, who will be angry and yet become again gracious, and who forgives all the sins of man in suffering. Lord God, Creator of heaven and earth, look upon our lowliness. Every time you think it couldn't get any more beautiful, it stops, breathes, and becomes even more beautiful. I collect versions of this hymn, I imagine Judith bearing the head of Holofernes like a lantern, walking home, singing. Of course, being size trash, I literalized Judith's powerlessness. I made her small. I made the story fractured (violence fractures, ecstasy fractures), in many voices, although the main voice is that of her handmaiden. 'Handmaiden' is here literalized as well. There are academic voices, religious voices, the voices of those who were there to hear Tallis present his motet to the Queen. All of them bear equal weight. But still, in the end, the voice is Judith's. Still, in the end, she opens her mouth and sings.

Of Judith

THE DUKE OF ____, bearinge à great love to Musicke asked whether none of our English men could sett as good à songe, and Tallice beeinge very skilfull was felt to try whether he would undertake ye matter, wch he did & made one of 40 p[ar]tes wch was songe in the longe gallery at Arundell house…

She is small, and she is cutting off his head in slow motion.

The authenticity and the canonicity of the Book of Judith are strongly contested.

I am her handmaiden. She is the size of my hand spread out. And this much is true.

10:3 And she washed her body, and anointed herself with the best ointment, and plaited the hair of her head, and put a bonnet upon her head, and clothed herself with the garments of her gladness, and put sandals on her feet, and took her bracelets, and lilies, and earlets, and rings, and adorned herself with all her ornaments.

It is considered by some critics to be the greatest piece of English early music.

Was she always small? Yes, she is of the tribe of the small.

13:1 And when it was grown late, his servants made haste to their lodgings, and Vagao shut the chamber doors, and went his way.

Blood in a perfect arc.

Throughout history the small stand before the kings.

Codex B or Vaticanus on the one hand, and Codex Alexandrinus with Codex Sinaticus on the other.

The kings beckoning and the small walking into their shadows.

Despite Jerome’s claim to have translated an Aramaic text, no ancient Aramaic or Hebrew manuscripts have been found.

Holofernes frozen bleeding gouts between history and teleology.

In Jdt 9:10 and again in 9:13, she petitions God for “deceitful words” that will wound those who have planned cruelties against the Jerusalem Temple and their homeland.

I have never put my hope in any other but in Thee, God of Israel.

She has stood in my shadow as well but always I stood in hers.

13:2 And they were all overcharged with wine.

She is so small she fills the room.

See: Hagiographies.

Judith walking into the shadow his shadow. She stands before his sandals in her celebration gown.

Like Jael, who drove a tent peg through the head of Sisera (Judges 4), Judith kills an enemy general.

He could burst her asunder like a grape on his tongue.

who canst show both wrath and graciousness,

She smells of sandalwood. He smells of copper. Dried blood in half moons in his fingernails. His hand slowly unfurled before her.

A gout of black blood and he sighs in accession, a matter of record.

Pope Saint Clement, who also recorded the Apostolic Constitutions, cites it in his epistle to the Corinthians. 

10:9 And they that were there said, all with one voice: So be it, so be it.

Served Henry VIII, Edward VI, Mary Tudor, and Elizabeth I.

The warm dry palm, her feet barely make an impression in it as she steps on.

I stood as always waiting.

1:3 At its gates Nebuchadnezzar raised towers one hundred cubits high with foundations sixty cubits wide.

Creator of Heaven and Earth, regard our humility.

Beginning with a single voice from the first choir, other voices join in imitation, each in turn falling silent as the music moves around the eight choirs.

As you know, I belong to my Lord.

Holofernes smiling like an open wound.

10:18 And his officers said to him: Who can despise the people of the Hebrews who have such beautiful women, that we should not think it worth our while for their sakes to fight against them?

In Gentileschi’s treatment I am businesslike. In Caravaggio’s, I am so old and grim.

Here the word “lord” has a double meaning, indicating both Holofernes and God. Much irony is evident in Judith’s conversation with Holofernes (e.g., 12:4).

11:4 And Judith said to him: Receive the words of thy handmaid, for if thou wilt follow the words of thy handmaid, the Lord will do with thee a perfect thing.

The sound of an idiot’s flute as she severs the windpipe.

Which Holofernes hears as deference to him, but Judith means as reference to God, Judith promises to tell him nothing false.

where it was part of the 2014–15 exhibition "Treasures of the British Library".

I tell you this: she is small in the Lord, but she is enough.

Judith liberated her homeland of Bethulia from Nebuchadnezzar by assassinating his general Holofernes.

11:9 And because the children of Israel know they have offended their God, thy dread is upon them.

Catherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn, Jane Seymour, Anne of Cleves, Catherine Howard, Catherine Parr.

11:16-17  Because these things are told me by the providence of God. And because God is angry with them, I am sent to tell these very things to thee.

He lifts her up to look at her. She kneels, her head is down. 

The column of the spine. In the Lord all things are possible.

The author of the Book of Judith is unknown.

As for the original text, its context of Judith slaying Holofernes and regaining her position fits with Mary's execution of the Duke of Northumberland, who had attempted to supplant her on the throne with Lady Jane Grey, rather than Tallis using it for Elizabeth.

I wrote it, I who was her handmaiden. At times, she bade me dip her tiny feet in ink and she was my quill.

12:12 Then Vagao went in to Judith, and said: Let not my good maid be afraid to go in to my lord, that she may be honoured before his face, that she may eat with him and drink wine and be merry.

In Klimt’s treatment I am not there at all.

The whites of his eyes showing.

12:13 And Judith answered him: Who am I, that I should gainsay my Lord?

The final corded muscle. Holofernes seeming to nod.

after which the choirs sing in antiphonal pairs, throwing the sound across the space between them.

All of the treatments are wrong. 

She goes into the camp of the Assyrians and captivates Holofernes by her beauty, and finally takes advantage of the general's intoxication to cut off his head.

Lord God, Creator of Heaven and Earth, Regard our humility.

13:7 Saying: Strengthen me, O Lord God of Israel, and in this hour look on the works of my hands, that as thou hast promised, thou mayst raise up Jerusalem thy city: and that I may bring to pass that which I have purposed, having a belief that it might be done by thee.

I held the head of Holofernes in one hand and her in the other.

Saint Clement of Alexandria’s book IV of the Stromata, Origen’s Homily 19 on Jeremiah and vol. III on Saint John, chapter 17 of Tertullian’s On Monogamy, and book 3 of Saint Ambrose’s De Officiis and De Viduis all mention it also.

Spem in Alium​ in historical context: why was it written and where was it performed? Spem in Alium ​over the centuries: why has the work been so greatly admired, and why are we still so fascinated by it today?

She was only as big as my palm spread wide. In the book it says it took her only two blows from his sword, but it took all night to sever the head of Holofernes.

14:14 But when with hearkening, Vagao perceived no motion of one lying, he came near to the curtain, and lifting it up, and seeing the body of Holofernes, lying upon the ground, without the head, sweltering in his blood, he cried out with a loud voice, with weeping, and rent his garments.

And I was not old, nor was I grim. 

Final cause, for the sake of, nothing in vain, complete, perfect. 

I was so happy to bear her bloody frame in one hand, and his head in the other.

… wch so farre surpassed ye other that the Duke, hearinge yt songe, tooke his chayne of Gold fro[m] his necke & putt yt about Tallice his necke & gave yt him.

I sang.

[howlingday]

The Guardian

"You said this would be an easy job!" The bandit barked at his superior, as he hugged his back to the wall. "You said there wasn't anyone living here!"

"Shut up!" The superior loaded another clip into pistol. "How was I supposed to know there was a Grimm holed up here?!"

The beast stalked closer to them, growling and snarling at the two. These bandits entered it's home with ill intent. It smelled their greed, and now it smelled their fear. The dominant trespasser pointed his gun at the beast, but the creature leapt away as he pulled the trigger. Another shot was fired, and again it missed. This routine had been going on for several minutes. With a click of an empty barrel, he threw his gun at the Grimm.

"Screw this!" One of the bandits cried, bolting for the door.

"Wait for me, you slug!" The other followed after him.

The beast bound after them, chasing them out the door. It snapped it's jaws, catching the slower man's garments, tearing off a large piece of fabric, exposing his backside to the air.

The man blubbered as he increased his speed, outrunning his partner. The two made it down the hill and onto the road, where a young boy stood waiting. They panted and heaved before the lad.

"Did you find anything good?" The boy asked. He had red hair, wore a brown jacket over his white shirt, the former matching his khaki cargo shorts, but nothing on his feet. "You didn't get scared and run away, did you?"

"Shut up, dog!" The leader of the trio snarled, raising his fist above his head. "You don't know anything!" The boy didn't flinch. He just chuckled. Before the fist could come down, the other bandit held back the arm.

"Collin, you don't get it. There's a monster up there!"

The boy scoffed. "How bad could this monster be? I've fought beasts and bandits tougher than you two!"

The leader's face split into a wicked grin. "Oh, really?" He knelt down and shoved Collin's shoulder. "Then prove it. I left my gun up there. Get it, and I'll make you the leader."

Collin puffed up his chest at the challenge. The leader smiled wider, because he knew the boy's pride wouldn't allow him to turn down a challenge, especially when the reward was so great. He still remembers the day he first showed up to the tribe and challenged their queen, and how much he sobbed when he lost.

As Collin marched up the hill, the leader turned to his partner. "Head back to the camp. Tell them this place was a bust."

"But, what about Collin?"

"Don't worry," he smiled wide as he watched the boy climb the hill, "I'll make sure he knows where he belongs."

Collin climbed the hill, his heart racing against his chest. However, he wasn't winded as he trekked up. Where fear may lie in others in this moment, he had anticipation and eagerness. He was excited for three reasons.

The first was for the chance to show up Dog. Since he arrived and joined the tribe, the man tormented him to no end. If there was a chore to be done by the older bandit, Collin was put in his place. If he resisted, Collin would be threatened with a beating from Vernal, or worse, the leader herself, since those were the only two members he truly respected and feared.

Second was because Collin loved to fight. He always had, and he thought he always would. Putting your life on the line, besting another physically, earning a scar or tale to share to impress your peers. These were things Collin loved more than anything else.

Third was the curiosity he felt for this supposed monster atop this hill. Was it animal or Grimm? Did it have teeth and claws, or beaks and wings? Did it breathe fire or have a poisonous bite? If such a fearsome creature existed, then killing it would make him a legend.

Collin made it to the top, a grin on his face. He marched the tall building at the end of the road, stamping his feet to let the beast know he was here, and challenging him to a contest of strength.

Red eyes watched him from the shadows of the stones, and Collin glared back into them. Out came a black dog, with a pointed ear and somewhat-pointed muzzle. It growled the boy approached, and snarled when Collin began shifting his steps from stomping to sprinting.

Collin reached down as he ran, picking up a pebble and throwing it at the Grimm. It dodged, and the pebble shot past like a bullet and lodged itself into the stone wall. The two then leapt upon each other as they drew closer.

Collin fought bare-handed, as he always had. He never had the privilege of having his own weapon like the other tribe members. The closest thing to a weapon he ever used was a stick or a heavy stone.

The Grimm bit his hand, drawing first blood, and dragged the boy to the ground. However, Collin was skilled at wrestling and ground-fighting, having used it against wild beasts since he was much younger. He grabbed the Grimm by the lower jaw, through his pain, and wrapped an arm around it's neck and his legs around it's torso. The beast bucked and leapt, but Collin held fast to the monster.

When the Grimm opened it's maw, he freed his hand and pushed himself off. He ran closer to the tower, and turned in time to see the monster pounce towards him. He grabbed it by it's neck and threw it against the wall. The Grimm slid down and laid there, unmoving as Collin walked inside.

He found the pistol laying in the middle of the floor, and picked it up. He examined it, running his finger against the cold metal of the barrel. It was engraved, which meant it was definitely Dog's gun. Dog loved showing off, especially loot he stole from wealthy travelers, like this gun. He carried it with him outside, scoffing. "This was too easy. Sorry, pup."

When he looked to his bested foe, he was surprised to see them gone. He didn't see it smoking into dust after he threw it, so it must have succumbed to it's injuries. He shook his head as he continued his path back down the hill, but yelped in pain as something sharp dug into his back and into his head.

The Grimm leapt from above and was now biting and clawing at Collin. He yelled and growled as he bled, staggering through the pain. He swung the pistol at the Grimm, but missed and only struck himself. The Grimm then leapt off, but tackled him. Collin grunted and braced himself for the impact from the ground, but all he felt was the wind and his weight carrying him down.

