hell hole

+18; minors pls dni 💕 yoonu | 22 | requests are : open Do not repost. Writing for future timeline; characters all aged up.

[staytheword]

First I’ll start this by saying thank you so much for both of your series, I seriously wasn’t expecting to love them as much as I did. To the point where I had to sleep 1 hour before going to work because I’ve just binge read your series works.

The Jisung rockstar series made ME BAWL MY EYES OUT, you had me there for a moment, I really thought somewhere along the line they would really finish the HUGE fling they had and my heart just broke, no fic has ever put me in me tiptoes like this one did. I loved every second and I really felt like they deserved to be together. Also I love how your Y/Ns are always reckless, fuck the world why not Y/Ns, I lived for how logical but emotional your Y/Ns are. I was wondering what they’re up to now, few years gone by, did the band prosper or fail? Are Y/N and jisung still together or did fuckboi jisung appeared in the way? Did Y/N visit her hometown and meet her loving friend Changbin? PSPSPSPSPS a little taste please

Also the dilemma of an ex friend pulling a friend away from Changbin really hit home here. Thank you for your story, it really helped me heal a little bit and think how could things go in another perspective.

GAAAAAH I really really really loved Minho and Changbin biker series, another amazing series delivered amazingly by you. I love how you write the side characters and how their different personalities are so well executed, I love how you’re able to write a slow burn that isn’t slow at all, but doesn’t feel rushed neither. I love how different they all are, I loved every single bit and I loved even more how the poly couple complimented each other. I love how Y/N managed to be a wreck even though she worked with such gracious and innocent things like flowers. But my delulu romantic self kept wondering if older Minho ever settled down? I’d love to see how Y/N being a old lady would be, because of course the loving Changbin would make Y/N one, but Minho is just that missing piece to Y/N thunderstorm, like a little mirror to her. I wonder if Y/N ever ended up being Minho’s AND Changbin’s old lady. That would be the first and the best poly fic I’d prolly would find. Imagine a full house with the three of them, and probably their descendants, that would be fun to explain onto next generations. Surely a mark in history of the club.

Sorry for my English, it’s not my first language, and thank you again for your work!

hello ♡♡ I hope you are doing alright? I received this some time ago and I really really wanted to answer although I don't really write anymore, you have really made me smile and I wanted you to know that ♡

I hope you got more sleep after reading - and your english is great, really, omg ♡ thank you for everything you said, it is so sweet of you and it always moves me to realize that people actually get invested in the stories I write 😭 and that it could help you heal a little - that means a lot. that couldn't have been easy. in fact i know it isn't. so please accept this hug ♡♡

aaaaah I wish I had a little taste to give you about lmly!!!!! honestly, I don't really know. I never wrote more of them, maybe because in my heart they are living their best life and not caring what anyone else says or thinks. I'm not sure about the details, but really, I know they are happy ♡ (and ofc yn can never leave changbin alone... you can be sure she visits often)

i mean emotion IS the leading force in everything, i think. i sort of made that thinking my life's work in both writing and academia. so i appreciate it, really ♡ thank you for loving my characters. 😭

thank you also about roses. i've said this multiple times but this series was soooo fun to write, so to see that people have fun reading it is everything. "slow burn that isn't slow at all but isn't rushed either" i love this ♡ and for your questions, once more I don't have a lot of answers for you, I will let you imagine what you prefer ♡ buuut I will say that i don't think minho will have ever been able to stay far away, i'm sure he's lurking and a frequent guest in the household. the next generations will certainly hear about it :'') "that missing piece to yn's thunderstorm" that is so beautifully said 😭 you got it, anon. that makes me very emotional ♡♡

i'm so sorry i can't give you more, but it means a lot that you would have these questions, that you care about what happens to them in the future, i'm very touched and grateful for it. ♡♡ thank YOU for taking the time to write this to me, i'm sending you a lot of love and please take care!!!!! :) ♡♡♡

[manjir0]

Thank you for taking your time and reading my question and answering it even though you don’t write anymore. Thank you and I hope you’re loving your best life!! 💖

[personasintro]

corrupted | myg

↳ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬; what's worse than living in a fucked up and corrupted world?

⇢ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: yoongi x reader

⇢ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: mafia au, angst (?)

⇢ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: explicit language, misogyny, no feminism here, everything is fucked up here (hence the title lol)

⇢ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.9k+

While the world's riots and country has been unsettled for a while now, rotten and violated by local gangs, it is not the most unsettling part though. Citizens say it is controlled by someone of a higher and more dangerous status. Someone whose people always lurk in the shadows, doing dirty business. One, many people don’t know any details of.

You being one of them.

Being just another person who has been forced into living in today’s world, not that anyone had a choice, there is not much knowledge. People talk, they gossip and jump into conclusions. It’s hard to say what’s true or not. So naturally, they speculate and it’s always something harsh and scary.

After all, that’s how it works now.

Unless you’re not a part of one of the gangs, earning your rightful place there and doing all the dirty work of all kinds, you’re just a basic human trying to survive and not get into any trouble.

People work where they can. Just enough to earn money and buy themselves food, somewhere they can live and stay. The amount of homeless people who steal has rapidly increased since the government is gone. Everything is corrupted. Empty. Without life. Just darkness and fear.

There were times when the world has progressed.

Not for women, it is hard to find yourself a good living. Unless you don’t want to be a part of any brothel that’s almost at every corner. People are desperate. Some women love to do it, perhaps they feel powerful that way. Some are not there because they want to be. They use their bodies to bring food and a proper living either to themselves, or to their families.

It’s one of the things you refuse to do. As anyone could imagine, it’s not the cleanest and safest work. One you really refuse to succumb to.

But enough to go out, praying no harm will come to you during your time out of the comfort of the rented small and old apartment that you're staying in.

Clubs and bars are no safer than what is outside, right behind every wall and door. You still consider it as a better alternative of how you could earn enough money to cover your rent and bring food for yourself.

Some women, actually a good part of them, latch themselves to a gang man. It is one of the choices that secures you at least some kind of protection, money, food and roof under your head. They’re known to have more money and security. You see a member of a gang? You run. You don’t indulge yourself with any of them. They’re dangerous. Don’t take no for answers. Most of them.

So far, you haven’t had the chance to really talk to any of them. You avoid them at all costs.

People come out to drink and have fun, even if they know that if someone just got killed at this very moment, only few would react. That’s how fucked up this world is.

No one is truly safe. Even under the fake facade of the world being relatively at peace right now — the words of whispers saying it’s the big boss controlling the country — no one guarantees you safety. Whoever is “up there” and is not afraid to kill or do different sorts of fucked up actions, does not care about anyone’s lives. So many people lost their lives.

People you knew.

And no one cared.

Relatives can’t get any justice. Not even revenge.

A gang member kills someone you know? Someone you loved? There’s nothing you can do, unless you or someone you care about wants to be killed. It’s fucked up.

It’s almost ironic how people dance to the loud music, seeming not to care about how truly fucked up it really is. It’s almost like the world hasn’t changed, people laugh, have fun and are getting drunk. However, there is still a shadow casting upon everyone’s head, filling up every inch and corner available. Nothing is the same anymore.

You would be stupid to tell yourself anything different. Even if it was under the mask of pretending. Even if it’s for a while.

Sitting on a hardened bar stool, you shift in your spot to make yourself comfortable which is very impossible. The bar is hectic. It seems to be doing well considering the amount of people here. One of your neighbors told you they could possibly hire you. It does sound a little silly considering there are no contracts now. They either take you and you do what they say, or you can forget about any job.

As you scan your surroundings in this dim lighting, you spot someone sitting in the corner of your eyes. An empty barstool between you as that someone happens to be a man. You wouldn’t pay him that much attention, you’re just merely cautious when it comes to anyone that’s an arm length from you. He’s just sitting there, enjoying the drink that’s in front of him. It’s hard to spot any of his features, the lack of lights here make it very difficult.

You’re in your own thoughts, focusing on the sounds around you which are just loud and blasting music when suddenly the stranger stares dead in your eyes. Something clenches in your chest, a good portion of shock at the sudden eye contact as he must’ve felt you watching him. There is so much darkness that you fail to notice the tiny smirk that curls the corner of his lips.

He’s got strong features, a smaller and slightly rounder nose — at least that’s what you guess from the seconds that he stares right back at you until he turns back and focuses his eyes on his drink. He plays with a glass, long fingers wrapped around its neck as his fingertips brush ever so slightly against it.

Gulping, you look away, embarrassed that he has caught you so easily. So much for staying low…

“Hiya, cheeks. What can I get ya?”

Head snapping at the bartender who chews on his gum, you suppress the need to glare at him and his stupid nickname, you clench your jaw for a second before you allow yourself to relax.

“Soda will do.” You almost wave him off, oblivious to the deadpanned look you so easily earn in return as soon as you look away from him, not paying him any more attention or eye contact.

That’s until he laughs, rubbing his nose. “Soda? That’s what you fucking order when you’re in this bar?”

Startled at the attitude and obvious mockery, you frown. “I’m not here to get drunk. I’m here on business.” you justify, even though you don’t feel like you have to at all.

But to avoid any more reaction or attention from this dumb fuck, you have to keep it casual. You don’t want to draw any more attention. Fucking hell, you’re the most clothed woman in here. You already do draw enough attention for people to think you’re weird or sketchy. The truth is, not many people have seemed to notice you and you would prefer it that way. Knowing it’s just wishful thinking, you gulp down any insult that wants to come out.

“Ah, got it.” He nods and for a split second, you sigh in relief. But then the dumb fuck has to open his mouth again. “Perhaps you would find the time for me after I clock off here too.”

He smirks, walking away too quickly for you to even react. Your mouth opens agape, knowing what he thinks of you and what he initiated. He thinks you’re a hooker. Well, they’re known for drinking and taking drugs. On rare occasions, there are some who don’t do any of this. Their clients prefer them to be not under any influence. But again, it’s just what you’ve heard and learned to know from a third party.

It’s the deep chuckle beside you that makes you snap out of your offended state. There’s no one beside the man, he’s smirking at his drink and undoubtedly, he’s heard the entire exchange between you and the shitty bartender. It’s the audacity of him that he laughs at that, clearly mocking you just like the bartender did if not even more. He hasn’t been even a part of that ridiculous conversation.

And before you know it, your ego and irritation gets the best out of you. “What?”

You say loud enough for him to hear. You know he does but he still reacts as if he doesn’t hear you. He’s smirking at his glass, tapping his fingers on it a few times. Enough for you to notice the rings on his fingers. It’s like an alarm ringing in your head but it’s already gone by the time he suddenly and slowly looks up. He slowly turns his head, giving you a look with a raised brow. Almost as if he’s questioning if you were talking to him.

And despite the little nervousness inside you, you keep your ground and still stare at him. Even have the audacity to raise your brow at him, making it clear you’re talking to him. The corner of his mouth twitches.

“Not a hooker, huh?”

Is he trying to be funny?

Narrowing your eyes, you hide your clenched fists in your lap. “What? You were interested?”

Oh fuck. Where is this boldness coming from? What the fuck are you doing?! You’re usually careful of how you speak to others. What if he’s a gang member and he’ll pull out his gun and shoot your brains out? No one would bat an eyelash here if that really happened. They would just be annoyed they have to clean your remains. God, the thought of that makes you almost gag.

He breathes out what sounds like a chuckle, it’s hard to tell because it’s too silent for this loud surroundings. “What a girl like you is doing here?” he asks instead.

A girl. Did he just call you a girl?

You’re sure it has something to do with your appearance and a choice of clothing, but the fact he hasn’t referred to you as a woman bothers you. Not that women mean something in this world anyway. Sad to say but for most men and parts, they’re good for sex and that’s about it. It’s a rotten world.

Women barely get any respect.

This time, you use your brain in a better way and settle upon honest and casual information, which you shouldn’t exactly share to a mere stranger. But what harm could it do? It’s not like you just shared your name or any personal information that could tell him your identity. For him, you’re just another… girl in this bar. Perhaps he thinks you’re strange to come here, not drinking and wearing the shortest dress you own. You don’t even do that anymore.

You can’t remember the last time you wore a dress. You choose not to, not wanting to catch an unwanted pair of eyes and attention which is brutally sad and upsetting.

“I’m looking for a job.”

“Here?” he chuckles humorously almost immediately.

You frown, “What’s wrong about here?”

“Why here out of all places?” he questions instead.

“I don’t know if you haven’t noticed, but we don’t have much choice. I gotta live somehow.”

“I suppose it’s better than visiting a brothel, no shaming though.”

“What? Because you’re a daily client there?”

He looks up again for a moment, breathing out a light chuckle once again. Are you this funny? “You don’t belong here.”

You frown in confusion this time, “And where do I belong?”

He licks his lips, reaching for his glass as he silently sips onto whatever drink he has there. The liquid is darkish brown, you would guess that’s neat whiskey right there.

“They shot the latest bartender here.”

“Are you trying to scare me?”

He smiles, but it doesn’t offer any sweetness to it. “No. Just being informative.”

“You barely answer any of my questions.”

“Didn’t know it’s an obligation.”

You groan, rubbing your forehead just as the bartender brings you your alcohol free drink. Fuck. Maybe you should’ve ordered alcohol after all. You definitely might need it for this odd conversation.

“What do you do then?”

He taps his fingers against the counter, relaxed and smoothly as if he has a world in the palm of his hands. “Just here and about.”

“Hm, informative as always.” you mutter, ignoring the burning glance at the side of your face. It’s your time to sip on your drink, enjoying the lack of attention you give him.

You could imagine what kind of dirty work he does. Everyone does one in a way.

“Why are you sitting here then, when you’re looking for a job?”

You sigh, “I’m mapping out this place. I won’t show interest when something might happen here.”

“I just told you someone got killed here like a week ago. Shit happens here.”

“Shit happens everywhere. Thanks to this corrupted world and whoever is controlling it.”

It’s a silence between you for some time. Your curiosity rising up. He seems to be a regular here considering he knows about the shooting. Perhaps he could’ve heard it. You don’t ask any details about that though, settling on something much more curious. Many gossips are around and you do wonder what could he bring.

“Do you know who’s behind this?”

He stays silent, slowly turning his head to look at you again. None of you seem to be looking at each other the entire time.

“Does anyone?”

“Well, people talk. Everyone assumes it’s a man. What if it’s a woman?”

He chuckles.

“What? You think a woman is not capable of ruling the country?”

“I heard a lot of rumors but never that one.” he admits.

“What did you hear then?”

He does that thing again — the corner of his lips twitch in amusement. You don’t care about that though. For once, you actually feel nice to have a conversation. You don’t get a lot of opportunities to talk about this kind of stuff. It is dangerous to be talking about it so freely. Let alone with a stranger. But this one, you’re cautious about but he seems to be chilled out.

However, your guess of people might be wrong.

“Whoever rules it is ruthless.”

“He must be. Who’s okay with killing, violence and drugs? And I just named a very short list of them.”

“He? I thought you considered a female here.”

Popping your chin on your palm, you rest your elbow on the counter. “When you think about it, today’s all about dominance, power and money. Women mean nothing here.”

It’s the brutally honest truth.

“Besides, I don’t think a woman could be so ruthless to the point when people just kill each other.”

“You would be surprised.”

You narrow your eyes at him, not quite agreeing. Surely there could be a woman that would match up to any violent man there is. “I’m not misogynistic, so I won’t completely disagree with that. What makes me think it’s a man is a fact of how it is in here. Women are left fending for themselves and the most protection or at least the slightest feeling of power they can get, is through men.”

“Hm, that’s an… interesting observation.”

“What? You don’t agree?” you ask, snapping your head at him as he chuckles, in a low and vibrating tone.

“Nah, I think you might be onto something.”

You sigh, staring ahead. “Well, I’m just thinking out loud. I don’t get anything.”

There’s a silence between you two, the blasting music remaining in the background as a loud noise which you’re trying to block. It’s not like you’re not a fan of rap but come on, you’re about to get a headache.

The man suddenly stands, chugging the rest of his drink as if it’s nothing. No grimace, nothing. He doesn’t look drunk to the point where he could no longer feel the burn of alcohol.

“You should not work here.”

Your eyebrows shoot up and a speechless grimace makes it on your face. “Why?”

“It’s not safe.”

“Is there any safe place?”

He chuckles, scratching his eyebrow as he stays silent, giving you no proper answer.

“What’s your name?”

“Mingi.”

You frown, “You don’t look like Mingi.”

He snorts, rubbing his mouth for a quick second. “What do I look like?”

“I don’t know,” you mumble honestly. “But it’s not Mingi.”

He doesn’t disagree, he lets you think whatever you want. Again, you don’t know this man and you have no clue whether he’s lying or not. You do have a suspicion because something radiates from him, you’re just not sure what.

“And what’s your name?”

You scoff humorously, “I’m not telling you.”

There’s a breaking sound on your right side, glass breaking and a few people yelling at each other. From the looks of it, it’s two groups getting into a fight where a security tries to take care of it. There are punches thrown and you gasp at the violent image, even though it’s nothing you haven’t seen before. People fight on the streets all the time. You just hope whenever you see someone laying on the ground is a homeless person, and not a dead body.

You turn around, guessing the man is already giving you a knowing look where he warned you about this place.

However once you turn around there’s no one there.

There's an empty spot, almost like he’s been a friction of your imagination. A ghost. Someone that wasn’t even here.

But then there it is.

The empty glass he drank from.

It is enough to assure you that he was real.

[kart0]

can you keep an eye on him while im gone he just woke up

[demxnscous]

oh my fucking god I lost him

[kazumie]

THIS HIM ????

[demxnscous]

OH MY FUCKING GOD YOU FOUND HIM

[taevestr]

Baekhyun fanfiction recommendations

Hello guys.. I want to recommend my favorite fanfics although you've probably read many of them already!

oneshots:

Gasoline | Ice Queen | Bellicose | Guys My Age | I Loved You | Begin | Hotblood |Baekismet | For Eternity | Quit Your Life | Young | Honey | Bloodstream | Moulin Rouge Sous le Ciel Bleu | Café au Lait | worlds apart | neon moon | Lip Ring | Red | Murder to the mind | On the Way | Love Again | My Lady | White Noise | Four Stars Out Of Five | sweet | Roses | Glances | Sweet Dreams | Behave | car je t'aime | transcendental | meant to belong | candy stars | Incubus: Coming of Age | Silver |Invidia | The Girl Of My Best Friend | Right There | Not Much of a Sex God

series:

56% | Blind Spot | They Never Know | The Third Bride | The Perfect Groom | Heal me (Married to brother-in-law) | Love Shot | Unforgettable | Tempo: Allegro | FINE LINE | Shameless | Daddy is Home | Touch and Go | Red Mercedes | If Only You Were Mine | SOUR | The devil's spawn | Captain Bucheon | Shards of Us | Cri de Coeur | The End of the F**king World | obsession | Cry For Love | Trapped in his Maestoso | Forbidden Yet Attracted | You Ghost | Runaway | Nothing More | between the devil and the deep blue sea | roller coaster | Felon | Black and White | Saving Lives | Cataclysm | vulnerability | disjecta membra | february 14th | child of the chasm | Playing Favourites | Byun Baekhyun: The Film | monster | darling | team x | tempted | tempo | fixation | legacy | cobra & python | wrong step | errand girl | Kairos | your island | sugars | Dead Man's Manual | Bride of the Virtuous | Cheating Hearts | The Dark Side | Ephemeral | Fatal Devotion | Straight to Hell

[kart0]

happy year of the rabbit

[abd-illustrates]

🍃 Scholars and Scaras 🍃

For this week’s video I drew some of Sumeru’s finest fellas! ✨🍃 (here’s hoping it manifests some luck for Al Haitham’s banner so I can complete this set in-game 🙏💦)

▶️ SPEEDPAINT LINK

[DO NOT EDIT OR REPOST TO OTHER SITES / ACCOUNTS] ♻️reblogs are lovely tho!♻️

[crypostingsblog-deactivated2023]

Pantalone, Diluc, Alhaitham y Kazuha

By PrimaArche

[festive]

@alucrds @dottores

[katasstrophy]

some blue lock text posts i made instead of working on essays we ballin

[rindoom-deactivated20221216]

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄: 𝐑𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐘𝐎𝐔. | SCARAMOUCHE

SYN: everything was just the beginning but why are your feelings betraying you? why?