Lucky watched as the boy fell, then turned back to their den before hearing something hit the ground. They trotted the ground, and curled up at the door. It had been several months since they last saw their mother and father. With a huff, Lucky closed their eyes.

It may be debated whether or not all Grimm could dream, but Lucky certainly did. Lucky was in the crumbling tower, daylight shining through the window. In front of them was Pink while Yellow stood behind. Pink grabbed their face, shaking it with vigor while speaking differently, as though Lucky were a babe. Yellow rolled his eyes and smiled. There was a little negativity in him, but Lucky wasn't interested in it. Lucky wanted the stranger warmth emanating from Pink. It felt good.

"Hey!" Lucky's eyes opened to see the stranger return. He huffed and held a branch in his hands. "Ready for round two?"

"It'll be good to come home." Nora rubbed Jaune's back as he bent over. Even after being in a bullhead so many times, he still couldn't stand them. "We'll spruce the place up, have some dinner, maybe cuddle a little~?"

"Urp!" Jaune slapped a hand over his mouth. "Nora, not now."

"Aw, Jauney! You know I'm only teasing." Nora held a bag under Jaune, waiting for him to take it. "I know you probably care more about what the Watchtower is like right now."

He took the bag, swallowed whatever he had down, and leaned back with a groan. Nora rubbed his leg, smiling at him. He looked to her and offered a weaker smile of his own. It wasn't much, but she knew what it meant.

"You're not wrong. I mean, we've been gone for over a year, Nora. With classes and the Vytal Festival coming up, we don't have a lot of time to watch it anymore. I mean, who knows what kind of Grimm are hiding out down there."

Nora looked out the window as they neared their destination. The pilot stopped just above the Watchtower, circling it. She looked down and saw a boy, about twelve years old, fighting a Grimm.

"Lucky!" Nora gasped. She unbuckled herself and ran to the cockpit. "Please, you have to land!"

"I'm sorry, Ms. Arc. But I was given specific orders not to-"

"LAND THE BULLHEAD NOW!"

The bullhead came down slowly, much to the bittersweet relief of Jaune. Once they were low enough, he and Nora leapt to the ground. She hit the ground running to her beloved Lucky. Jaune hit the ground with his face.

He groaned and held his stomach as he stood. He watched as Nora mauled the Grimm, covering it with kisses and smothering it with hugs. He chuckled as Lucky clawed to get away, admiring the irony of the situation.

He then noticed the boy shouting at Nora. He jumped at Nora, demanding she "stay out of a warrior's way", to which she responded with a flick on his nose.

"That's for yelling at me." Nora let go of Lucky, then stood and cracked her knuckles. "This is going to be for my baby!"

"You're crazy!" The boy shouted, holding his broken branch in front of him. Jaune noticed he was covered in cuts and bruises. He'd been fighting Lucky for a while. "I'll just have to kill you, too!"

"Oho! You're welcome to try, little man!" The boy jumped at Nora, but she stopped him with just an arm, holding him in place by his head. She chuckled as he swung the branch futilely. "This is just sad."

"Shut up!" The boy batted away Nora's hand, but fell on his face as Nora stepped out of the way. He stood up to try again, but fell again when she tripped him.

"Uh, you want me to keep her up, or-?" The pilot asked through communications.

"No, we got it from here." Jaune answered, waving to the pilot. "Thank you, though!"

"No problem! Just call Beacon when you're ready to come back!" The bullheaded lifted off and flew over the horizon.

"Alright, Nora, that's enough." Jaune walked to the boy, kneeling down to him. "Go check the Watchtower; I'll check on our little intruder." Nora nodded and skipped into the house. The boy stood up and glared at Jaune. His eyes were blue, like his, but his hair was a fiery red. His clothes were worn and dirty. "Are you okay?"

"I don't need your pity!" He brushed off the dirt from himself. "A warrior never knows weakness!"

"I think it's 'show', not know." Jaune replied. "Who are you?"

"Why should I tell you? You look like a dog, and I'll bet you heel like one, too!" Jaune grabbed his arm, looking at his wounds. "Hey, let go of me!"

"You're hurt." Jaune stated. He let go, and the boy fell backwards. "Hang on, I got something for you." He reached into his pocket, exposing Crocea Mors. The boy ran up and snatched it. "Hey, be careful!"

The boy lifted it easily, but never removed the sheath. He laughed as he gave a toothy smile. "You won't trick me! You may act nice, but the second I turn my back, you'll cut me down! Just like the others!"

Jaune's face hardened. "What others?" He stood and walked to the boy. He must have scared him, because he was shivering now. "Well? What others?"

"N-Nobody!" The boy stammered. "I came here on my own!" Jaune stepped closer, but the boy leaped towards him and swung, hitting Jaune in the arm. Jaune wince at the pain, the grabbed him by the collar. "Let go of me! Leave me alone! I'm Collin Branwen, the Hound Who Never Fails!"

Jaune yanked Crocea Mors from his hand and tossed it aside. He then held the boy close, holding his head as he shushed him. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Nora watched as Jaune hugged the boy from the doorway. She sighed, her heart warmed by the thought of her future husband being great with kids. She walked towards them, Lucky at her side, as Jaune set the boy down. "Is everything good, Jaune?"

"I think so." Jaune gave the boy a tousle, ruffling his red hair. "Collin just isn't used to someone being nice to to him."

"Well, he's never met anyone like us, then" Nora squatted to eye-level with Collin. "Hi, I'm Nora! I'm Jaune's fiancee."

"What's a fiancee?" Collin tilted his head.

"Well, I promised to marry Nora," Jaune gestured from himself to Nora, then back to himself, "That makes me her fiancee and her my fiancee."

"Oh, I get it!" Collin nodded. "You're idiots." Nora's face twisted in anger, while Jaune slapped his face with his hand. "That's what they said, anyways."

"They who?!" Nora growled.

"They me." Jaune and Nora looked up to see a woman with a gang of men and women behind her, all dressed like Collin. However, she was the exception, wearing red plated armor, like a roof shingle, across her shoulders, with red plating around her abdomen, under which was an incredibly short, black skirt. She also had long black hair, wild and unkempt, with only a red ribbon holding it. "Collin, come here."

Nora stepped around the boy, holding a hand behind her. "And what if he doesn't?"

The woman looked Nora up and down, her face perpetually frowning. She wasn't impressed. "Do you know who I am, little girl?"

"Based on that short skirt, I'd say a hussy."

Jaune held back a chuckle, something the gathering of people behind the woman failed to do. Those closest to her were twitching, while snickering and chuckling developed further away. Collin leaned back to Jaune, "What's a hussy?"

"Uh, well..."

"Enough!" The woman barked. From her eyes, Nora upgraded from unimpressive to agitating. "Collin! Now!"

"Collin is going with you, floozy, so give it up!" Nora shouted back. The crowd wasn't impressed this time, as they immediately clammed up at the woman's own shout. "Who even are you, anyways?"

"Raven Branwen, leader of the Branwen Tribe." She stepped forward. "You may have heard the locals refer to me as, 'The Bandit Queen', though I don't care much for stupid titles like that. Just like I don't care much for fools wasting my time. Now, I'll say this slowly this time." Raven stood in front of Nora, glaring at the girl. "Move. Now."

"No." Nora doubled over as Raven thrusted a fist into her gut. She fell to the ground, clutching her belly, gritting her teeth. Before she could get up, Raven stepped on her leg, putting her full weight into Nora's thigh through her heel.

"Collin, we're leaving." Nora was helpless to stop as Raven dragged the boy back to her thugs. The pain was unbearable. She shut her eyes and breathed deeply to ease the pain, but it helped only a little. When she opened her eyes again, she was shocked by what she saw.

Raven didn't need much effort, as strong as she was. She was the leader of the Branwen Tribe, the most feared outlaws in all of Remnant. If things got too dicey, she always had a way out, but that never happens.

This girl? One punch at only half strength.

Collin? Easily grabbed and dragged with no effort.

This boy? Nothing, but she did have to draw Omen.

He pressed forward into her, but she didn't budge. With a flick of her wrist, she parried his sword away and slammed the pommel into his face. He reeled and staggered backwards, holding up his shield to block any further attacks. She charged forward, slamming her blade onto his shield three more times, each strike pushing him further and further back. After the fourth strike, she pulled his shield aside and struck his face again. He fell backwards this time, grunting as he hit the ground.

Raven scoffed, turning away. "Collin, let's go."

An intense pain engulfed her torso, lightning crackling through her armor, then felt her back hit something sturdy. She opened her eyes and saw the girl huffing, fury in her eyes. She stood over the boy, the Grimm barking next to her.

Raven leapt down, slicing a portal open next to her. It surprised the girl, her focus entirely on the portal and who made it. She smiled because the girl didn't notice it being behind her, with her hand reaching for Collin. Her fingers shut around his collar and she ran through the portal. The girl didn't notice until it was too late.

Nora chased after Collin and Raven, but she used her weird portal thing to cheat and get away! She cursed as Raven and her cronies ran off through her portal at the curve of the hill, one by one. The last time she saw Collin, he was through the portal, reaching out to her.

She charged down the hill, through the space the portal once occupied, and continued running down the path. She flared through her nostrils, in and out, as she grit her teeth and growled. She had to find him!

It was a little after noon when she arrived, and the time now is dusk as she climbs up the hill. She staggered to Jaune, who was running towards her. She fell forward, into Jaune as he caught her. She huffed with a raspy breath.

"I tried." Nora wheezed. "I really tried to save him." She felt Jaune brush her hair. "I really wanted to help him, but I wasn't strong enough." She buried herself deeper into Jaune, tears soaking into his hoodie. "I failed him."

"It's not your fault." Jaune adjusted himself and lifted her up to face him. "I've been talking to Headmaster Ozpin, Professor Goodwitch, and even Dad. Whoever these people are, they're seriously bad news. Way above our level. Dad even said we were lucky to get out alive."

Nora chuckled at that. "What now?" Jaune helped her stand up, and hugged her.

"We're going back to Beacon." Jaune answered. "We're going to get stronger. And we're getting Collin back."

"Mm, I love it when you're all serious." Nora cooed, but then sighed. "Still, I wish I was stronger."

"I think you were strong enough." Nora looked up to Jaune. "I mean, you did send her flying into the Watchtower. If anything, she ran away because you were too strong for her."

Nora chuckled, then looked up, gazing at the evening clouds. "Do you think he misses us?"

"We only just met him." Jaune watched as the bullhead drew closer from the dying light. He gave a sigh before pulling away, standing by Nora and gazed at the sky with her. "But yeah, I think he does."

Lucky watched as the couple boarded the giant metal device and flew off. They took their place inside the Watchtower, waiting for their next return. The night wind carried a chill, but Lucky was undeterred for they had the warmth from the visit earlier. They closed their eyes and dreamed of their family; Pink, Yellow, and now Red, all smiling and sharing their warmth with their guardian.

[poptod]

The Breeding Kings pt. 2, (Ahkmenrah x Reader)

Description: Creeping closer.

Notes: can you tell how much im geeking out on the pyramid section of this. can you. now i want you to guess how long i researched it for a scene that was only supposed to be a few paragraphs and some dialogue. WC: 8.9k (sorry)

+

The way back to your house was a slow crawl, but a necessary evil. After the incident in which your clothes were ruined, Ahkmen offered to clean your clothes for you, a task you knew little about and usually didn't have to do in the first place. You accepted, though there was an issue––you didn't own any other clothes.

Rushlights in your tiny bedroom dimly reflected off the hanging silks and shawls, bathing the room and your skin in deep purples and reds darkened by both the evening and the smoke of incense.

Cloth rustled in the other room, making your shoulders seize up. The funny little Egyptian man who had taken up most of your evening with laughter was not someone you could fully trust, but few were, and you could still enjoy his companionship for the remaining minutes of the evening. He would leave soon––with your clothes––and you would not be able to leave your home until he returned with them. Nudity was fine in Egypt, but you weren't Egyptian. It was an uncommon practice to you.

You could physically feel your face flush with embarrassment, your chest tightening when he said your name in a soft voice. Unable to respond, you continued to strip yourself of the muddy garments, setting them carefully in a pile on a part of the floor that didn't have any carpet.

"Yogi?" He asked again. You whipped around to the curtain separating you from him, but found it vacant as always.