⸺ CW: modern au. roommate au. college au. modern au. angst? feelings being thrown everywhere. reader is being followed/stalked by her date. italics are thoughts. mentions of weed/getting high. partying. alcohol. read has a secret tattoo. pet names: sweetheart. dove. MINORS DNI! AGELESS/BLANKS DNI!

⸺ WC: 2.5k. uneditedish? we hoping for the best here so if you see any mistakes look away ! reblogs, comments and other things are greatly appreciated <33

med!student!fem!reader + tattoo!artist scaramouche

⸺ NOTE: it’s here! ahhhhh! thank you to everyone who has showed interest into this silly lil series! can’t wait to post more of it soon! STRIKE THROUGH MEANS I COULD NOT TAG YOU!

“I don’t get it?“ Childe shrugs, fixing his cubicle, looking at Scaramouche with confused eyes. “She cooks. She cleans. She doesn’t bother you and she sleeps the day away—“

Scaramouche groans, stopping him with only his hand, “If I wanted a maid, I would have hired one. She is like a doting mother.”

Chile laughs, giving him a shoulder shrug, not understanding why he was complaining. His roommate seemed like a nice person and Childe was dying to meet the infamous medical student that lives with his moody co-worker. “Should have let me move in with you.”

“I’ll die before I let that happen.” he seethes, flipping Childe off as he steps out of the cubicle.

“You complain about her but you have her number pinned in your messages,” Childe teases, slapping the back of his head with a glove, “You’ve kept her away from us all, we need to meet her.”

Scaramouche drops the things he had in his hands, growing a bit tense at the little secret that Ajax had just spilled. He wanted nothing more to do than to turn around and punch him. Reminding himself to keep his phone away from the sneaky little orange haired bastard in the future. Scaramouche couldn’t think of a snarky retort only to be even more annoyed with the sound of your voice coming into view.

“There is a reason why I haven’t met you guys.” you say out loud, appearing in front of them both with an annoyed expression.

Childe whistles underneath his breath, excusing himself from the scene, leaving a rather unamused Scaramouche in your wake. Thanking himself for not troubling himself with a girl as beautiful as you.

He pulls you by the elbow over towards a more secluded area of the shop. Slamming the door behind him, you furrow your brows. “What are you doing here?”

“My date stood me up and the shop was a few blocks down the street. You weren’t answering your phone,” you explain, looking down at the converse you had on, but the truth was that your date was being a little too provoking. “I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.”

He sighs, a frown apparent on his lips, “You couldn’t have called for an Uber?” You start to fiddle with your hands, rubbing your knuckles nervously. Hearing the bell of the shop ring out, you clench your jaw afraid of your stalker catching up with you.

“Didn’t wanna.” you whisper, giving him a small frown as you rub the backs of your hands.

He hums, thinking of another choice of words that would be more appropriate other than calling you an idiot. A part of him wants to take you away and ask you what had happened. You looked startled and annoyed but how would he react by his own actions and choice of words going up against you?

He told himself that he wouldn’t care about your doings and that you were simply just some girl that needed a roof over her head. So why was he asking you three important words that make you see his true colors?

“What really happened?” he finally asks you, seeing the small signs that gave your lie away. He leans up against the small plastic work table, nibbling on his lip ring in thought. Hoping you didn’t catch onto the small act of concern.

Biting back the scoff, you shake your head at him in response. Not wanting to worry him of your troubles. He was just someone you lived with but out of all things, you had to step into his tattoo shop in hopes of hiding from your date.

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.” you say in one annoyed breath, smothering out the small wrinkles of your blouse. You squeeze yourself past him, “I’m sorry for coming here.”

Scaramouche furrows his brows, going to grab you by the elbow once again but the sound of rough knocks pull you both out of your thoughts. “Yo! Scara you almost done? We have a party in a few…”

Another party. Another sleepless night. Another night checking on a grown man who can’t handle 12 shots of tequila. All you wanted to do was to go home, rest, and forget about your stupid date.

You scoff, opening the door, looking up at the long haired man and shoving past him. You make your way towards the exit, admiring the colorful art on the walls, it reminds you of the tattoo you have hidden.

“I’m taking Y/n home. I can meet you guys there.” he says loud enough for you to hear.

You tilt your head in disbelief, trying to think of a snarky remark. Telling yourself that it was just him acting kind because he is still at his job. His impressions last on people and that is what brings in more customers. Except, you weren’t a customer, you are his roommate, your impression of him lingers in your mind.

“So this is Y/n? The one you complain about?”

Your eye twitches lightly at the sarcasm, giving the person that spoke an eye roll. So you were mentioned way before you just weren’t properly introduced to his friends, great.

Scaramouche blows out air through his nose, “Come on, Y/n. I am not entertaining these fools.”

“You talk about me—“

“He says you cook and clean? Wanna clean my place?” the man teases, eyeing your figure up and down, giving Scaramouche a thumbs up.

You look at the man who cut you off, biting your tongue, he was gorgeous but his attitude was already pressing your buttons. You simply couldn’t understand why Scaramouche was friends with such an annoying human.

“Shut the fuck up, Ajax!” Scaramouche seethes, glaring at his friend.

So that was his name, Ajax. It seemed unique but at the same time you weren’t going to ask. Not interested in the tattooed messy orange haired male, you turn your attention back over towards Scaramouche.

“I’ll be out by the car.” you mumble, stuffing your curled fists in your jacket pockets. Glancing at Scaramouche before turning on your heel. Walking away without bothering to entertain the both of them.

You lean up against the car, scrolling through the emails from your professors, an annoyed sigh leaves your lips as you read a notice mentioning deadlines. You didn’t need to be out on dates, you needed to be in your room studying, but you wanted to be free from studying. Wanting to live your life. You violently start to type out an apology email regarding the lack of communication with a partner for a project but the stench of his strong cologne fills your lungs.

“Never seen you type that fast before,” he grunts, stepping closer towards you, your phone hits his chest, stopping you from your intense typing. “I gotta get in, dove.”

“Uh-Uh, right!” you squeak, sliding your phone into your pocket, stepping to the side a bit.

He gives you a small smile, nodding to the other side of the car. Right, he isn’t gonna open the car door for you.

You slide into the passenger seat quickly, ignoring the intense gaze coming from him. You've ridden in the car with him a few times before but your heart wouldn’t stop beating so fast. If he looked at you any longer you’re sure your heart will fall out of your ass.

Letting out a shaky breath you buckle yourself up, letting out a small, “Okay.” it was more of a little reassurance than a whisper.

The ride was quiet, the constant rumble from the car started to soothe away your worries, but it didn’t ease the way you started to grow tired. Scaramouche seemed to notice, turning up the music a little more and clearing his throat.

“What?” you groan, opening your eyes and giving him an annoyed look.

“If I can’t go to sleep, neither can you,” he murmurs, side eyeing you as he takes a right turn down a busy street. “It’s rude. What if I were talking to you?”

You scoff, “You don’t even speak to me this much when we are alone,” turning your body away from him, leaning your head up against the glass. If you would have let out the annoying sighs he hates you doing, he would have shut up but he only nods his head in agreement. “So why would you start now?”

He chuckles under his breath, you had a point, this probably was the most the both of you have spoken to each other but he didn’t feel overwhelmed. Annoyed, slightly but the overwhelming feeling of you not not liking him for how he is—is long gone. “Fair point.”

You hum in agreement, listening to the song play faintly, it was soothing background music but it wasn’t enough to stop lingering question growing in your heart. Why is he being this generous?

It was quiet for a few more moments, deciding that it was finally to ask one of the questions you’d sooner regret asking.

“You don’t have to talk about me, you know.” you say finally, watching the light turn red.

The car comes to a harsh stop, Scaramouche leans his head against his palm, propping up against the window, tapping his finger against the steering wheel. “You never told me how you ended up at the shop.”

You look at him, admiring the ear jewelry he had on. You frown, looking down at your leggings and back over at him. “Why do you care?”

“Care? Concerned, is the word you’re looking for, sweetheart,” he replies quickly, giving you a smug look. The green light shadows over both of your faces and he presses lightly on the gas. “It’s dangerous and you should have been with your date.”

You snort, leaning back into the seat, “My date was a weirdo and followed me,” you look at the time on the radio. It was late, you had one final exam due, and a report to be typed up before midnight. “That’s why I walked to your shop.” you finish quietly, looking out the window.

Many thoughts were processing in Scaramouche’s head. How did someone like you end up being followed and why? Why didn’t you call him?

“What a weirdo.” he replies under his breath, turning the wheel as he gives you a small frown.

A part of him wanted to stop the car and ask you for the guy's name, but another part of him wanted to drop you off, go to a party and shove his feelings down his throat. He told himself he wouldn’t care for you, ask you how you’re feeling, or even being the shoulder you could cry on. He simply would just be the grumpy tattoo artist, the college dropout and owner of the Seven Devils.

Just like any other time, you received no response, and you were okay with that. He didn’t owe you one and you were just telling him the truth. You were okay with riding in silence but you noticed the grip on he had on the steering wheel and the way the car accelerated each turn.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he tells you, leaning over you to open the car door for you. You feel his arm rest lightly on your thighs, holding your breath, the faint scent of his cologne starts to fill your lungs. “Just don’t leave the light on for me, okay? I’ll try to be quiet.”