"Give me time," you said, your voice trembling slightly as you attempted to pull your pants off your hopping feet. "Taking off mud is hard."

"Oh, I know," he said, suddenly much closer to you, but still not breaching the curtain. "I'm a little less drunk right now so I wanted to try and pronounce your name, so... what was it again? Sorry."

"It is okay," you chuckled. "My name is Yogasundari.”

"Ah, right. Yogatsundera?"

"Yoga-soon-dahry."

"Yogasundari?"

"There you go," you said with a smile, happy to hear your full name from someone else after a long while of dealing with a horrid nickname.

With that, you pulled off the last of your clothes, removing the jewelry that had belonged to your family. Those you placed on your desk, but the clothes you folded best you could before timidly approaching the curtain leading to the funny Egyptian man. You couldn't quite remember his name, making your next actions all the more embarrassing, reaching forward to pull away the fabric.

"I finish this," you said, poking your head out, your extended hand beneath you.

Ahk moved to grab the pile, but stopped when he noticed your silhouette, now clear against the rushlight behind you. His breathing halted, caught in his chest. When he met your eye, he remembered himself, keeping his gaze above your shoulders as he took the clothes.

"You do return quick, yes?" You asked pointedly.

"I'll be back here tomorrow."

"Good. I have a work in the morning."

He held the clothes away from his body, but a giddiness ran through him that brought him to a quiet carelessness. His feet worked faster, an intrinsic smile on his face, and his home, the palace, fast approaching.

The whole of the evening accompanied him as he walked. In less than 12 hours he'd gotten the necklace back, 'beat' Panya in a drinking contest, flirted (albeit drunkenly) with an incredibly pretty brewer, and possibly even made friends with someone with entirely different life experiences from himself. The only drawback was that you were clearly not a fan of the royal family despite your liking of Egypt.

What had been his cover name?

Ak'anpu, if he recalled correctly through his drunken haze of a night. His name, and then Anubis', as Piye had called him.

Oh, Piye's gonna fucking love this, he thought as a grin spread across his face, his speed hastening as he approached the palace steps.

By morning the servants had finished washing your clothes, leaving them to hang in the laundry room till they were picked up. Ahkmen didn't notice it, as he was awakened by his servant Naguib, and his first waking thoughts were of unpleasantries against the bright morning sun.

Naguib pulled open the drapes shielding Ahk's room from the outside, leaving the long, intricate arches to cast the sun's glow directly onto Ahkmen's bed. He groaned, flipping over onto his stomach as he twisted in his sheets.

"Good morning, my Prince. You have school at Osiris' temple today, but nothing else. The Pharaoh instructed me to tell you that he is having dinner with the emissaries from Ebla when they arrive within the week. He wants you to attend," Naguib said as he opened Ahkmen's closet, pulling out the Prince's usual daily clothes.

"Is it optional?"

"Ask your father."

Once Ahkmen was safe and back in his clothes, he ran down to the laundry rooms, fetching your clothes and stopping by the kitchens for a tiger roll. He barely stopped to talk to any of the servants, moving on his way at a fast pace that sent him skipping down the stone pathways of Memphis. Ahkmen wasn't small by any means, but he had a way of moving about crowds, slinking through groups and keeping quick on his feet.

Piye managed to find him a couple turns before the temple, grabbing the crook of his arm and interrupting the Prince's stride.

"Ahk," they said as they turned him round.

"Piye!"

"How did it go last night?" They asked, picking back up into a walk.

"Wonderful. I think I remember most of it, too! I got my mother's necklace back, so I'll be gifting her that this evening, and I got to acquaint myself with that friend of yours, Yogi," he said with an animated expression, bright eyes and all smiles. "They're quite interesting."

"I see you have their clothes, too," Piye said, their eyes falling to the folded cloth in Ahkmen's hands. "What the hell did you two do last night?"

"Oh. Oh, no, I – they slipped in the mud and they don't really have access to good cleaning materials, and since it was technically my fault, I offered to have them cleaned," he explained.

"Awful nice of you."

"It's only right."

With help from his friend, Ahkmen made it over the boxes marking the entrance to your home without dirtying your clothes. Piye followed soon after, and the both of them entered your little tent, searching for a hard surface to knock on.

"Yogasundari?" Ahkmen called, feeling his face flush as he prayed he pronounced it right. "I've got your clothes."

"You have my cloths??" You said from behind one of the walls that Ahkmen remembered seeing you through.

"Right here," he said, reaching through the curtain to hand you the stack.

Weight was lifted off his hand and he withdrew, waiting a moment as you eagerly dressed yourself.

"Thank you many times!" You said, appearing with a wide smile that crinkled the flushed skin of your cheeks.

"Of course. We have to go now. I'll stop by soon!" He said as he turned to leave.

"Thank you," you said with a bow.

This time, he and Piye entered the temple through the correct door, walking through the long courtyard and observing the workers. They had been working on the garden for a while now, planting rows of seeds every day that would be fertilized with water, the Nile's silt, and of course, feces at times. At least the flowers everywhere blocked out the scent.

In the trees that towered above even the temple, birds cawed and sung at one another, pecking at the dates that fell on unfortunate people's heads. Piye managed to miss most of them, but Ahkmen was assaulted by one landing on his shoulder.

"Come now, can't be late two days in a row," Piye said, rushing Ahkmen along as the bell began to toll.

"And in the beginning of the year," Ahkmen added shakily as he began to run, coerced by Piye's long strides.

The two burst through the vacant doorframe before the eighth note, rushing to sit on the floor with the other two students. The priest entered moments later, eyeing both of them suspiciously, but remaining silent on the subject. Ahkmen let out a breath he didn't know he was hiding, reaching for the limestone tablets the class would be practicing on today.

Several minutes in he was already staring out the open door, watching the birds that pecked on the dried fruits littering the garden, fallen from the tops of trees and the undergrowth of bushes. However, it wasn't until several hours in that he caught sight of something that actually earned his attention.

You were near unrecognizable without your striking clothes, without the dim lighting he had already gotten so used to seeing you in. Reds, golds, and purples were replaced with the common warm white of servant skirts, allowing him to see the whole of your stomach and chest, as well as your legs that no longer hid within pants. Ahkmen hardly understood your insistence on wearing such warm clothes in Egyptian weather, and his ideas on the matter were only enforced when he felt blood rushing to his cheeks in a fiery blush.

For a long while you didn't notice him, and since consequences weren't part of the equation, Ahkmen stared free of guilt. You were positioned on your knees, rags and sponges in hand as you scrubbed the perfect marble floor of the outer temple halls. His jaw began to fall open, his eyes enraptured in the sunlight that shone off your dark skin, and was only dragged away by Piye manually shutting his mouth.

"Stop drooling. They won't come over just to clean your spit off the floor," Piye whispered in his ear as the priest's backs were turned.

"What?" Ahk whispered back, but went silent as his teachers turned back to the class.

"Now, what are the ways our Pharaoh's names written and how does the type of name change with the way it's written?"

"The Horus name is written in the box with the falcon on the edge?" One of the younger boys asked, his hand raised hesitantly in the air.

"No," said the priest with a tut.

An hour or so later he and his classmates were released for the midday break, rushing out of the enclosed classroom and into the long, stretching gardens of the temple's courtyard. Though the days were growing steadily cooler, flowers still bloomed with abandon in their ponds and bushes.

Piye began to part from Ahk as they approached the kitchens, causing Ahkmen to halt and grab their arm.

"Where are you going?"

"My father wants me to study runes in bones and teeth, so... I won't be back for the rest of the day. Tonight, though, I might have something planned for us," they said, shaking off his grip with a teasing wink.

Ahkmen watched as they jogged out of the temple, disappearing down the more common streets of Memphis. He frowned. Most of the other students his age were either too scared of him or didn't like him based purely off his status and his father's rule. It was things like that that had Ahk swearing up and down he would not be like his father––he would not be the reason his children couldn't make friends.

After gathering more food than he actually needed, he snuck out of the kitchens, speed-walking around as his eyes searched for the familiar stature of his new 'friend,' if he could call you that. How perfect it was that you worked here as well, and that he discovered that fact on a day of Piye's absence.

He searched the entirety of the temple's courtyard, classrooms, and worker rooms and couldn't find you. There was much of the temple left––about half unexplored––but those areas were blocked off. It was then he recalled you weren't from Memphis, and you might not understand the rules of priest-ly areas and citizen areas. He paused mid step, dread dropping his heart into his feet. Priests and oracles were not kind to those who disobeyed their direct rules of the holy.

Even with his royal status, he had to adhere to the same rules when it came to Gods. Sometimes even the Pharaoh was given such commands. But respect had never looked his way, and his desire to see you overcame his reluctance, stewing ideas in his head.

For a good few minutes he waited outside the entrance to the God's gardens, watching to see if anyone would try to stop him. In that time he pretended to eat, and after earning no strange looks, he ducked into the long hallway that would soon lead to the home of Osiris. Today, the massive oak doors were shut tight.

On either side of the hallway were gardens––to his left, a water garden, rife with lotus and reeds. To his right, a garden of date trees, lentils, lettuce, grapes, and pomegranates. The tall arches allowed him to easily see in, and the absence of a roof had sunlight raining down on the golden and green plants. What little light made it through the arches fell on his tanned skin, warming up the cool temple air, that had in times left him shivering.

Unfortunately, you weren't in either garden. He checked for a while, too, worried that he might've overlooked you behind tall plants or thick brush, but to no avail. All that remained was Osiris' home––the inner temple.

He had been in there before––rather recently, as well––but that did not mean he didn't fear it. He was quite clearly not where he was supposed to be, and his break wouldn't last much longer, as he'd spent much of the time making sure he wouldn't be caught. However, if he didn't find you, then it would be for nothing, and with that thought he continued forward.

To his surprise, when he just barely cracked open the doors, no one was inside. Not even the High Priest. The towering statue of Osiris stared blankly forward, the softest of smiles pulling at his perfect lips. Entirely still and cold.

He shut the doors slowly as he left, returning down the thin hallway with a furrowed brow. Perhaps you had left?

As he made to reenter the hall of gardens, a quiet hum reached his ears. He perked up almost immediately, eyes widening as he turned, staring at the temple's door as though it had spoke. He didn't dare move, but the song continued.

With steps of the utmost carefulness, he returned down the hall to the door. Pressing his ear against the wood, he heard nothing, and stood with yet another frown.

The voice had to be coming from somewhere. Further towards the courtyard it grew quieter, so it originated from within the holy ground, but where?

Ahkmen closed his eyes, breathing deeply as he listened attentively to the hum. Centering in on it, he began to follow, paying close attention to the volume. He reached with his hands as he walked blind, and came to a doorway he had never seen before when he opened his eyes. It was barely more than a crack in the meticulously painted wall, but large enough for a person to walk through. How he'd never noticed it before escaped him.

Echoes filled the massive room, entirely unlit with a stone roof above it. Ahkmen had to take a moment to let his eyes adjust, but when they did, he jumped back.

The room had to be larger than the whole of the courtyard, with walls that stretched too far to see the end of them. Pillars of a massive size filled the room, positioned with a graphed precision revered by other nations, each one too large for even Piye to wrap their arms around. And without fail, every single one of them was painted in hieroglyphs small as his fingernails paired to scenes of gory victory.

Music reverberated in his bones, painting the empty air that now thrummed with a thousand voices singing one after the other, yet still faint enough for Ahkmen to be unable to make out the words.

Without being able to track the volume of the humming, finding you would be much harder. This was, undoubtedly, you––your voice, speaking in words you knew well instead of the jargon of Egyptian. He tried his best, and in the end he found you scrubbing the floor mindlessly, staring up at the paintings above you as you murmured songs to yourself.

Hunger of cannibals...

those black-eyed pigs.

"Yogasundari?" Ahkmen said quietly from behind, hoping he wouldn't startle you.

You did jump a little, but you turned around with expectant, not fearful, eyes. Upon recognizing him, you smiled.

"Aganu!"

He thought to correct you, but realized it meant little considering it wasn't his real name anyway.

"Good to see you, as well," he chuckled. "What are you doing in here?"

"They ask me to clean, I clean, and it is quiet, this room. I like it here," you said, leaning back on your haunches as you returned to staring at the high pillar in front of you.

"They let you in here?"

"It is not hard to get in. You got in."

"No, I mean –" he took a moment to think of his words, "– they usually have one of the priests clean the holy places. They let a citizen clean in here?"

You paused, glancing away. "I did not ask," you admitted.