You nod, “No tea?” you ask quietly, almost letting out a nervous chuckle. He looks at you, giving you a small smile. The sliver of silver sticking out of his lip is a nice touch, it makes you hold back the thoughts circling in your mind.

“No tea,” he repeats, admiring the way your eyes gleam over the overhead lights. He squeezes your thigh before rubbing it, a sloppy grin on his face. “You can go now, Y/n.”

You nod once more, too stunned to speak, you feel hot all over. Unaware of the small gesture that he had just done. It made your skin crawl and your brows arch with confusion. Unbuckling the seatbelt, you quickly get out of the car, as you turn around to look at him once more.

The tattoo on his adam's apple bobs with each breath he takes, his nose ring glows faintly and the muscle tee he wears shows off his lean muscles. Your heart pounds harshly against your ribcage, any longer you’d be shaking like a wet dog after a cold bath. He looked good and for a moment you could have swore you seen a lingering smirk.

You watch him drive away like a kid watching their mother leave them behind. The sound of the car engine fading within the other sounds of the city makes you kick a few rocks at your feet.

Disappointment. Embarrassment. Confusion. All filtered through your mind, knocking down the dominoes in your head and all it took was for him to touch you.

Letting out the breath of air you held in, you rub your forehead, a small groan leaves your lips. “What the fuck?” you say to yourself, walking towards the entrance of the lousy apartment building.

“I don’t like him. He doesn’t put the toilet seat down and uses my shampoo,” you mutter to yourself, trudging up the stairs holding a look of disappointment. You glare at the black cat peering up at you, flipping off the nosy animal as you step up the last step.

“He brings girls over and doesn’t pick up after himself. He is mysterious, rude, and self-centered,” you continue, jamming the keys into the keyhole, turning the lock harshly. You look over at the cat, “Well, are you going to come in?” you watch the black cat jump off the perch, purring up against your leg before waltzing into the cozy apartment.

“He is irritatingly hot. Brings clients over to give them tattoos in the middle of our living room. Locks his bedroom door behind him like some weirdo. Eats all my food and plays his guitar too fucking loud,” you complain to yourself, throwing your hands up in the air. If anyone were to walk in on you having your breakdown, they sure would question your sanity. “Ugh. I-I think I like him.” you say quickly, looking at the cat, waiting for a response but you weren’t going to get one.

“I think I like her.” Scaramouche mumbles against the bottle, he looks at Childe for some sort of advice or maybe a reaction.

“You’re so in over your ass. She is going to be a doctor and here you are tattooing girls on the ass. Never gonna happen.” his friend replies with a laugh, taking a long drag of the blunt, as he tries to hand it to Scaramouche.

He was right and for once in Scaramouches life, his heart beats ten times harder each time he meets your eyes.

SERIES TAGLIST: @iidokir. @manjir0. @belovedxiao. @shadappy @gixxie. @aylitgirl. @blurr3db3rry. @beriiov. @plinkuro. @exhaustedcommunist. @achlysy. @peachytears11. @scaranaris-lil-niko.

#: @mimic-of-hysy. @dottores. @anxious-cherry-pie. @softbajis. @thetempleofnyx. @sookisaurus. @nymphoheretic. @bbiemilk.

[8kh]

WICKED THRONE, manjiro sano.

+ f!reader x s. manjiro. tragedy. royal!au. rebel!au. enemies-to-lovers. ooc!manjiro i write him the way i want to idc. romance. heavy angst. fluff. slow burn. character deaths. explicit smut. war. trauma. violence & slight gore: decapitation, undertones of torture, murder. thank you @mqtsuno for the header, i love u <3!

current word count: 142,553.

+ playlist. | misc links.

“he would burn down the

empires who tried

to conquer her,

he would become the monster

of those who tried

to terrify her,

he would be the shadows of the

devils in her nightmares,

but she— she is made of

bruises and of the past,

of arrows made from flames.

perhaps you have

missed the wolf

underneath her skin.

but she wasn’t made

to cower under your crown.

she isn’t the hunter,

and she isn’t the prey.

she is the enemy of the

kings who do

not deserve mercy.”

FIRST ACT: BEGINNING.

SECOND ACT: FIRST TRIAL.

THIRD ACT: MOONSTONE.

FOURTH ACT: ARROW.

FIFTH ACT: EMPTY VOWS.

SIXTH ACT: WHO ARE YOU?

SEVENTH ACT: THE QUEEN’S CROWN.

EIGHTH ACT: THE KING’S THRONE.

NINTH ACT: HIDDEN FANGS.

TENTH ACT: FIRE IN THY DANCE.

ELEVENTH ACT: DECLARATION OF WAR.

TWELFTH ACT: SOMEONE TO BLAME.

THIRTEENTH ACT: THE WEIGHT OF A SIN.

FOURTEENTH ACT: THIS DAY.

FIFTEENTH ACT: THE CROWN AND THE FRIEND.

SIXTEENTH ACT: AND LOVE WHISPERED.

SEVENTEENTH ACT: THE DOOM OF DESCENT.

EIGHTEENTH ACT: FOR POWER. PART ONE.

NINETEENTH ACT: FOR POWER. PART TWO.

TWENTIETH ACT: PENITENCE.

TWENTY FIRST ACT: THE HOUSE OF AVEN.

TWENTY SECOND ACT: HEAVY IS THE CROWN.

TWENTY THIRD ACT: WHAT KILLS A KING.

TWENTY FOURTH ACT: THE HAUNTED.

TWENTY FIFTH ACT: A PACT.

TWENTY SIXTH ACT: SEALED.

TWENTY SEVENTH ACT: YOU AND I, AT WAR.

TWENTY EIGHTH ACT: THROUGH YOUR HEART.

TWENTY NINTH ACT: TO YOU, BELOVED.

THIRTIETH ACT: LONG LIVE THE QUEEN.

SEQUELS:

HARUCHIYO & ASSASSIN!YN. SOON.

RINDOU & CHILDHOOD FRIEND!YN. SOON.

RAN & ARTIST!YN. SOON.

copyright © 2021 8kh all rights reserved. no part of this story may be reposted, edited, or reproduced without the author’s permission.

[rinstars]

「 ARTIFICE 」 ♡ TRACK 1 : IF WALLS COULD TALK

PAIRING : Suna Rintarō x Reader.

GENRE : Angst. Band!AU

TAGS/WARNINGS : NSFW. Arranged Marriage. Enemies to Lovers. Intoxication. Drinking, drugs, cigarettes, sex. Basically typical band members in their 20s. A whole lot of other things I can't really say for the plot.

SYNOPSIS : When the career you've dreamt of your entire life is suddenly failing, your only way of salvation left is to team up with the most popular member and guitarist of Japan's top band and agree with an arranged marriage that shouldn't take more than 3 years. But when one thing leads to another, getting out of your relationship without a broken heart suddenly seems impossible with the intricate web of deceit your beloved husband has woven for both of you.

PS NOTE : ARTIFICE follows a then-now timeline. It means the timeline switches almost every chapter so the next one will take place at the present timeline. Welcome to the world of ARTIFICE!!! Hope you all enjoy it <3 Here's 5.7k words for TRACK 1.

photo credits to the lovely alice who let me use the picture with permission <3 DO NOT use the art somewhere else & DO NOT mention this fic outside tumblr.

TAGLIST : OPEN

PROLOGUE | MASTERLIST | NEXT

THEN

Slender fingers encircle your wrist before you are pulled back from crossing the distance to your house and slapped by cold, ring-clad fingers.

You knew they were crazy.

What you didn’t expect was that they would be insane.

Your head slowly rears back from its angled position on the left to face your assaulter upright in the face. Immediately, you could tell it isn't some mother you managed to piss off by blasting music aloud at 2 in the morning complaining about not being able to send her kids to sleep thanks to your “atrocities", no. She is young. Probably around your age. She looks as though you are the worst discovery of her life as much as she is the worst occurrence of your morning. Long wavy hair dyed something trendy and ombré paired with beautiful—albeit fake—tanned skin and swollen blush lips. She looks every bit the dread you didn’t want to encounter, every bit the girl who comes stumbling out of his house every day.

This neighbourhood is a chore.

Someone’s boyfriend is always stumbling down the front yard of his girlfriend’s house with a barely functional mind, high from sex. A married couple of ten years bickering on who should take the trash out today because both of them swear they did it the day before. A mother confronts a young girl in her teens telling her to never play her "demonic" music again.

Then, in front of you, a woman reeking of sex and alcohol, decides slapping the hangover out of a stranger as she starts making assumptions in her head is the perfect addition to the list.

You look at her incredulously, appalled by her display of violence this early in the morning. You’d probably retaliate and give her a piece of your mind if you weren’t so preoccupied with doing something about the problem you’ve been itching to solve since you woke up—with a pounding headache and a stench of alcohol on your breath, by the way.

So, instead of trying to make sense of things, you pull your arm away from her, shaking your head lightly, “I don’t really have time for this.”

“No, you make time for this,” she tugs you back, your eyes rolling to the back of your head in frustration. “You have the time to sneak so early in the morning to fuck my boyfriend but you can’t make time for the consequences? You're a fucking whore, YN."

“I’m pretty sure he’s not even your boyfriend,” you close your eyes in an attempt to regain composure, ignoring the fact that she knows your name and that you would even consider sleeping with the man. You must have a reputation after all—doesn’t mean it’s the type of reputation you would like to have.

She ignores you, "Leave him alone."

"Oh, I'd love to! I gladly would!" You throw your hands in the air, laughing mockingly as if you've both finally found an equal ground to agree on. "I just wish he'd leave me alone too!"

She flinches back like she can't believe what you just said, "What does that even mean?"

"He's—"

Almost as if on cue, before you could even respond that he's a jerk who truly never leaves you alone, your eyes fly over to the spot past her shoulders, meeting the gaze of a drunk-faced guitarist who's already slipping a cigarette past his swollen lips. Bloodshot eyes meet yours through his dishevelled hair, leaning himself against the wall of his home as he looks between you and his girl of the night as you face each other off. Slowly, a smirk crawls on his lips, brows raising at you like he knows exactly what's going on.