Ahkmen's eyes widened, reaching for you and pulling you to your feet.

"Then we need to get out of here before they punish both of us," he said, not pausing to let you gather your cleaning things before pulling you along.

"My cleans!"

He didn't stop running till he found the crack of an entrance, sneaking himself and you through to the slightly-less-illegal area of the holy gardens. Bright sunlight blinded him, and he squinted his eyes, shying away from the sudden stimulation. He kept the both of you moving though, till you reached the entrance of the hallway to the courtyard.

"You cannot go in such places," he said once he felt as though he had the peace of mind to address your stupidity. "I don't know what you've been taught, but when a priest tells you to do something, you do it. No questions asked."

"That is not a good thing," you said, frowning.

"It doesn't matter if it's good or bad. That's just how it is, and you and I are powerless to stop that. It's easiest to just listen," he said, growing softer as he noted your confusion.

"I..." you trailed off without ever having started.

"I'm sorry. I wish it could be different," he murmured, tucking stray hairs behind your ear.

"Why make all that beautiful if no one can see it?"

"It's for the Gods."

"I saw no Gods in that."

Ahkmen sighed.

"Just – do you understand me?" He asked, resting his hands on your shoulders to force you to look him in the eye.

"I think so," you said quietly.

"Thank you," he said in a rush of relief. "What were you singing in there?"

"A song," you said with a shrug, eyes falling to the ground. "My mother had sing to me. And.. one I heard, in the market."

"You have a very nice voice," he said, carefully watching for your reaction.

"Yes, she was nice," you nodded.

"That's not... never-mind. Here, I brought some food for you," he said as he handed you one of the sweetbreads.

Instantly your face lit up, a toothy grin matching your bright eyes.

"Thank you!" You said, taking and eagerly biting into it. "You are very good."

He chuckled, mumbling a thank-you through his own small smile.

"You know, you didn't tell me you work here. I go to school here," he said, pointing behind his shoulder to the classroom he would soon be returning to.

"That is funny," you said through a mouthful of food.

Your hunger reminded him of his own, and he returned to his own loaf.

"I'm glad you're here. Usually I only talk to Piye, and they can get rather busy sometimes. Do you come every day?"

"Most days. There are days they tell me not to work, no one is here but priests. But I am told to leave at a 'midday'. So I will leave soon, I think," you said, already finishing up your bread. "I go to my house and do my work."

"Your beers and such?"

"Yes!" You said. "My brews, they give me food like the priest. But from market adults."

"Do you –"

Ahkmen had begun to say something, but was interrupted by the tolling of a bell that called him back to class. He sighed, his shoulders falling as responsibility once more came to the forefront of his mind.

"I must go. Can I come visit later today?" He asked, already beginning to walk away.

"Of course! Come buy lots of beer!" You called with a singing laugh.

By eveningtime, Ahkmen's fantasies of you had reached an all-time high, daydreaming about how you would react if he had no qualms of anxiety holding him back. What you would do if he had the courage to pull you into him and kiss you, dipping you as your songs echoed in the silent, might halls of pillars reaching for the clouds.

Nothing the priests said was retained by his fog-heavy mind. The bell rang, startling the Prince, making him move for the first time in hours. He shoved his materials away haphazardly, leaving before any of his classmates and heading straight for your alley.

The sun was at its' low height above the western mountains, casting the shadows of tall graves past the river and onto the shore of the living. Red and gold bathed the land, painted his skin into a bronze, which deepened with a blush as he scaled the wooden crates. Already your hidden home had turned to a sort of oasis, entirely separate from his city.

Myrrh, which was the priest's incense of choice during the midday ceremonies, once again met his senses, swirling round his head as he entered the tent.

"Yogasundari?"

"Wait a bit, I am there in a bit of time," you said from behind one of the walls.

Clattering followed by two voices then came, but Ahkmen recalled that this was your business, and left you to it for the time being.

A few minutes later, you called him into the backroom without coming to see him.

"... are you sure?" He asked. To his knowledge, your customers hadn't left.

"Yes, it is good," you said, failing to elaborate further.

Ahk bit the inside of his cheek, reaching forward to pull away the cloth walls. Warm light came from a wall further on down, and when he pulled it away, the yellow light of fire burst in the tent, safe in an entirely-stone enclosing. A clearly handmade mechanism allowed you to hang four pots over the fire, two of which you tended to at the current moment.

Beside you, two familiar faces stood against one of the walls, quietly discussing with one another. His stare caught Unas' attention, who motioned to Panya that Ahkmen was behind her. She turned, scowling when she saw him.

"Why are you here?" She asked with crossed arms.

"I could ask you the same thing," he said, his mood suddenly soured.

"We're here for expertise on an ore I found in the junkyard," Unas explained with a small smile.

He and Unas weren't exactly friends, but they'd always held respect for each other. Ahkmen admired his ingenuity. Junkyards, however, were not the Prince's scene.

"Fun. I'm just here to get drunk," Ahk chuckled, sitting down on the dirt floor with his back pressed against the stone wall.

The number of colorful fabrics in this room were contained to only the entrance, and from the voices surrounding him, he correctly assumed that the 'walls' that made up this room were simply the closely-built walls of many homes all facing away from the one center point. A makeshift wooden roof had been placed above him, mostly blocking out the dying sun's light.

"I work with many rocks," you murmured, concentrated entirely on the stone in your hand, "but this is not rock. It is too pure. You found this in a.. a... what did you name it?"

"Junkyard?"

"Yes, that," you said, snapping your fingers. "This is very different. Others can come looking for it."

"So it's worth something?"

"I do not know. It is just pure, and that is not normal," you said as you handed it back to them. "I can try hard to name it, but it could be long of time."

"Hmm," Unas said, looking to Panya to communicate with her silently.

"Keep it," Panya said. "If we need it, we'll come back for it, but just concentrate on figuring out what it is."

"I will find it," you assured them with a small bow.

Panya and Unas left a few minutes later after having been served an older batch of beer that had sat to ferment. The boiling pots of beer hung over the fire were not yet ready, even if they smelled good, so Ahkmen settled on one of your specialties; a more alcoholic, sweeter beer.

Most of the beer Ahkmen had in his lifetime was for simple nutrition, thick and quite clearly tasting of sweetbread. At rare times, the Pharaoh would bring in more alcoholic beer, an event saved mainly for festivals where beer was cheaper than distributing wine.

Your brew, though––the sweet flavor of wine, an alcoholic content higher than both, for the price of a regular mug of beer. Ahkmen returned to one of the carpeted rooms, finding himself more comfortable surrounded by your purple silks, pillows and blankets cast beneath his feet. There he sat at your table, content to sip at his drink.

A moment or two later you returned to him, straightening out your long clothes before taking a seat across from him. You folded your hands neatly on the table.

"How long have you been working at Osiris' temple?" Ahkmen asked, setting his cup down on the table.

"I found it not long ago. My work is not much known, so I get little money, little food. So more work lets me eat, keep safe in the city," you explained, eyes cast to the side as you thought through your translations.

"Do you like working there?"

"I do not like the clothes they give me," you said, lips twisting into a pout. "They are not enough."

Ahkmen chuckled, though he hadn't meant to, and sighed to calm the delight in his chest.

"As long as you listen to the priests, you'll be alright," he said as he took another swallow from his cup.

"Have you something eaten today?" You asked, moving to stand.

"Yes. Haven't had dinner, if that's relevant," he said.

"I have slow night this night. Come and make food with me," you said as you offered your hand.

He glanced to his cup, and then to your outstretched hand. There was no option.

Ahkmen found himself in your kitchen, where he had been several minutes earlier, except now the brews of the day had been set to cool in their jars, leaving the fire open for other uses. Your choice ingredients weren't unfamiliar to him, but your method of cooking them was.

In most kitchens Ahkmen visited, pans of vegetables were fried over smaller flames, different oils and spices flavoring them. Slabs or slices of meat were cooked in a similar fashion. Your style consisted mainly of throwing every ingredient into your largest pot and letting it cook in its' own stew. You poured a sort of gravy over it, mixing the vegetables, meats, and other such things.

"You like bread in soup?" You asked, pulling a large knife out of its' storage on your counter.

"Sounds good," he said with a shrug. He'd never tried, but it couldn't be that different from beer.

You took a loaf out from underneath a white square of cloth, setting it on a board as you began to cut into it.

"May I help?" He asked upon realizing this was a task he actually could complete.

"Uh," you looked to him, then back to the bread and knife, "okay. Make in small, good?"

"Of course," he said, taking the knife and positioning it.

He did his very best, concentrating far more than was actually necessary, which you giggled from. You tried to hide it, and though he did spot it he appreciated the effort.

You went to chopping more vegetables, cutting lettuce in long slices that acted like noodles as you poured them in from your cutting board. When Ahk's board got overcrowded with cubes of bread, he set the loaf to the side, sliding the pieces in. He looked to you, stared at you as you worked diligently. The slip-up nearly cost his left middle finger.

His hands shook when he realized his mistake, but he couldn't stop smiling. Not till the both of you finished, and you returned to your spot in front of the fire, slowly mixing the concoction.

"You must do this a lot," Ahkmen said as he sat down on the cold floor.

"What do you say?"

"You do this a lot. Mixing pots over fire."

"Oh. Yes, I... I do. My potions, my beer, and my food can all be in this pot," you said, clanking the edge of it with your spoon. "I think... it is good. I like this moving. I can get tired, but it is one thing I know. We eat now."

It took a moment for his brain to process what you'd said, but he soon jumped to his feet, bringing down two bowls from a higher shelf. You thanked him quietly, asking him to hold them as you filled them up. The warm steam of stew drifted up towards his face, causing his mouth to water before he could even eat.

The two of you returned to the carpeted rooms, seating yourselves on the floor near to one another.

"Have you given mother your necklace?" You asked as you waited for the soup to cool to a bearable temperature.

"Not yet. I said I'd do it this evening, so I'll do it once I leave," he said, attempting to sip at his bowl, only to be burned.

"You eat fast then! You were very drunk for her," you laughed, rocking backwards in your seat.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Ahk said, grinning pleased when you giggle in response.

"I see you that night, Aganu. You were sick drunk."

"If I acted strangely it was only because you're incredibly pretty," he said, blowing on the bowl of stew before sipping it this time. It helped, however minute.

"I get you drunk again, put you out on streets to walk alone," you threatened with a raised brow. "You still be strangely."

"Don't forget stupid."

"Haha," you leaned forward, pinching his cheek, "funny Egyptian man."

The sun disappeared earlier than usual, as was customary for the cooler months, and the darkness that followed left Ahkmen enraptured in your games. Thought of his mother, of Piye, and of his father faded into you, paying close attention as you described the rules of your drinking games, with which you had unwittingly kept Ahkmen in your home.

His vision had already started to go hazy, blurred by what beer he had drank for fun hours ago. Through that fuzz he saw two large cups and two smaller ones, the smaller filled with beer, and the larger empty. Two thin sticks were balanced in a row on each large cup.

"Now – now put cup on – on cup," you said, your hands swaying as you went to grab the smaller glass. "Veerryyyyy... kavanyamehka."

Ahkmen did his best to copy, and with great concentration, succeeded.

"We do this talk," you said as you curled your fingers into fists, setting them on the edge of the table. "Do this bang-bang. And.. then, it falls, in big cup. We do again and again an' again and... again. Good?"

"Okay," said Ahkmen, who had a very weak grasp on what you just explained.

He copied your fists, and when you spoke, he followed in loud mumbles, caught in the adrenaline you'd suddenly built. In time with your garbled speech, you banged your fists against the table, and the cups began to tremble on the two twigs.

"Enka kapo ai'il kuttika ventu nam, muta'lilvila matten'atai, en tontaiyl uravem en tanllyial entovuetem, nan 'rrakemen viri naiuta ventaum!"

The louder you got, the more incomprehensible you grew, till Ahkmen was assured you weren't even speaking coherently in your home language. Ever dutiful, he matched your energy till his heart pounded and his cup fell into the larger cup. You then let out a shout, throwing your hands into the air.

"You fail!" You laughed. "Funny man."

"We," he reached into his cup and pulled the smaller cup out, "are doing – going again. I actually understand it this time! So you are finished."

You went a second time, speaking in tongues and yelling raucously when you lost, your own laugh fading into the background as Ahkmen spoke.

"I told you!" He snorted, falling back in his cushioned seat.

Three more rounds, in which there were varied successes and losses, and you paused for the best part––drinking the strange mix of different types of beers and alcohols made from the fallen cups. You linked arms, shooting back your drinks as quick as you could.

The flavors you created for your beers mixed wonderfully together, but Ahkmen was too far gone to notice any of his senses except the ones that related to you. His sight, never leaving you, the sound of your voice, the sensation of your uncommon touch. His heart pounded furiously even without him shouting.

There were few people he could legitimately claim he enjoyed getting drunk with, which made his fondness for you all the more special. Already he knew you would be a fantastic drinking buddy.

Hours that felt like minutes passed, and with both of you hidden away from the sky, you had no way of knowing it was far past midnight by the time exhaustion trickled into your body. Before you knew it, you were lying down on your back next to Ahkmen, staring silently at the detailed ceiling, your hands folded neatly on your stomach.

"I think I have not made me better because I am scared I will become a person who is not the person that my parents knew," you said in a voice that croaked.

"There will always be a part of you that is that person who knew your parents," Ahkmen said softly, turning to face you as you stared up. "And you'll always have them with you in your memories."

"But I change, and if my parents are in me, they change too? Then, they are not my parents. They are changed to someone else. I changed them."

"Everything changes. If they were alive, they would have changed over the years eventually. That's one of life's simple natures," he said.

You fell silent.

"I miss them."

Your cat meowed softly as it jumped up to your seats, walking up over your chest to face you directly. You raised a tired hand, petting the hairless skin, still staring at the ceiling.

"How long have they been gone?"

"Years," you said as you raised up your fingers to indicate 'two'. "I do not know they are dead... but I see no words from them."

This time Ahkmen went quiet.

"Do you like learning about things?" He asked when an idea popped into his head.

"Why have you ask this?"

"I like learning about things. It's a distraction, of sorts," he said, fidgeting with his fingers.

"... alright. Better than sitting," you said, grunting as you attempted to rise to your feet.

Ahkmen stood before you did, chuckling as he noted you quietly trying to convince your cat to get off you.

"You do not sleeping forever," you cooed, bopping her nose gently with your fingertip. "I will come back."

Eventually, the warm lights of your home made way for the evening chill, bathing you in darkness halted only by the presence of a half-full moon. This late into the night––or early in the morning––near no one was awake, and if they were, they were contained mainly to their bedrooms within the walls of their homes. It left the streets and walkways vacant as you wandered aimlessly at Ahkmen's side.

Though most everywhere was quiet and unoccupied, there were houses in which lights had been lit, visible through windows that allowed it to pour out onto the ground outside. Those little spots of light illuminated your path, allowing you to skip over rocks that you would've otherwise tripped over.

"Are you religious, Yogasundari?" Ahkmen asked, his hands folded behind his back as he strolled with you.

"A what?"

"Do you believe in Gods, in a life after death," he clarified.

"My family is," you said, kicking a pebble. "They talk to this god, Shiva Pashupati. I am – my name, it is from the Bandha, which – it is to sit in a way as He makes."

"Shiva..."

"Pashupati."

"Right. What do you ask of him? If you do ask anything," he said, glancing between you and the path ahead.

"Food, no danger, you know," you said with a shrug. "I do not know a lot. My parents did not speak about my home a lot. I know... there is more Gods, but I know no names."

"We have many Gods as well. They lead us into a happy afterlife. Has anyone ever told you about who we worship?"

"No, but I want to know."

"For starters, that temple you work at––it's the home of Osiris, who is the ruler of the underworld, where we go when we die. He is a God of power, righteousness, and death. People here are allowed to choose which Gods they want to worship at any given time, but many choose favorites. For example, I am a devotee of Khonsu and Ptah."

The river before you grew nearer till you stood at the bank's edge, the edge of your toes just barely touching the water. You hardly noticed where the both of you were walking, but you recognized this spot, and identified it as the place Ahkmen had washed up the other day.

"Khonsu... and Ptah," you said in deep concentration as Ahkmen pulled you up onto the wooden docks. "What do they do?"

"Khonsu is a God of the moon, of time, and can extend or shorten the lifespans of anyone he meets. Ptah is a creator-god, so he creates many things, like you do," he said, his hand falling from yours as he stopped at the edge of the dock. "He is a blacksmith of sorts."

Ahkmen bent down, kneeling with one knee on the wood and the other raised to his chest. From there he pulled at the rope keeping a canoe in place, reaching forward to steady the boat when it came loose, now slave to the soft currents of the river.

No words were exchanged as he once more took your hand, helping you into the canoe. You grabbed the oars so as to balance yourself, even though it didn't help in the slightest, and took your seat on the bow of the small boat. Ahkmen soon followed, sitting down across from you. He took the oars and began to row slowly away from the shore.

"The Nile is a beautiful thing that brings to us life through the power of the God Hapi, who controls the floods that entail both death and revitalization. But, if you sail straight across, we find our earthly version of the underworld," he said, and the few words you could understand seemed to only confuse you.

"I am not sure I –"

"The Eastern bank is for the living," he said, gesturing to the city behind him. "The Western is where the dead lie forever. It is where the sun casts its' final rays before dying."

"Ohhh," you said with a wide jaw, looking out over his shoulder to the banks ahead of you.

You had, for a time, wondered why the other shore seemed deserted while the one you occupied was so lively. You had also wondered why there were massive pyramids shining a stark white against the warm sand and blossoming trees, their heights a monument of human achievement, jutting out of the desert to remind all who watched that there was greater power than they will ever behold.

"The pyramids out there," Ahk paused to look behind him before returning to you and rowing, "they're tombs. Resting places of great Pharaohs who came before us."

"Those are for one person?!" You asked with wide, shocked eyes.

"Each one is built for one person, yes," he chuckled. "Generally we're not allowed to go here unless it is for prayer, but I don't think anyone will ask questions this late at night."

Crickets and frogs croaked from the safety of bog-like swarms of lilypads, welcoming you loudly to the land of the dead within the land of the living. Ahkmen jumped out of the boat, sullying his sandals and skirt in muddy water as he traipsed through the undergrowth, bringing the stern of the ship to rest fully on the unmoving shore.

Once he finished that, he took your hand, helping you out of the canoe and onto dry land. You thanked him quietly, and in turn led him out of the water.

The distant pyramids had been a wonder to you, but you never gave them much thought. You didn't know what they were used for, if anything, and you had no idea why, or even how, they were built. Now the alabaster pikes remained shadows against a star-lit sky, a painting of a million stars illuminating nothing more than a silhouette of the once glittering pyramids. Your breath caught in your throat as you stared up. They were much taller than you'd originally thought.

"A good long while ago, there was a Pharaoh by the name of Djoser, and he was the first to build any sort of pyramid. Before him, the graves of Pharaohs remained simple mastabas. I look up to Djoser quite a lot... him and his vizier, of course. Imhotep. He was the one who did the most work," Ahkmen rambled as the two of you continued forward, nearing the monuments.

"... how did you.. make these?" You asked in an awestruck voice, murmuring in the presence of great beasts.

"Many years," he said, continuing on. "And much devotion."

Ahkmen went on to explain in great detail what the pyramids contained––their history, their wealth in both understanding the ancestors, as well as the wealth of treasure hidden beneath what seemed like miles of stone. He told you of the different rooms within, where offerings were still placed to this day.

Given the overwhelming size of the pyramids, it took longer than you imagined to get to the end of the long line, where the step pyramid sat. Ahkmen began to approach the tomb, but halted when he noticed you weren't at his side. Turning round, he found you stuck in place, your hands raised anxiously to your chest as you stared at the pyramid.

"Yogi?"

Nothing.

"Yogasundari, are you alright?" He tried, this time returning to you and gently pulling your hands apart, hoping to stop your straining fidgets.

"This is... a King," you said in a quiet voice, the glaze in your eyes slowly disappearing as you came to focus on him.

"Well, yes," he said with a frown. "We do have those, you know."

"Sorry, I... sorry," you murmured, and as Ahk's grip on you fell, you walked on past him towards the tomb.

"Wait," he reached for your wrist, turning you around, "are you alright?"

He had not asked you to apologize for any behavior––he had asked you if you felt okay, and that was the answer he sought.

"I am good," you assured him with a chuckle. "I am thinking on Kings and my family. I do not want to... make dirty of your Kings, but it is hard to think of Kings and to not think of family."

"Oh, don't worry about that," he said, taking your hands once more. "We're actually going to be desecrating holy ground so it's alright to say fuck you to some Kings."

Out of the two options he gave you, you decided to enter the tomb, opposed to scaling the sheen surface of polished limestone. Moonlight from a half-moon reflected off that clear stone, a light that faded away as Ahkmen led you into the earth.

Staircases upon hallways upon staircases led deep into the ground, lined with stray dust and paintings of stories Ahkmen hardly understood, let alone you. The darkness soon came to a high, leaving you in a pitch-black darkness too thick to even see each other. You stumbled forward, bumping your head on Ahk's shoulder, and letting out a small cry.

"You alright?" He said, offering his hand before remembering you would not be able to see.

"I am okay," you said, dirt and sand shuffling as you made your way back to your feet. "We need light."

"We'll find a torch soon, we can take that," Ahkmen said.

As predicted, a few steps forward with his hand running along the wall, and he found the end of a burnt out torch. At the next crossroads there would be a vat of oil, with which he could relight it.

"When the Pharaoh, Djoser, built this place," Ahkmen said as he lit the torch, holding it up to see the hieroglyphs above your heads, "he built it with temples outside, courtyards... gardens and houses. It was a city all for his death. And none of it was used until he died. All his life he built this pyramid, and never reaped the benefits."

"Why?" You asked, looking up from Djoser to him.

"It's a purpose in life. At least, that's how I see it," he said, his voice growing quieter. "I think that it is our purpose to leave this world better than when we came into it. This was simply his way of doing it."

"How will you doing it?"

"... I don't know," he murmured after a moment of silence.

His eyes fell to you, meeting your gaze as you simultaneously looked up with a special sort of adoration in the reflection of your eyes. Time paused; his heartbeat, his breath, the flame in his hand. You still waited expectantly.

"I will find my purpose someday," he said. "I'm still young."

"You will say that to the day you die."

The long hallways were much more entertaining with your sight returning, allowing you to scan and absorb the art painted on every surface. It was hard to tell who was who, but those in power were always clearly marked, and those below them would always tremble by their might. You bit the inside of your cheek, tearing your eyes away from the gory scene and following Ahkmen onwards.

"Here we reach the blue chambers," Ahkmen said, his echoing voice calling your attention away from the dark hallway walls.

You looked ahead to him, past him, to the blue strokes of paint shrouding the ceiling in midnight and stars. Your mouth fell open as you looked straight up.

A woman's body was stretched across the center plane of the room, her toes at the door and hands at the opposite end. Her skin was a deep blue, peppered with yellow, five-pointed stars. Massive jars and pots neatly filled the corners of the room, half-buried in dust, the paint still remaining on the surface. Besides that, the room remained empty, cobwebs filling the space, and dissipating wherever Ahkmen held his torch.

From here, there were two directions to choose from; left and right. Painted reeds lined the entrances, captioned by the hieroglyphs far above your head.

"Down that way is the burial vault," Ahkmen said, pointing down to the left, "and down that way is the King's apartment."

"Why would you need a apartment in a death home?"

Ahk snorted, "a tomb, you mean. It's to be used in death. Everything you are buried with comes with you in the afterlife, so those with great riches build homes they want, treasures they want to carry forever. It's a portable home."

"Hmm," you said in a detached tone, wide eyes turning back to the painted walls. "There is so much turns. I do not know how we get out."

"Ah, the layout of the pyramids remains a mystery to all but me," he said with a wide, cocky grin, throwing his arm over your shoulders. "I will lead us safely onwards."

You giggled, covering your mouth as you did. It disappointed him slightly not to see your smile, but he kept to his word, and led you down to the Pharaoh's 'apartments'. He rehearsed the correct path to the living areas, and by the time he came to the split path he recalled which turn to take.

He moved to continue quickly on, but you paused, his arm falling from your shoulders as you stood in place. That quickly caught his attention, and he returned to you.

You were staring at the wall with a furrowed brow, eyes searching the large blue tiles.

"Faience," he told you, sneaking up from behind. You jumped slightly, relaxing when you realized it was him.

"It is beautiful."

"It's meant to look like the palace," he said, easily recalling much of his studies on Imhotep's pyramid. "Mimicks the reed mats and such."