"Well, if it isn't the devil himself," you sing-song, pulling your wrist away from the girl to pluck something from the back pocket of your dirty jeans.

"Great fucking morning to you too," he greets gravelly, voice scratchy from the nightlong partying, drinking, and smoking. The sound makes you flinch. He truly doesn't know any better—treating his voice like that. "Enjoyed the night?"

Glaring at him, you take a step away from the girl and closer to him, thrusting the piece of paper to his chest. He knows what the night has been like for you. You're pretty sure he's just pushing your buttons and Hell be damned if you let him get away with the things he does.

"Woah," he chuckles, eyes following your hand on his chest as you press him down. "Bit too early in the morning, yeah?"

"You leave my fucking songs alone," you ignore his obvious attempt at riling the other girl up by suggesting you're trying to hit on him and instead getting straight to the point. After all, what you came barging into his house for is the stack of papers he stole from you. Your songs. Because he thinks he could do so much better and he has to rub it in your face, all the damn time, how all your lyrics are wasted on the melodies you can't ever complete.

Waving the papers on his face, now tainted with his handwriting of chords that hovers above your words, you meet his eyes which now look even more mischievous than the last.

"Can't help it when I see a shitty song," he shrugs, eyes not leaving your face as he looks for a reaction. A reaction he knows you're about to give. "Talent fair's not much longer. Thought you could use the help, yeah?"

This man is impossible.

Pushing yourself off of him, you walk backwards to your house, knowing conversation with him is simply not gonna work. You see the girl attempt a step towards you in the corner of your eye—probably because she still thinks whatever tension was going off between you and him was anything but hatred—and send her a look. He follows your retreat with his eyes, cigarette turning a bright orange as it stays between his middle and forefinger.

"I don't need your damn help," you whisper hoarsely when he pushes himself off the wall and takes a step towards you, voice disappointingly scratchy from the night before. "Take your shitty voice with your shitty melodies up your ass and continue being this party, underground, pop-rock band nobody cares about."

Cocking his head to the side, he narrows his eyes at you, running a hand from the top of your head to the back of your neck before levelling his gaze, "Well you seem to care so much since you know exactly what type of music we play, then? Nice to know you pay so much attention to my voice, you'd have an opinion over it. Never thought you'd be such a fan."

"Go to hell, Suna," you hiss, holding his wrist and attempting to pull it away from your hair.

"That could be a new song, yeah?" He tightens his hold on you, smirks so taunting you could punch his pretty little face that looks so frustratingly sexy even in his messy, dirty woke-up-like-this look. Mockingly, he bites back, "With Mira's boring, childish melodies, though, 'm not sure how it'd work."

"Do not call me that," you scoff unbelievingly, pushing at his chest.

"Why not?" He raises his brows, voice smooth in a quiet whisper. "Isn't that what you sign on those songs?" He gestures at the papers in your hands, all signed with 実来. Characters meaning truth and become. The exact opposite of his band—ARTIFICE.

You give him a hard look, "That is none of your business."

Finally letting go of you with a chuckle, he turns his back with a dismissive movement of his hand, slinging his arm around the girl who has been watching the entire exchange with a stunned expression. Kissing her hair, he angles his head so his eyes could meet yours, "Good luck, YN. Don't lose this year.. again."

Releasing a harsh breath, you stomp your way to your house, wind blowing the hair around your greasy hair as you cross the short distance. Once inside, you hear one of your best friends call out from the living room but right now you really couldn't care less. If Suna Rintarō is gonna wage a war on you then he'd get it.

Throwing your papers on the bed, you take a quick shower—rinsing off the smoke and alcohol from last night along with the grease caused by the moist bodies in the air and whatever it was mixed in the air of Atsumu's party. The blonde twin takes too much pride in throwing the best parties that he always goes overboard. You don't even know why you attended. Oikawa was so hell-bent on attending, it practically left you no choice. No matter if you hated the band and its members—Oikawa didn't really care. At the very least, you're thankful you still had Hana—your other best friend who's empathetic enough to your hatred and emotions against the band, though you've lost her as well to some jock halfway through the night.

Biggest mistake of your life so far, to say the least. Because it turns out, you'd have to endure hours of their music playing on the speakers, watching Sakusa Kiyoomi drown himself in the booze, Osamu Miya smoke every kind of joint passed to him, Atsumu Miya go skinny dipping and Suna Rintarō stuff his face with every girl around. Typical scenarios in the parties thrown by the band, you suppose. But still, it didn't mean you liked seeing it.

What's worse, Suna Rintarō thought it'd be a nice idea to stumble over to your peaceful side, pulling his Gibson out to play a song you didn’t recognize until he was singing the lyrics to the song you're pretty sure you wrote. Suddenly, the disappearance of your notes made a whole lot of sense. Surely, if anyone in the world had the least bit of interest and responsibility for your music, it would be Suna. And if anyone is a big of a jerk enough to create a whole melody for it then play it for you in a party where he'd just finished probably finishing someone off, then it'd be him as well.

You truly believe you have never met someone more infuriating than the guy. With his stupid guitar case always hanging on his shoulders, notebook full of his chords and lyrics hanging on one of the pockets, slightly tattooed arms, and dark disheveled hair. The strong woody cool scent that follows him wherever he goes mixed with the strong remnants of his cigarettes commands the whole campus. The whole female population adores him. You'd think that was the only reason his band still kept getting the gigs—because an audience follows them wherever they go. Doesn't matter if there was music or not.

Guys liked you too, alright. It wasn't that they didn't. The problem is, your music wasn't for them and there definitely were more girls available around who didn't spend time with them trying to figure out which lyric would rhyme the best for a verse. Guys are a lot harder to string along especially when you need to be with multiple of them to get at least half an audience the band has.

Your problems all started when you entered university, excited to sign your name for the music club and create music with people who liked making it, when you'd find out the only people who had as much love for music as you did are the very ones you wouldn't get along with. After all, how would you ever get along when neither you nor the members of the band ever agreed on one thing. Not in the arrangements of the songs, not in the order of performances, not in revision or recording or lyrics—anything. Your music was too different from theirs. The other members of the band would probably be a lot more open to your suggestions if their frontman and leader didn't have so much disagreements to say.

He prides himself as a musical genius, which is probably true considering his father is a successful owner of a recording company and his mother who passed away a few years ago used to be a traditional singer in Japan. He's got every single bit a good musician should have. He writes their own lyrics—although you heard he almost always produces the best ones only when he's high. He's a frontman but he plays the electric guitar in their performances too. He's very involved in the arrangement of their songs but is overall very lax with how his members decide to play their parts.

They've definitely made a name in the underground and pubs and bars that allowed them to play—regardless if the audience weren't actually those who enjoyed their music. After all, how could they not? The frontman is a sexy, tattooed rich boy whose living parent is so unsupportive of the career he wants to take so he's stuck making a name for himself on his own. Nobody can resist such backstory and a physical appearance that screams the next top frontman of the next top band in the world. He's got it all. Money, girls, solid members, physique. His members are no different. They're the perfect recipe for success.

Too bad, his lyrics are almost always detached from feelings. Too bad the music club adviser always asks for your help in composing his songs that always seem to lack emotions. Too bad he's too prideful to just accept your help just as you are too prideful to accept his every time you get criticized for your melodies.

Too bad you needed each other in your music and neither of you would ever admit it.

That's how it started and that's how it's always been for the past two years. Being a junior in college, you'd think you and Suna would grow past being silly little rivals who disagreed on everything—despite how good and formidable each other's opinions could be—just for the purpose of disagreeing. You certainly could look past everything if you tried but if Suna Rintarō is not backing down, neither would you. So, here you are, stuck in this endless loop of arguments and the victim of each other's annoying antics and pranks.

Now, the talent fair is just around the corner. Being a junior and all, it is even more important for both of you to do well. Your university's prestigious enough that important people come to watch every year and as a junior, the pressure is on for you to do well and have some offers waiting. It would greatly ease your graduation anxiety if you knew something was waiting for you. Suna doesn't need it. His father is a CEO of a recording company and whether his father supports him or not, he's still the only one set to inherit it someday. Though, you're not sure Suna's pride will ever allow him to take something from his father.

It doesn't matter what he thinks, though. You are winning this year and you refuse to keep letting a certain golden-green-eyed man pretend like winning last year meant anything about who's winning this time around. You both have one win each on your bags and you'll be damned to let him have two consecutive wins. He's not even gonna see what's coming to him.

A knock on your door snaps you out of it, not realizing that you've been gripping your pen so hard it was turning your knuckles white. Without waiting for an invitation to come in, your best friend comes in, an eyebrow raised like she knows exactly what's gotten you into a sour mood so early in the morning.

"Boy problems?" she asks, plopping down on the bed beside you with a bounce.

"Arguing with Suna Rintarō because he took my lyrics and tried to do something about it does not fit into any kind of boy problems," you groan, falling down on the bed and covering your eyes with your arms.

"Why are you even always fighting each other?" She questions as if she doesn't already know the answer. She's a year older than you and Suna and you got to know her because you shared a table with her in the library in your freshman year. Since then, she's just always been around. You wouldn't say she's at Oikawa's level of best friend but she is definitely the only girl friend you've ever had. She relates with things Oikawa never would.

"Hana, you know he's a dick."

"A sexy one at that."

Pushing yourself from lying down, you gape at your friend who returns your shock with an amused expression. "What?" She innocently plays it off. "Don't tell me you don't find him sexy."

Grimacing, you gather the papers that have fallen all around you to put them all together in one pile. "That's not the point."

"That wasn't my question," she pressed.

With a defeated sigh, you frown, "He is, that's the problem. But he's such an asshole it overpowers the sexy."

"You should just try getting along with him," she moves closer to you, propping herself up on her elbows while she lays on her side.

"Are you on his side or mine?" you narrow your eyes at her, meeting the hazel glaze of her eyes.