Several passageways and long, detailed hallways later, the two of you arrived in a room stacked with dark, elegant cabinets filled with everything from clothes to chairs. Red and reed carpets covered the floor, broken after their long-lived lives. As with many of the rooms and halls you'd already seen, the room was filled with vases and jars of all sizes, containing everything from honey to bits of unprocessed stone.

Being a home of sorts for the royal family from years ago, it contained a number of comfortable chairs, as well as detailed carpets both hung and set on the ground. Spiderwebs had grown over the edges, crowding the corners of the room with dusty string.

"As long as you know the paths of the pyramids, they can be a good place to find solitude. Sometimes I enjoy studying here," he said, craning his neck to look at the hieroglyphs carved onto the ceiling.

"You do work a lot, I think," you said, your shuffling feet slowly moving to the end of the room.

"Perhaps so. But you cannot claim that without acknowledging you work quite a lot, as well," he said with a smile. His amusement grew when you just nodded, pretending to understand what he had just said.

For the remainder of the evening, Ahkmen set to what he had been planning all along––distracting you from your dissipating drunken haze, as well as from the thought of your parents. Studying and researching had always done well to keep his own mind off things, so he offered the same opportunity for you.

A chart of the night sky hung above the frame of a bed, numerous blankets and pillows cast haphazardly aside upon it. You were reluctant to put any more weight on it, but Ahkmen assured you it would be fine, and pushed you to lie down, staring up at the ceiling.

"Do you see the brightest star?" He asked, climbing over you to sit on your hips, his hands on your waist.

"To that way?" You asked in return, gesturing to the right with your chin.

"Mhm. Her name is Sopdet. When she rises in the night sky in the summer, she brings with her the floods of the Nile," he said softly, creeping closer still, "and the fertility of the land. She is married to Sah, who holds yet another place in the sky. When Pharaohs die... that is where they go."

"What does Sah do?"

"He is one of the largest constellations," he said, a grin forming across his face. Ahkmen began to creep up your body, using his fingers like claws as he gripped you. "He is eaten in the morning and spit out at night––and he rises into the sky to protect his wife."

You giggled, blushing from the intense overacting of the man pinning you to the old bed.

"He is a God who sails the skies. He navigates the stars in a papyrus skiff, and the old Pharaoh's souls go with him. It is a death I yearn for," Ahkmen said, his energy suddenly cooling, his hands less grasping you and more holding you.

"I like to see the stars now. You show where they are, yes?" You asked, searching his eyes as you looked up.

Behind the faint halo of his face, the soft skin reflecting the dying light of the torch, stars painted in gold on a midnight canvas surrounded him. It was him, the life in his eyes against the eternity of the sky––distant, and far enough to only be found in the heart.

"Of course," he said with a smile, crinkling and blushing around his grey eyes.

[hardskz]

bow down.

pairing — bang chan x genderneutral! reader

genre — modern royalty au, drama-ish, smut; sexual tension-ish, hand kink, brat tamer! chan, degradation, leg humping, humiliation

synopsis — you have eyes. prince bang chan is a whole snack. but you also have too high of an ego and can’t seem to accept that prince chan isn’t full of himself unlike the other dozen members of any royal family you’ve met before. alternatively, this is the disney channel movie ‘princess protection program’ but make it porn only.

note — this fic with a wc of 7k+ does not include any spoilers to the movie and you don’t even have to know what the movie is about you’ll get the gist as you read. ngl half of this is from one of my drafts from like 3 years ago and i never continued it so here i am turning it into filth hahahah (and i needed a fresh idea for brat tamer chan and hence why i think the sfw part is better written than the nsfw lmao) rip also pls accept this as the follower milestone gift and 1 year anniversary special :’)

“I’m pretty sure I asked for a puppy for my birthday — which was three months ago may I add — not for a new roommate?”

You look back and forth between Youngjae and the stranger sitting on the couch who is staring back at you with a curious expression. He looks around your age and you admit, his face isn’t the kind of face that makes you thank your parents that genetics did a decent job on you. It’s quite the opposite, actually.

His face is the type of face that makes you ask your parents why genetics didn’t do a better job on yours. Okay, you haven’t reached that stage of visual inferiority yet but that’s mainly because he is dressed in clothes that were trendy in the 15th century or something. The garments clinging to his skin look like a bad fusion of a suit (which college student wears a suit in their free time?) and the ridiculous costume the marching band at your former high school had worn whenever a football game was up. And those weird golden pins clipped on the blazer makes it seem as if he used to be in the marines or comes from a royal bloodline or—

Oh. 

“Don’t mind my cousin, your Highness. (y/n)’s humor has always been questionable.”  Youngjae sends you a glare before he puts on his sweetest smile — you know, the act he puts on whenever he tries to negotiate a bonus with his boss or woo his date — and opts to ignore your presence. “Anyway, since we are dealing with a more serious issue at hand than originally expected, we need to give you a makeover to—“

Before he gets to finish his sentence, you violently tug him away from the prince and despite Youngjae thrashing around and complaining, you manage to send the guest a forced smile and leave his vision. The moment you let go of Youngjae in the neighboring room, he readjusts his collar. “What? Couldn’t you have waited once I was done? Also, was it necessary to crinkle my collar this much?” he hisses but you get straight to the point.

“What is he doing here?”

“Uh, sitting on the couch?”

“That’s not what I mean.” you grit your teeth and land a punch on his arm. “What is he doing here?”

Youngjae looks over your shoulder, making sure that what he’s about to say next is only heard by you. “Prince Chan is,” he hesitates, unsure how to approach his topic. You know it’s taking up his last nerves to conclude a logical explanation as the tip of his tongue pokes out of the corner of his lips; a habit he has adapted ever since he stopped chewing on his bottom lip. “The predicament he’s in is worse than we expected. Well, his dad is partially at fault because he forgot to tell us this not-so-small critical detail that—“

“Youngjae, you’re rambling.”

“The point is.” he sighs and gives you a distressed look as if he already knows you’re not going to like the information at all. “We can’t send him to the family in Goyang, the place he was originally going to stay in. He’s one of the more extreme cases and the Board agreed that he had to live with one of the active combatants to ensure his safety.”

Silence engulfs the kitchen and you know he’s waiting for you to count two and two together.

“He’s going to live here,” you deadpan eventually and Youngjae nods in confirmation.

“I know you’re not very happy—“

“Not very happy is underwhelming.” You earn a flick against your forehead and yelp in pain as you over the spot he just hit. “Ow! I was just stating the truth!”

“Will you stop interrupting me? Geez. Yes, I know that you’re not happy at all. I know that you’re not a huge fan of the majority of our family working in this business. But please do me this one favor or so help me God— try to be nice to him for the next year.”

“He’s staying for a year?” you shriek and in the blink of an eye, Youngjae clamps your mouth shut.

“Can you keep it down?!” he whisper-yells, then retreats his hand and reverts to a conversational tone with a frown. “It’s just a year, okay? Y’know, just... say hi to him whenever you see him. Act civilized.”

You grimace as he stresses his last words like you didn’t know what human decency was. The longer you keep the petrified expression on your face, the more it turns into a staring contest between the two of you. Just as if you were each other’s reflection, you mimic his actions and vice versa. When Youngjae squints, you squint. When you shoot him a glare, he returns it. It all boils down to the final blink that Youngjae feints and you’re the first to look away.

“Okay fine! I’ll try to behave,” you mumble in defeat.

A satisfied smile makes its way on Youngjae’s lips. “It’s always nice negotiating with you.”

Being born into a family where the majority works for the royalty protection program (short: RPP or as you like to stylize it: argh-pee-pee), also known as the secret service for people with crowns on their heads, comes with many perks. In your eyes, this privilege comes with many, many downsides that aren’t worth the advantages. Sure, there is the one or other occasion where you can waltz around in fancy evening attire and attend an actual ball, but overall, it’s a pain in the ass.

Even though it’s prohibited to openly declare that you work for the RPP, the news always finds its way out. Usually, it takes approximately a week for pretty much half of the neighborhood to find out. And it certainly isn’t nice hearing whispers about your dad being that guy working for the program whenever you step out of your house, which is ultimately why you moved in with your cousin Youngjae. (Housing in your small town wasn’t really affordable for a dirt poor college student after all!)

Youngjae has always been your favorite cousin out of the... whatever number of cousins you have. But here’s the thing. He also works for the RPP.

However, somehow he managed to — and up to this day it still remains a mystery to you how on earth he did that — keep his job a secret. Especially with his tendency to dish out the worst kinds of secrets when he’s slightly tipsy. Frankly, you once considered printing out the image of a trophy for that remarkable feat.

With your dad and cousin both active in that business (because organization sounds too shady), it’s not the first time you meet a prince, so you already know how the entire thing works. The concept is quite simple; they get sent to a household but before they settle in and take on a fake identity until their circumstances have improved, they undergo a makeover. Most of the time, it ends up in the glow up you secretly crave but in Prince Chan’s case, you suppose he can’t get any more attractive.

Oh boy. You’re in for a ride.

You’re busy slicing bell peppers for the meal you were cooking when both your cousin and the prince enter the kitchen and Youngjae explicitly demands you to pay them attention. You don’t react immediately, but the moment he threatens to swipe the knife away from you, you perk up and set your desire to prepare your fried rice aside.

“(y/n), uh, hi? I’m Bang Chan and I’ll be your new housemate for a year. I hope we can get along.” Chan recites his introduction without any mistakes and earns a way too brotherly pat on the back from Youngjae, considering that they just met this morning. It’s truly amazing how fast Youngjae can get people to warm up to him. 

Chan is stripped out of his weird clothes and instead, looks like he threw on the next best thing lying around in his room. Nonetheless, despite the seemingly little effort that was put into the outfit, it looks oddly good. The stylists didn’t seem to do much to his hair and just parted his bangs a little, so one could catch a slight glimpse of his forehead. It’s just a small detail, but you find yourself liking his current appearance much more appealing than before, though you’re pretty sure his clothes played a major part in your previous distaste. 

“Remember Jihyo?” Youngjae interrupts your train of thought. “She’s Chan’s relative. And because I’m the genuine friend who loves to help her out, I decided to agree to this after she went down on her knees and begged me to let Chan live with us for a while—“

“I’m not interested in your blown up, fictional background stories, thank you very much.” you backtrack. “Wait. Did you say Jihyo? Seriously? Jihyo is his alibi?” Of course, you remember Jihyo. It’s quite difficult to forget her when Youngjae used to swoon about her at every hour of the day, back when they were a thing. Besides, she still stops by every few months.

“C’mon, you have to admit there is a similar vibe between them!” 

You furrow your brows and inspect Chan a second time. Your gaze wanders back to Youngjae and then returns to Chan anew. It’s obvious that the latter is feeling as if he were up for auction and you can’t really blame him for feeling so uncomfortable. You’ve heard from a few friends that if looks could kill, you’d have the highest killing record. 

There’s no similar vibe in your view, but for the sake of entertaining Youngjae’s thoughts: “He does seem similar to Jihyo.”

“Told ya. But back to more important matters,” Youngjae coughs and wraps his arm around your shoulder to pull you closer, but it somehow seems as if he’s opting to strangle you. “My duties are calling, so I won’t be back until late. You look like you could need some help with cooking, by the way. I’m sure Chan right here is willing to help you!”

“I’m almost done though—“ you choke when he tightens his embrace. By now, his arm is no longer hugging your shoulder, but rather crushing your throat.

“You look like you could need some help,” he repeats, this time with added urgency. “It’d be a great opportunity for you to bond since you’ll also share pretty much all classes at uni. Did you know, he has the same major as you! Besides, it’d be a very useful life experience for him if he helped you with cooking.”

“Of course, how fun!” you hiss, voice going an octave higher from the lack of oxygen. “I already said that I’m painfully delighted about that, so you can let me go now, Youngjae!”

A sneer and a jab in his arm later, Youngjae finally takes his leave. That nasty liar, leaving an hour earlier than his schedule stated. You know that silently cursing at him isn’t going to make your problems dissolve because that’d be a dream come true.

“Listen, let me get things straight.” you sigh, picking up the knife to resume chopping your vegetables. Youngjae may have ordered you to act civilized, but having eye contact with Chan when you’ve been starving for the past hour isn’t your priority. Food doesn’t make itself. “I don’t have any intention of getting close to you and I expect the same from you. Don’t step a foot into my room, don’t talk to me unless absolutely necessary, and don’t think I’ll run around and do your chores or cook your meals like one of your little servants. Just because you’re a prince doesn’t mean you’ll be treated like one under this roof.”

“We live in the 21st century, not the renaissance. Your idea of royal families is very dated.” Chan chuckles dryly.

“Baron Yoon Jeonghan from the seven islands is a stuck-up prick and out of touch with the world. It took him several visits to the slums, multiple voluntary hours at the kindergarten, and stripping him off his bank card to make him see reason,” you deadpan. Fuck Baron Jeonghan. Just thinking about your first and last encounter with that entitled douchebag almost makes you slice your finger instead of the bell pepper. “Duchess Yoo Shiah threw a hissy fit when she found out her clothes weren’t dry cleaned and bought from Zara instead of fucking Dior. The one who takes the cake when it comes to privilege is Princess Kim Min—”

“Everyone knows they are problematic,” Chan interjects. True, he has a point. There’s nobody out there who doesn’t know about Baron Jeonghan or Duchess Shiah but he’s also missing the entire point.

“And guess who gets stuck under the care of the RPP?” you raise a brow at him. He blanches at the realization as if he got struck with lightning. Perhaps you should give him more credit because he seems to own more brain cells than Baron Jeonghan. “Exactly. Everyone problematic.” 

Chan’s jaw is clenched as he racks his brain to come up with a smart comeback. The sight of him stumbling on his words is nothing but pitiful, so you turn back to the cutting board and grab an onion to slice in half. “I’m not interested in your sob story, your Highness. I don’t care why you’re under the protection of the RPP. The only thing I care about is that you stay out of my business.”

“Chan is fine. No need for the title,” he sighs with a strain. “Perhaps I should’ve been more considerate with my first comment. Youngjae already told me about your… negative attitude towards the entire setup. It wasn’t my intention to anger you. Sorry.”

Well, that’s new. Out of the dozens of aristocrats you’ve met (and sadly also shared a house with back when you were 16 years old and still living with your dad), he’s the first to drop his title within five minutes for the sake of the disguise and apologize. 

“We live under the same roof so we should get along with each other. If there’s something you need help with, just ask me, (y/n).”

“Thanks for the offer,” you reply nonchalantly because act civilized unless you want to suffer from a late-night sneak attack from Youngjae if he finds out. “But no thanks. I don’t need your help.”

You find yourself in need of help a few weeks later, right before the dreaded exam season.

“No. Forget it, Bam. I’m not going out clubbing with you tonight. In fact, I won’t do that anytime soon.” you let out an exasperated sigh as you try to break down to your friend that you prioritize your grades over his need of getting wasted.

“C’mon!” he whines so loudly that you have to put your phone farther away from your ear. “You’re not in that much stress yet! You have to make the most out of it before you drown in your exams.”

“Things are different for engineering students like, uh, me for example!” you hiss. “I fell behind and need to catch up. Ask Yugyeom or Changbin.”

“First of all, Yugyeom is always at the bar doing his job. And Changbin never picks up his phone. There’s nobody who’d dance with me!”

“You abandoned me at the bar for some chick the last time,” you deadpan. “I’m very sure you’ll find someone.”

Bambam finally gets the gist and gives up. “Fine then. Your loss. Have fun dying in numbers and variables instead of living in the moment. You’re going to regret it—”

You end the call and set your phone on mute before throwing it on the bed. Sometimes you wonder whether you were on drugs when you decided to major in engineering. The longer you stare at the jumble of numbers and letters — some of them in Greek too — the more you think your brain cells are decaying.

That’s how you find yourself in the kitchen, complaining at Youngjae’s expense and telling him how much you’d rather drown in bleach than subjecting yourself to Algebra II. 

“You know there’s someone you can ask for help and he’s right here,” Youngjae drawls before chugging down the rest of his beer. If he’s going to be a victim to your temper tantrum about a major that you chose yourself, he might as well get a drink so he won’t go insane from your monologue about numbers and graphs and formulas he’s forgotten since he graduated from high school.

You gawk at him. “You? Are you hearing yourself? You almost failed maths. Twice!”

“Because I didn’t mean myself, dipshit,” he says blankly and his eyes flit over your shoulder, “Speaking of the devil. There comes the man of honor.”

You whip your head back to the door to see Chan enter confusedly. “Uh, did I interrupt something?”

“Yes.”

“No, we were just talking about you!”

You send Youngjae a death glare which he casually shrugs off. “(y/n) here is bitching about her Statistics I class and needs a tutor!”

“It’s actually Algebra II if you bothered to pay attention—”

“(y/n) needs a tutor!” Youngjae exclaims and nearly trips on his feet when he gets up from his chair. “Channie, I heard you’re good with numbers. Didn’t you get accepted into all Ivy Leagues in the States for all engineering programs?”

“You didn’t have to word it like that,” Chan laughs it off and nervously rubs the back of his head. He’s not denying it though.

“Obviously he would. He’s loaded and lives in a castle,” you mutter under your breath, but everyone catches it.

“Hey,” Youngjae warns. “That wasn’t necessary.”

“It’s alright,” Chan says casually. “I just wanted to get myself a snack. But if you have some questions, don’t hesitate to knock on my door. The offer still stands, y’know.” He digs through the cabinet until he finds two packs of the strawberry flavored Pocky knockoff that is 1) apparently his favorite thing to eat and 2) half the price of the Pocky version. He gives Youngjae a thumbs up before he returns to his room.

The moment Chan is out of sight, Youngjae whips his head to you, nostrils flaring. All that’s missing is steam coming out of his ears and his face running red and then he looks like the impetuous brother in every kids cartoon ever. “Really? He’s been staying with us for how long now? Four weeks? Five? Yet you’re still acting as if he murdered you in your dreams or something.”

“I don’t like him,” you state coldly. Youngjae looks like he’s about to rip his hair out.

“Look, I get that you don’t like me being active in this field of work, and I get that you have some hatred against the royal families. But you know you signed up for this when you decided to move in with me.” Youngjae pauses to get a breather and pop a new beer bottle open. “Besides, Chan isn’t like Baron Jeonghan or Duchess Shiah. I have eyes, (y/n), and I’ve seen you two avoiding each other as much as possible. And he doesn’t just laze around — he does the fucking chores and cooks dinner too! Chan is good, (y/n).”

The last words make you snap. “Good? Are you fucking serious? Because that’s why the press in his kingdom is depicting him as a tyrant who cares more about building his sick harem instead of helping the poor. And wasn’t he diagnosed for having anger management issues?!”

All the color leaves Youngjae’s face. This is obviously something you shouldn’t know. While he’s scrambling for words, you take the chance to add, “Dunno why you’re protecting him when he’s making headlines as a prince who can’t keep his dick in his pants.”

“Chan isn’t just a prince,” Youngjae says quietly. “He’s the crown prince.”

Your eyes widen at the confession. “What? Isn’t that even worse with that reputation he has?”

“It’s all propaganda,” he sighs and takes a swig, “The ministers are doing everything they can to finish him off. You see, Chan is the only child of the current king of the seven islands, and if he’s wiped out, it’ll be utter chaos. Chan’s smart and I admit, he used to have anger issues, but he’s worked on them. Though I guess he’s resorted to bottling up his feelings when push comes to pull. The point is, all the higher-ups don’t want him as their future king because they know that Chan is very much capable of pulling through with his own ideas and that doesn’t sit well with them. And a supposedly impulsive future king is the last thing anyone wants, hence why his people are eating up the news.”

“Oh.” you’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel an ounce of remorse. However, it’s not the first time you’ve heard such stories. 

“Yeah. Oh,” Youngjae mocks, “If that’s the main reason why you don’t want to talk to him, now you know better. He might have power, but he’s not a monster. And for the record, he got into all Ivy Leagues and elite schools all over the world through his intelligence, not his status.”

Although you can see it in his eyes that Youngjae is done with the heated discussion, he’s still waiting for you to say something. You frown. “So… you think he’s a good tutor?”

“He’s your only shot.” Youngjae says nonchalantly, then adds with a warning tone, “But remember: Act. Civilized. Oh, and don’t tell him I told you about his circumstances. It’s supposed to be confidential information.”

You roll your eyes. How the fuck hasn’t Youngjae been busted yet?

Nonetheless, you’re trudging to Chan’s door a few minutes later, your fat binder of incomprehensible math formulas and (Greek) letter heavy in your arm. Chan opens the door with surprise etched on his face after you knocked, but it settles to warmth when you begrudgingly ask him to help you understand Algebra II. 

“Sorry, it’s a little messy here,” he chuckles airily once he lets you in. It’s not messy per se, just a few clothes piled up in a corner of the room and some books and messily written notes lying on his bed. Still, it’s by far cleaner than the pig stall that is Youngjae’s room (and yours when you’re having a very bad day).

Chan clears his desk and drags his other chair to the table before plopping down on it. “So, what’s the problem?” Instead of answering, you just shove a sheet of paper up his face. “Y’know, you can talk to me. If this is about earlier, it’s really alright. I’m not mad or anything,” he says with the same friendly tone you’ve been hearing ever since he moved in, yet he still takes the sheet from you. You watch his brows scrunch together the more he reads on, and you can already see the question forming in his mind.

“(y/n), you do know this is the basis to understand—”

“I was absent when the professor covered it and everyone I asked couldn’t quite explain it to me,” you respond before he can finish speaking out his thoughts. “All my friends were like—” you gesture with your hands, “—you just do this and that and then hope your hunch is right. Before you say it, yes I know that I don’t get the material of one entire unit and the exam is two weeks away.”

“Then let’s not waste any time,” Chan says before grabbing his iPad. You stare at him blankly as he writes something on his tablet. The last thing you expected from him was to accept it and try to hammer as much of missing information as he can into your brain, but then again, you’ve never seen him backtrack whenever Youngjae asks him something. Speaking of Youngjae, perhaps he is right. Chan does seem to know what he’s talking about.

“You have to subtract X first, then replace it with Y,” he explains as he circles said letters in different colors. By now, you’ve leaned closer to him to get a better view on what he’s writing (his handwriting isn’t the worst you’ve ever had to decode; refer to Youngjae who you’ve internally awarded with the worst handwriting of the decade). 

Chan is exceptionally good at explaining. You feel like you’ve figured out a secret of the world that not even Pythagoras found out as you slowly understand what on Earth you are supposed to calculate with the formula. Chan is patient, always asking if you got it or if you needed another clarification, and takes the time to draw colorful graphs to visualize the jumble of numbers. His voice is pleasing to the ear too, soft and gentle to the point where you’ve blurred everything out except Chan. Chan’s voice. Chan’s hand.

You didn’t mean to stare, but with him always adding something new every five seconds as he goes on with his monologue, you can’t help but do so. His fingers aren’t long — that’ll always be courtesy of Hyunjin from Subway and yes, his very pretty hands might be the sole reason you only insist on going to that one specific Subway at the intersection next to KFC — but just one glance at Chan’s hand and you know that he’s strong. 

He’s barely applying pressure to the pen, but you can see the veins slightly protruding. Chan’s sleeves are pushed back and if you move your head a bit, you’re more than certain that veins are bulging out from his forearms too. However, you don’t muster up the courage to do that because Chan will definitely notice and the last thing you want on your platter is to tell him that you were too busy checking out his arms instead of listening to him talk about Algebra II.

Eventually, Chan sets the pen down to stretch his hand. He says something, but you don’t pick up what exactly. Not that it’d matter much anyway since you’re too busy admiring his hand—

“(y/n), you there? I called out your name several times but you didn’t react.” Chan’s breath hitches and surprise flashes in his eyes for a split second when his gaze meets yours. You don’t understand his hesitation, but then horror bubbles in you once you realize that his hand is firmly gripping your chin and keeping your head pointed at his direction. The very same hand you’ve been staring at for God knows how long. 

“I’m good. Just a little tired, but I’m good,” you stutter, though it comes out very breathlessly as if you just finished a marathon.

“Tired?” Chan echoes, concern settling into his features. “You should’ve said so, then I would’ve stopped talking. You need something?”

Now that you think about it, you’ve never got a close look at Chan. Sure, he’s handsome, the countless pictures of Google prove that he’s also too photogenic for his own good (goddamnit, why didn’t your parents make you just as photogenic?) but in person, he’s something else. His lips are plush and look very inviting to kiss, and the lower your eyes wander, the more you see a toned chest hidden underneath that damn shit that hugs him in all the right places.

Fine, his hands aren’t the only attractive thing about him. Then again, he’s a prince.

“I said I’m good.” you snap out of your thoughts and finally gather enough control over your nerves to tear his hand away. “And I caught everything you said.” Of course, you know that’s a blatant lie and he knows so too from the way he’s looking at you. That is until he quirks a brow.