"Yours, of course. I was just saying, he's sexy! Imagine the make-up sex," her eyes brighten, lips tugging into a grin as she watches your expression turn wary.

"No make-up sex happening, Hana. None," you dismiss her, ignoring the heat that shouldn't have been spreading across your stomach at the mention of Suna Rintarō and sex together in one sentence.

Now you sound like a hormonal teenager.

Suna Rintarō makes you crazy. In every way possible.

Suna thinks it's ridiculous how you think you have a chance against them at this year's fair. You don't. Not when you already lost last year. If you think he'd back down because his father owns a recording company, then you're out of luck because he's not signing shit to his father and giving him rights to his songs. No way in hell.

That leaves him with only one option: to do so fucking well in the talent fair that they win and all eyes will be on them. Nobody will even remember your silly slow-beat acoustics because they are what they are—boring. Boring despite how damn good the lyrics are. He thinks it's wasted on you. He believes if he owned the songs instead of you and was able to put some sick guitar riff or drum kick in there somewhere, your songs would be far more successful.

Too bad nobody pays that much attention to the lyrics anymore and no matter how good the lyrics or the voice are, no one will buy a record that puts them to sleep. Sure, your voice is a wonder to listen to. Absolutely, infuriatingly amazing. Without a doubt. And still, it is too easy to be forgotten.

Suna turns his engine off, the roar of his brand new BMW fading out. Beside him, he notices the twins arrive in a Range Rover, bringing one car instead of the usual separate ones. Unlocking the doors, he meets the twins in the middle, the grey-haired twin clapping his back when he walks alongside them.

Almost immediately, a girl latches herself into Atsumu's arms, making the twin roll his eyes in ridicule. Suna doesn't blame her. The drummer has always had girls fawning over him but since his hair got a bit longer and he started getting a few tattoos here and there, he is nothing but a walking candy to the ladies' eyes. Osamu is not much different. The girls are all over him as much as his twin. The only thing that sets them apart is the fact that the grey-haired twin doesn't engage every single one of them.

"Morning, Miya," the girl giggles, snuggling close to Atsumu's arms.

The blonde hums, "Mornin', baby."

"You game for tonight? Got a small party to throw," she runs a finger on his chest. "Not as good as yours, I'd guess but you know."

On a Monday night? These people have got to be deranged, Suna thinks. The people attending and his bandmate who he's guessing would be there too.

"Later, princess," Atsumu grins down at her, confirming Suna's silent musings. "Who else is coming?"

"Oh, a lot of them," She shrugs, a knowing glint in her eyes almost as if that's some kind of secret message for a lot of girls to keep you company. Suna would know. It usually works for him. Averting her eyes, she eyes the two other men beside Atsumu—lingering longer on the twin when Suna refuses to meet her eyes. "You could come too, Osamu. Gon' be lots of fun with you there."

Osamu usually wouldn't be baited into things like this. Not when he knows firsthand the many things he has left to do with Suna in arrangements. They're already struggling with the lyrics. Can't handle fucking up the melodies as well.

A certain dark-haired man with his usual scowl and mask in place falls into a silent step with them, earphones hanging down the front of his chest as he effectively blocks out any invitation. Could be unintentional or on purpose. He could never tell with this guy.

Kiyoomi is more or less the same as Osamu except his brooding and cold personality makes it a lot harder for girls to approach. Not that Suna is in any position to talk shit about his bassist. Nobody ever tries very hard to get with him. It's either they try once and never try again after facing his rejection or he sends a clear message about the only time when they should ever try.

Suna likes girls. A whole lot of them. He enjoys fucking them, playing with them, hanging with them. If he tried, he couldn't count how many girls he's kissed and touched at Atsumu's party alone. This lifestyle has almost been a part of him for a long time. Don't get him wrong on that.

However, he can keep his dick in his pants. To him, there's the right time for things and if it interferes with whatever more important things he's doing, he wouldn't be happy to entertain them. They're basically all the same. Weed, alcohol, cigarettes, sex. It's good to have them. Great for the high and the pleasure. Yet, he sure as hell wouldn't be sky-high drunk if he had a show to sing and play on.

Atsumu couldn't care less. According to him, being high on sex and weed just makes him play the drums better. Suna doesn't exactly believe it but as long as it's not being a hindrance to the band, he normally doesn't mind. Atsumu doesn't sing. He never has his voice to worry about. On the other hand, Suna cringes at the thought of the cigarettes damaging his voice—ending everything he's tried to build. At the same time, he couldn't stop. Especially not when he's so high on stress every single time he enters the music room and sees you, causing him to take a hit almost immediately.

Diverging from the guys, he spends the day in class jotting down notes to songs he imagines playing in his head, writing down words that don't make sense to anyone but him. Annoyingly enough, he couldn't stop remembering the verses to the song you wrote—making him unconsciously make up and continue the chords he remembers making when he was spending the whole night eyeing the paper he plucked from sticking out of your bag.

He shares one class with you today. As he always has for the past 3 years. And since the professors never changed for this class, he's stuck with the same shitty seating arrangement that requires him to sit with you for an hour almost every other day. As if this class wasn't boring enough, he'd have to endure an hour with your snide remarks against him, eyes narrowing every time his elbows would so much as brush yours.

"Slept well, Mira?" He slides next to you, tone monotonous and without actual care for what you have to tell him but saying it anyway just for the purpose of using the name on purpose knowing damn well how much it infuriated you.

"Don't talk to me," you grumble, elbows accidentally brushing his and knocking his arm off the desk when you reach out for your bag, making you still.

Clicking his tongue in annoyance, you raise your eyebrows at him questioningly, "You can bother me all the time with your stupidly long arms for 3 years and I can't even do it once accidentally?"

"I don't knock your damn arm off the table."

"What's got you in such a shit mood?" you narrow your eyes. You never got along but he'd always opt for the silence route whenever you sat together. What's got him so riled up now and over something so trivial too?

"You," he whispers lowly beneath his breath. "You always do."

"You dislike me that much?" you question thickly in disbelief. Was it ever that serious? Though, you do admit he annoys you in the smallest things too.

"You have no idea," he slouches in his seat and leaves it at that.

After all, Suna's never gonna admit it's because he's seriously troubled that you will solve all his problems with songwriting if only he wasn't too stubborn to accept help. Majority of the reason is because accepting your help means listening to your opinions and possibly making adjustments to the music. Most importantly, working with you.

He doesn't understand why the idea ticks him off so much but what matters is it does. The mere thought of you in his head makes him go crazy. Whatever the hell is he supposed to do when you work together and have to spend hours making music?

He might as well be insane.

The bell rings finally for him at 3 o'clock, a few hours after your class together, snapping him out of his head and immediately making him gather his things to head to the music room to play a few songs and nap. He's free for the next hour and he had better things in mind than screwing someone in the dirty tiles of the bathroom—though he's done it before.

Setting his things down, he takes one of the electric guitars perched on the stand at the corner of the room, tuning it before laying down his messy scribbles of notes. He tries playing the melody with his instrument, humming along to the chords like he imagines the song to go. He's missing a few kicks and snares here and there, along with some bass and percussion but he has the main melody down—at the very least.

Despite his antagonism towards you, he couldn't help but wish this song was his. He's not too proud to admit to himself that it's written well. He absolutely despises that your strength is the one thing he's lacking in—lyrics. If your lyrics were his, he's pretty sure he'd be a lot closer to his dream than he is now.

Feeling the built-up exhaustion hit him all the way from the night before, Suna decides to go over to the back room—a small recording booth and lay there. No one's supposed to come in until 5 o'clock so he should be good for a while. He knows everyone's schedule at this point. He'll just take a small nap, go back to his class at 4, then come back here for rehearsals.

That was until he was awakened by something—rather, someone—playing a tune on a guitar he knows is his. With a melody he knows he made. He must have left his notes in the main room but who could be there at this time? Checking his phone, he sees he's definitely past his original 4 o'clock plan and late to class when bold numbers reading 4:15 stare back at him. Still, no one is supposed to be out until 5. At least no one from the club.

Looking up from his position on the floor, he takes a peek at the huge glass window that overlooks the main room. He doesn't know what surprised him more; the fact that this person is playing his chords exactly how he would like them to be played or the fact that it's a girl—someone he doesn't know at that.

He doesn't know anyone in the club who is a girl and plays the acoustic guitar. After all, the only other girls in the club are usually vocalists or, at most, violinists. He doesn't think anyone would be out here so early skipping their classes either. Especially not you, who is the only other girl he knows who plays instruments. Either way, you play the piano, not his preferred string instrument so there's no way it'd be you.

He listens to the sound. Mesmerized by how she plays it. Suddenly, Suna is overwhelmed by the surging interest in him. Determined to find out just exactly who she is and get to know her.

The sound of his guitar flows smoothly against her fingers. The melody is emotional but powerful enough to keep listeners on the edge of their seats. He doesn't think he's ever heard anyone play the way she does. Just at the right speed, the right tension in her strums. It seems like he could hear the song play on stage and the damn song wasn't even his. It was your song.

She's angled in a way he couldn't see her face so straining his neck doesn't make much of a difference. Still, he didn't want to be caught looking at her like this like a fucking creep. Pushing himself up from the floor, he's interrupted by the buzz of his phone at the back of his jeans—a message from Osamu.

Samu

I'll be a few mins late start without me

Not bothering with a response, Suna looks up disappointed to find the room empty. Not a trace of the mysterious woman who once occupied the room with her presence and music save for the scattered papers now on the floor—as if she was in a hurry to leave.

Suna clenches his jaw in frustration, quietly cursing his best friend in his head for texting him at the worst time possible. Still, he should stop being so pissed about it. One way or another, he'll find out who she is and it won't be long. For now, he'll attend practice, scrutinize the ladies in his club despite knowing none of them plays the guitar, and focus his energy on finding her some other time.