“Okay, then what did I say before I called you?”

Your mouth feels dry. It’s almost as if he knew the reason for your distress. “I caught everything relevant to this,” you mutter, suddenly finding his curtains much more interesting. What an interesting design, maybe you should get yourself new curtains too—

“Then you wouldn’t mind solving these questions, right? Just so I can make sure that you got everything down.”

“Sure,” you reply because that’s the only thing you could say without hurting your ego and straining your vocal cords. Chan doesn’t comment any further and looks for some practice questions before sliding the iPad to you. Already the first question makes your head spin in disdain. Numbers? Variables? Never heard of them.

Chan is watching you like a hawk as you fiddle with the pen, unable to write down anything that makes remote sense. Feeling his eyes on you makes you feel helpless and you shift around in your seat. “What are you staring at?” you glare at him once you give up for good, and you just hope that your look is as intimidating as you pictured in your head.

“You’re definitely exhausted. You’re shaking,” Chan points out. Your eyes widen as you stare down and realize that your thighs are shaking, and it’s then and there when you realize that you’re feeling hot. Seems like Chan doesn’t realize that because the worry written on his face is genuine. “You say the exam’s in two weeks right? We can stop for today and work on this tomorrow. That is if you still want my help.”

You nod and add in a tiny voice, “Yes, please.”

You’re too busy ignoring the heat building between your thighs to notice the borderline feral sound that leaves Chan.

“And here I thought you had quality bonding time.” Youngjae gives a disappointed look. “You’re acting even colder towards him than before your exam meltdown. Your prick level can only stoop down so low.”

You ended up getting tutor lessons from Chan every day before the dreaded day of judgment: the exam in Algebra II. You spent more hours in his room than on your own if you were completely honest, and the results were fruitful. While you did manage to pass the exam with a fairly high score, the price you had to pay was hell.

It’s almost as if Chan caught up on your hand fixation. Sometimes he twirled the pen in his fingers, sometimes it was the simple bracelet dangling on his wrist. Just when you thought he had you figured out, he asks you if you’re alright, visibly oblivious to his effect on you. Such duality in a person should be illegal, you conclude. If you die from whiplash, you know who the perpetrator is.

“You were the one who pretty much pressured me into asking him for help,” you drawl.

“I had good intentions only! You can’t keep up the I-hate-royal-families-blah-blah mentality the entire time!” Youngjae wails before stuffing a handful of chips in his mouth.

“Watch me.” You internally cringe at the loud crunching sounds he’s making and add vigorously, “And stop chewing so loudly.”

“You’ll get around or so help me God—” he groans when his phone buzzes. He doesn’t spare a glance at the caller ID because there’s only one person who has set his ringtone to the baby shark song specifically for when he’s calling. “I gotta go, Jinyoung’s being a bitch again. Don’t murder somebody. Thanks.” You only watch him shuffle for his bag and grab a handful of chips before he’s out the door. Groaning, you clean up the mess he’s made on the table. 

Just as you’re done wiping the crumbs off the surface, Chan pads into the room. 

“Hey, can we talk?”

“I established right at the beginning that you should only talk to me when absolutely necessary.” you scowl, trying to walk past him.

“Well, this is important,” he urges and blocks the doorway, effectively stopping you from fleeing. “And I do deserve one conversation with you after I helped you out.”

“You offered on your own. That’s not the same as asking for a favor.” You successfully push your way past him, but in the next moment, he spins you around and pins you against the wall. 

“We’re going to talk, whether you like it or not.” The sudden coldness of his tone has shivers running down your spine. Chan holds your wrist in an iron grip and if he clutched on any tighter, you wouldn’t put it past him to break your bones. Out of options, you comply and give him a curt nod before he lets go and takes a step back. 

“I don’t understand you, (y/n). I genuinely thought you would put your prejudices aside but instead, all I get are mixed signals from you.”

It’s your turn to gawk. “Me? Mixed signals? What are you talking about?” 

“I’m talking about how you keep looking at me as if you want me to fuck your brains out.” If the color hasn’t drained from your face yet, it has now. Chan smiles wickedly at your horrified reaction but doesn’t stop there. “I’m talking about how you talk like you don’t want anything to do with me but act as if you’re begging for my attention.” He takes a step closer to you, and you wish you could morph with the wall. “I’m talking about how you keep staring at my hands and think I don’t notice it.” You wince when he rests his hands against the wall on each side of your face, leaning closer so that you can feel his breath on your lips. “So, you have a thing for my hands?” Bullseye.

“You’re so full of yourself. No wonder your ministers want to get rid of you,” you snap because you’d rather suffer from food poisoning than admitting that you want Chan’s fingers in you.

Something shifts within Chan. He gapes at you, clearly not expecting you to even know about the ministers. His demeanor darkens in a blink of an eye, and you feel like your legs are about to give up on you when you meet his eyes, black and feral.

“You’re playing with fire. Don’t anger me,” he warns, voice low and rough.

“So it’s true that you resorted to bottling up your feelings, your Highness?” you cock your head to the side. Chan clenches his jaw at the mention of his title, struggling to keep his anger in check. You laugh through your nose, then grab one of his hands and force it away from the wall. If he already knows that you’re thirsting after him, might as well go for it. “It’s funny how your ministers aren’t able to string you around like a puppet yet here you are, unable to do anything against a commoner. You know you have nice hands and you know my weakness and yet, you’re not using them on me.” He gulps when you fumble with his fingers. 

And then he understands.

“Unless I misread the situation,” he says darkly, though you distinguish the slight tremor his voice carries. “Do you really want this? I’m not going to go easy on you.” Chan is dead serious, judging by the way he’s looking at you expectantly. 

“The safe word is petunia.” You don’t take your eyes off him and add in a louder tone, “Now try me, do your worst.”

“You’re going to regret wanting me at my worst,” Chan growls and before you know it, he crashes his lips against yours. The kiss is anything but sweet, more of a clash of teeth and tongues and saliva dribbling down your chins, yet it leaves you boiling hot and wobbly on your feet. He presses you up against the wall and forces his leg between yours, the sudden contact making you hunch forward. You moan against his mouth when he tugs harshly on your hair, the sting making your nerves go haywire. In the meantime, your hands roam his upper body, blunt nails digging into his shoulders as you try to buck your hips against his leg. While he doesn’t budge, you manage to elicit a groan out of him.

When you pull away, you’re both gasping for air. Chan’s hair is disheveled from the way you’ve been pulling on them, lips pink and glossy. One look in his eyes is enough to make your heart stop beating. They’re dark and animalistic and set ablaze with unfiltered lust. You’re such in a daze from a simple kiss that you nearly stumble when Chan drags you to his room.

He manhandles you on his bed with ease before his lips latch on yours once more. You nearly sob when he rids you off your pants, putting pressure in all the right places to have you losing your mind. As you’re about to gain back some dominance in the kiss, he breaks it off. His fingers that were once ghosting over your underwear are now tracing patterns all over the material, making you spasm. “You’re such a brat, all bark but no bite. All it takes is one kiss and you’ve lost all your fight. Can you get any more pathetic?” he mocks as he focuses his fingertips directly on the wet patch of your underwear. Your eyes roll back as he rubs on the same spot, the broken moans leaving you eerily similar to cries. “Don’t tell me you’re about to come like this. How sensitive are you?”

“Am n-not—” you cut yourself off with a whimper when he lets the waistband snap against your skin.

“Yeah, you sure about that?” he grins and that’s when you break, feeling your high approaching at lightning speed. 

“Don’t wanna come like this—” 

“But I thought you’re not sensitive?” the satisfied grin just widens with every syllable that leaves his lips. “If you don’t want to come like this, all over your underwear, beg.” 

Chan applies even more force to your sensitive spots, and you struggle to have a clear thought. The smirk he delivers is lethal, and you couldn’t be any more convinced that he’s the devil’s incarnate.

“I’ll do anything, please. Don’t let me come like this, that’s all I’m a-aah-asking for,” you weep, your blood nearly boiling at its climax, “I’ll even take a punishment!”

“Say my name,” he orders, fingers still drawing circles.

“Your—”

“My name, not my title.”

Your breath hitches as you finally realize what he’s aiming for. He wants you to remember that it’s him who’s reducing you into this illiterate mess. Him, the one you’ve been despising since before you even met. If you still had any ounce of dignity left, you’d try to fix the power imbalance until you’re left with no choice but to obey, but now you’re so close and the last thing you want to do is come with your pants on.

“Please, Chan,” your voice breaks towards the end and in an instant, he pulls away. As you’re letting you’re basking in the break from his brutal tempo, not too affected by how your upcoming orgasm is fading away, Chan observes you.

And then out of nowhere, he flips you on your stomach and delivers a hard smack to your ass that has you screaming into the pillows.

“You said you’d take any punishment too, right?” You twitch as he rubs the small of your back. You can already imagine the handprints on your ass he continued to slap you with such force that has you moving up the bed. The pain that’s going to haunt you for days. Before you know it, you try to arch your back to lift your ass, but then the bed shifts. “But if you really think I’m going to spank you as a punishment, then you’re really fucking dumb. As if I’ll use my hands on you when we both know you love my hands.”

With that, he drops himself on his chair, spreading his legs that you can see the prominent tent forming in his pants. He orders you over with a flick of his finger, and just as you get up from the bed, a new wave of horror flushes over you.

“Crawl.”

The look you send him is priceless. There’s no fucking way you can do it. It’s just a few meters, nothing you can’t handle, but he’s there sitting on his Ikea swivel chair as if it’s his throne made of gold, watching your every movement like a predator. And then there’s you, only in a shirt and underwear, being forced to go on all fours as if you were his fucking dog—

The difference in power display couldn’t get any more visible. He really is the fucking worst.

“You’d really do anything, huh…” he muses as you drop on your hands and knees and crawl to him, never looking up. It’s only when he beckons you to stand up that you look at him with nothing but rage and shame in your eyes. Chan has always been slightly terrified with your death stare but right now, he can’t take it seriously and it shows. It shows in the way he smiles lopsidedly, in the way his brows quirk in amusement. “Now hump my leg.”

Humiliation runs through your body all over. Your fists are clenched as he waits for you to act, even pats his thigh in case you didn’t get the memo. But oh you do, and his thigh does look inviting.

“Hump my leg like the brainless bitch you are. If you want my hands or my cock, you earn it first. Especially since you treated me like shit ever since I moved in.” The last sentence burns you badly because he has a point. But then there’s the prospect of his hands and dick that’s bulging out of his pants. 

Pushing all thoughts away, you settle on his leg. Taking a moment to gather yourself, you tell yourself it’s all good and then you move. The first thrust knocks all air out of your lungs and you grab onto his shoulders for support. You didn’t even move that much, but Chan’s looking at you as if he’s about to fucking devour you and knowing that he is very much capable of moving you around, you’re starting to become overwhelmed.

Eventually, you lose yourself in the feeling of his rough jeans against your drenched underwear, humping on his thigh as your orgasm builds up. It’s silent, save for your pants, and the countless whimpers flying past your lips as your movements gradually become sloppier. You’re almost there and you know it. But so does Chan, and the moment he’s got it figured out, he lunges from your hips and forces you to pick up the pace. 

“Oh no, you’re going to come,” he growls, ignoring your pleas and sobs. Adrenaline courses in your blood and you know it isn’t long until you fall apart. You try to make him stop, even put your hands on his, but you don’t have the energy to actively push him away.

“Chan, please— I’m gonna—”

“You’re gonna come? Then fucking come on my thigh, (y/n),” he snaps, and then adds, “You hear that? You’re about to come from humping my thigh.”

Maybe it’s the realization that he’s right, maybe it’s the way he’s worded it. Either way, it’s the last straw to make you spasm as you come, soaking your underwear and even managing to make a mess out of his pants. Chan makes sure you ride through your orgasm, only stopping to move your hips once you’re all spent and resting your head on his shoulder. Your eyes are glassy, vision foggy, but the only thing you can envision clearly is Chan.

Chan jolts when your hand grazes over his bulge. You’re about to undo his pants, but he’s quick to stop you and restrict your hands behind your back.

“You think you deserve my cock? Dream on. As if I would fuck any commoner, especially those who don’t respect me,” he spits, and you flinch at his choice of words, clearly recalling that you used the exact same terms and he’s now using it against you. “You said you’d take any punishment. Well, guess what? This was just punishment number one.”