The next day, you feel like you dread the idea of your 1:00 class more than anything today than any other day. It feels like you'll get an indigestion at the mere thought of having to sit so close to Suna Rintarō again for an hour. So close that his cologne fills your senses and it lasts there for so long, you could smell him in places he's not even around in. So close you could probably count the amount of eyelashes he has in his unfairly beautifully shaped eyes. Every time his skin would so much as graze yours, it leaves a sting that you can feel for hours to come.

God forbid Mr. Mendez starts listening to your requests to change seats. You tried once during freshman and received a full 20-minute lecture on why his rules should always be followed in class. You haven't really attempted again since then.

Finishing your lunch together, Hana walks beside you on the way to class—hers being in the same direction.

"Good luck with Mr. Sexy Vocal Guitarist," she winks, pulling you in for a hug you returned bitterly as a result of her statement. The guitar on her shoulders wobble lightly, making you reach out in alarm to steady it.

"Thanks," you say once she pulled away. "I'll need it."

"Laters, Mira," she laughs while she says it, knowing the story behind Suna using the name over and over to tease you. Now, you're seriously debating just abandoning the stage name and going with something else. Yet, you refuse for Suna to cause a major shift in your life decisions. No way in hell.

The moment you enter the room and start taking your bag off of your shoulders, cold and familiar slender fingers hurriedly finds their way to your wrist—turning you around to meet golden-green eyes.

"Hey," he says breathlessly like he was eager to catch you as soon as possible. What the hell is up with him?

"What do you need?" you ask warily, knowing Suna Rintarō is not acting nice to you for the first time in your life without needing something.

His eyes glint in interest despite the blank look on his face, sliding to the seat next to yours before dropping his voice. "That girl with you. The one playing the guitar over lunch time. Name."

The lilt to his voice makes you gape in shock. Hana is causing this? Turning your head to him, so close you could smell the mint and smoke on his breath, you raise your brows in accusation, "Hana?"

"Who is she?"

"Mitsuhara Hana," you slowly respond wondering what this is about. "She's my best friend—hey, what the hell is going on with you?"

Suna ignores you and just nods at you wordlessly, averting his eyes to the front of the room and avoiding you again the moment you've given him the answer. He's acting so weird with you, you're so incredibly lost on what's happening.

As if sensing the question hanging in the air, Suna looks back at you over his shoulders. And immediately, from the look on his face and the uncomfortable feeling spreading through your body, you could already tell.

You've lost the interest Suna Rintarō once had when you first met in the four walls of the music room you share.

Because you could see the exact look in his eyes mirroring that time three years ago directed to another woman—your best friend.

consider supporting me here if u liked this ch!

🏷 : @cookieempress2 @horny-inarizaki-stan @lovemegood @girlwith-kalei-do-scope-eyes @rumireads @ashxsr @sunakys @cloudsz04 @ilcrona @grouchybear @highhjime @van-chii @sagejin @sakusuna @steponmedazai @im-ako @cosmotoic @lazykunimi @gh0ulbab3 @rntrsuna @kyriaan @wolffmaiden @myhomeworksnotdone @portfolio-of-dreams (change ur settings if i cant tag u please!)

[kkumri]

let’s all get along, like adults…

[shrinpu]

closure

[manjir0]

i might post a atsumu series, idk, feeling quirky 😭

[rintaroll]

❝ *･🎥 ·̩͙ TRUTH OR DRINK ❞ | friends with benefits edition

[ tags : a lot of nsfw/suggestive jokes, timeskip spoilers, mentions of commitment issues? a tfios reference LMAO, fwb to lovers trope ]

[ truth or drink series m.list ]

oikawa : hi!

you : hi, uh- my name’s y/n.

oikawa : i’m oikawa, and we… met on tinder.

you send a death glare in his direction and oikawa smiles sheepishly. as this happens, the text that hovers above the two of you says, ‘these “friends” will ask each other a set of random questions. they can either answer the question or take a shot.’

oikawa : i'm jokiiing- stop looking at me like that-

you : we met in high school.

[are you… friends with benefits?]

you : yeah.

[what does that mean?]

oikawa : we’re best friends. but we also fu-

you step on his toes immediately, making him wince and pause in the middle of his sentence.

oikawa : ow, ow, fine- we sleep with each other.

Continuar a ler

[rintaroll]

❝ *･🎥 ·̩͙ TRUTH OR DRINK ❞ | exes edition

[ tags : suggestive, slight timeskip spoilers? hints on exes to lovers trope :D ]

[ truth or drink m.list ] 

you : i’m y/n.

atsumu : and i’m atsumu.

you : and… we dated for three years.

the video cuts to a text on a white background. the text says, ‘these exes will ask each other a set of random questions. they can either answer the question or take a shot.’

[were you guys in love?]

atsumu : yeah.

atsumu sees you give a firm nod with a tight lipped smile from the corner of his eyes.

[when did you guys break up?]

you : um… it’s been almost a year i think?

atsumu : it’ll be a year next week.

both of you share a look before you turn your head back to the camera.

you : so, yeah. almost a year.

atsumu : ya ready?

you : mhm.

he picks a card from the stack in front of him before reading it out loud.

Continuar a ler

[8kh]

WICKED THRONE — S. MANJIRO

+ f!reader. royal!au. rebel!au. enemies-to-lovers. romance. heavy angst. fluff. slow burn. character deaths. eventual smut. ooc!manjiro i write him the way i want to idc.

+ this chapter contains: mentions of abuse (emotionally & physically), mentions of death. + happy new year! this was hard to write for some reason— it took me... almost three weeks? but i kind of like how it turned out and i hope you will, too! thanks to @/fvbuki for beta-reading, naomi i owe you one child. 7148 wc.

+ playlist. + masterlist.

CHAPTER XV: THE CROWN AND THE FRIEND.

Warm sunlight bathed the room, with its golden and orange flares flashing through the window glass, revealing the dust motes to the naked eye. It was all a ruse, a fool’s jest intended to brighten the day amidst the chaos inside the chamber.

Around Manjiro, the shrill cadence of incantations and the calculated movements of physicians mingled into a tumult. You clasped your kerchief tighter in your hand, half-wishing you were somewhere else but here. Here, where the dizzying redolence of strong herbs tried to turn your stomach inside out.

It had been over a week since your abduction and the King’s poisoning. A week of helplessly watching Manjiro vomit his guts out while receiving yet another round of antidotes. He was enfeebled, oblivious to what was going on around him and in his body. He’d wake up thrashing and retching only saliva on the carpeted floor whenever the purging occurred. Even though he was completely dazed and couldn’t chew well, you and the other maidservants assisted him in ingesting morsels of food. The purging was both taking and aiding him, but it appeared that the former was the matter given how emaciated and hollowed his face and eyes had become.

Only the physicians, apothecaries and Manjiro’s secret council were allowed inside the chamber. You picked two maidservants to assist you with the King, Vienne, and another girl named Lena, who had downturned eyes and a charming smile. Trusting was a risk but without Nera, you had to make do of familiar faces.

“Your Grace.” Ran approached, in his hand, he clutched a parchment. “A raven from the North, written to you by the Princess.”

There was their House’s seal on the parchment. Red and daunting. You hadn’t the chance to speak with Emma when you traveled, and you had no inkling whether she was aware of what befell her brother or you. However, you heaved a sigh of relief when you read the letter.

She was informed of what had occurred and decided to meet the Queen Mother’s family halfway so that they may return home as soon as possible. They would, however, remain on the road for another week or so. It was also mentioned that Nera was doing well and recovering, but she was experiencing bouts of nausea and occasional retching. The Princess had concluded that it was because of loss of blood and the anxiety towards what happened. Despite that, it was the first good news you heard.

“Send troops to safeguard the Princess,” you told Ran, handing him back the parchment, “We cannot risk another abduction.”

He bowed lightly. “Her Majesty’s parents are outside. Shall I accompany them to the parlor, Your Grace?”

You inhaled, darting your eyes to Manjiro who had started to calm down with little groans and a body drenched in sweat. “After this.”

Because of your mother’s possibility to be on tenterhooks, you chose not to tell them what had transpired in the North. Only Aenar knew how they would comport themselves if their only daughter, the Queen of this country, was kidnapped and held captive by the rebels they detested so much. You should’ve known better that gossip possesses a pair of wings, though, especially in a place like Elorus.

“Is it done?” You came towards the physician, Dobroslav, overlooking the purging. His forehead was beaded with sweat, as were the others with him. Fatigue clouded their faces but determination was in their furrowed brows. Perhaps it hadn’t taken root yet, but it was the King who currently plays with death. Manjiro Sano— the last son of his lineage. If they fail here, they fail Elorus.

“For now, Your Grace,” Dobroslav answered quietly, “His Majesty needs to regain his strength for tomorrow’s purging. His body could only handle so much.”

“Is there…” Hearing more of Manjiro’s painful groans, you paused and forced down a gulp, “Is there any other method than purging? One that wouldn’t wither him like this?”

Dobroslav’s lips thinned. “I’m afraid there is none, Your Grace. This is the limit of our knowledge when it comes to antidotes.”

“At least tell me it is working. That he’ll be alright.” You searched for certainty in the physician’s eyes, there was none. You squeezed your eyes shut and clutched your skirts so tightly that the tulle fabric almost ripped under your nails. “All we can do is wait, then?”

Dobroslav murmured, “Wait and pray that the gods would not take His Majesty from us.”

The gods, indeed. The gods with their spindles—cruel fate spindles that they twist and turn as they like. With a shake of your head, you expressed your dissent. “Gods or men, I care not. If they want to take him, they’ll have to face me first.”

At the departure of physicians and apothecaries, it was your turn to take care of Manjiro. Vienne helped you in changing his clothes, his body leaden despite his noticeable weight loss. You sat beside him, rubbing scented oils onto his skin with a piece of cotton. He remained lethargic with his brows crumpled in silent agony. His lips were blanched out of color, shadows under his eyes. The antidotes were still fighting the wound on his cheek, but the awful veins beneath his skin had receded a little.

“Rest a while, Vienne and Lena,” you told them. They both looked worn out, much like everyone else who was privy to Manjiro’s plight. After all, the purging often happens in the morn or in the middle of the night and you would find yourselves assisting them. It was not like you could sleep through the anxiety shaking your innards from within, though. Nowadays, it has become easier to wake you up from the cold of your mattress. The physicians had advised you to stay away from sleeping in the same chamber as Manjiro for precautions, a debate you fought with passion until Rindou intervened to calm you down, saying that he would personally oversee the sentries guarding the chamber so as to promptly alert you if anything happens.

It wasn’t until now that you realized how calloused Manjiro’s hands were. You expected smoothness beneath your own palm from a king who had been cared for since he was a toddler. But there were bumps on his skin, small and old gashes from sharp objects. A hint that the ballads about him were nothing but fantasies congested with lies and hearsay.

He was not frivolous, not at all. Beside you lies a man who yearned for the crown. His rows and rows of books about previous kings and the web of politics he consumed since the death of his brother were only one of many evidences that he bred himself to this life. That he had chosen this destiny rather than it choosing him.

“So you shall not allow this poison to win,” you whispered, “Do you want it scribbled on your King’s Journal? King Manjiro was killed by poison. A man with vigor like yours would be affronted.” Indulging yourself with stupid antics that was talking to your torpid husband, you harrumphed weakly. “And poison doesn’t kill kings, Your Grace. At least not a king like you. So come back to us, to… me.” You leaned closer, placing a kiss on his forehead. “And together again, we shall rule.”

You pried away strands of hair from his forehead when soft knocks erupted from the door. You turned to see Rindou standing with his head peeking out from the space.

“Lady Amara is here to see you, Your Grace,” he said, his expression neutral.

Your mouth formed a grim line. Has she heard about Manjiro and decided to come here? Or was it entirely because of another thing? The records?

“I will join her outside.” You picked up your skirts and strolled to the door. “Stay here with His Majesty.”

Amara wasn’t with any ladies-in-waiting. She stood silently outside, her passiveness remaining even with your presence. However, she curtsied and said, “Your Grace.”

“Shall we walk?” You didn’t wait for the response before moving. She silently trailed behind, not a word exchanged between you until you reached the gardens.

The bright petals began to wilt because of the cold, and the leaves were stained by the morning fog, creating circles of white over the green. Birds still chirped, alighted in the branches. Butterflies fluttered around, playing with the flowers.

There was a small bridge connecting the two sides of the garden. You stood over it now, your hand resting over the balustrade. “What is it you wish to speak with me about?”

“How is His Majesty?” You gave her a serrated look, but she didn’t falter. Although there was caution in her mien now. “I ask as a citizen and not as his former… lover,” she added reassuringly.

Your eyes found the butterflies more enthralling, and so you focused on their vibrance instead. “He will recover, but it might take a while.”

“I and our House will pray for His Majesty’s healing,” Amara assured with a slight inclination of her head. You only answered with one. “How are you? I have heard about the attempted abduction. It must’ve been terrifying.” There was not a trace of mock in her voice.

“As queen, I had to survive the fear.” You inhaled, allowing the scent of damped grass to fill your nose.

“I see now why it was you who’ve won the Trials.” She ran her hand over the balustrade. “If it was me, I would certainly be cooped up in my chamber, bawling my eyes out of terror.”

You knew she meant no harm by the compliment. Amara had no inkling that it was the Advari who tried to abduct you; the ones you trusted with half your life. As much as it destroyed you, you believed that they wouldn’t hurt you. Still, however, her compliment left a sour taste on your tongue. If they were not the Advari, you wouldn’t have made it back alive.

But such wasn’t only the merit of why you’ve won the Trials. You earned your crown with your own sweat and hardship.

Spurring on the conversation was something you ought not to do. You shifted your eyes to her, and only then you noticed the contusion beside her left eye. It was fading but the mark remained. “What happened to you?”

Amara’s hand swiftly darted to the bruise. A failed attempt to cover it. “I fell and tumbled down the stairs. A stupid slip of the feet. Does it look horrible?”

“No. But you are a horrible liar.” You held her shoulders and forced her to face you. “Who was it that did that to you?”

“He has been taken care of.” She shrugged. “By you.”

Your hand fell to your side the moment realization dawned on you. “You don’t mean to say Lord Vencasto.”

Amara turned to the sun, its light bathing her face in gold. “Horror happens behind closed doors, Your Grace. No family is perfect.”

Aside from House Aven, House Vencasto stood as the pillar of Elorus for years since its foundation by Amara’s great-grandfathers. Unlike your house, though, they remained at the pinnacle of glory. Even with Lord Vencasto’s vile demeanor, you wouldn’t have foreseen this.

“Did he hurt you because of the records?” you couldn’t help but inquire, though your conscience would severely intensify if such was the case.

“That and for many other things, too,” she said with a soft snort, “We’ve all had a taste of his fist.”

Your brow furrowed in disdain for the old man who would do such a thing to his family. “This makes me not regret throwing him to the dungeons even more.”

You had the lord sent into the dungeons after your little spectacle. For days, he’d been festering in his stygian cell as he deserved. You understand now why none from House Vencasto came marching to the Palace to demand his release.

“You must use the records to take him down, then.” Her attention shifted to you. “It is all up to you, Your Grace.”

“How long have you known about his corruption? You couldn’t possibly be unaware of your father’s fraudulence prior to our meeting in that secret chamber. And you knew exactly where to look for the records. Which leads me to another question: why did you give it to me knowing things would end up like this?” Your inquiries were as irrepressible as the stream underneath you. Amara might’ve done all this to exact vengeance on her father, but had she recognized the cost of it all was her own House? Manjiro had been adamant at deceiving the late King’s Council. And you didn’t think he’d be merciful, especially when left to his own devices in making decisions.

Amara appeared the least affected by your curiosity, though. She slanted her elbows to the balustrade to look at the small stream below. “When I’ve become familiar inside the Palace, I overheard the Council about the exaggerated tariff they were to impose. From then on, I’ve planned to enlighten His Highness, but I lack courage and I still had to scour our manor to find evidence.”

“Why did you do it? Why have you forsaken your father?” you emphasized.

Amara’s eyes were clear as the sky when she responded, “Because he has forsaken us first. And we are not afraid of what happens after. House Vencasto is his, it has never been us.”

Who would’ve dared think that this was the situation in House Vencasto? They were a flawless family— at least in the eyes of many. But now that you thought about it, each of their steps were calculated. Hence why Amara became the darling of Elorus. She was wise, beautiful, and kind. Her eldest sister and youngest brother, too, had established a name for themselves. Her sister, Amaya, was a brilliant student and was training to be a Savant the last you heard. While Avlan, the brother, was one of the most articulate children in Elorus. It was a pity that their achievements were with such deliberate actions and a land mine of a father.

“Are you prepared for the consequences?” Somehow, having to see House Vencasto being punished didn’t sit right in your chest. But Amara was an accomplice in a certain angle. Manjiro wouldn’t overlook that. And the chastisement meant for Lord Vencasto might undoubtedly extend to his whole House.

“Ah, that.” She straightened up, that indifference sticking to her demeanor. “If we’ll be punished, can you promise to spare my mother and siblings? This is brazen of me but they know nothing of my father’s crimes. But if it’s too much to ask then—”

“I will,” you answered unhesitatingly, “I will protect them.”

Something gentle swept through Amara’s face. As if she had been lifted off a hole. The silence that was light and kind enveloped the both of you until she took a step back and did a deep curtsy. “I am indebted to you, Your Grace.”

—

Nothing reaches the dungeon, Amara realized as she walked down the dimly lit corridor. The air was stagnant with a miasma of stomach curling smell: a mix of piss, sweat, and old stones. There was almost no light penetrating the small apertures, and the sound from outside was muffled by the thick, grimy walls.

Rats skittered around the corners, fearing the light from the sentries’ torches. They flanked Amara’s sides, shielding her from the hands that hung between the iron bars. Hands that were either bloody or greasy.

“Where is he?” she silently demanded. She had gone through numerous doors but had yet to find his lordship. What in Aenar’s name did he do to the Queen that he was thrown here in the most desolate part of the Palaces?

Amara had picked up bits and pieces from the maidservants. If the gossip was to be believed, that her father yet again tried to undermine the Queen’s authority, Amara knew that locking him down here was mercy.

Another door was pulled open by the guard, revealing a cell that was isolated from the others. In this part, there was no light saved for the torches in the wall sconces. The air was thick with the same stench from the hallway, but a whiff of damped hay was mixed with it. How humbled Lord Vencasto must’ve been in staying here for over a week.

“Who’s there?” The gruff voice of her father bounced off the walls.

Amara gulped, chills crawling up her spine. “It is Amara, father.”

Lord Vencasto dashed for the light, his shackles clanging on iron bars. His eyes were wild, and Amara could see how tired he was in the warm light supplied by the torch. He had dirt in his hair, stubbles on his chin, and grime on his face. It’s a sight you’ve never seen him in before.

“Quick!” he spat out. “Get me out of here! I will make that wench pay!”

Amara shivered as she saw the Lord’s desperation. Despite this, she had victory coursing through her veins. She wiggled her head as she saw her father pathetically shake the iron bars. “She is not a wench; she is our Queen. And if you had it in you to remember that, you wouldn’t be imprisoned down here.”

“You are wasting time, my dear. Go and command these twats to release me at once,” Lord Vencasto hissed. “I have many things to do now that—”

“I am not here to have you released, father,” Amara uttered with a dead tone. “You will rot in here, and that’s what will befall you.”

Lord Vencasto’s face was shaped in disdain. “You stupid girl. What are you saying?!”

“We’ve endured enough. This cruelty stops here, father. I will lead our House and not even you can stop me.” She stood straight, peeling off the last bit of tension wrangling her shoulders. Amara had to be confident. She needed to prove to her father that they could do without him and his abuse. Amaya would be a Savant without his deception masquerading as assistance and Avlan could be anything he wished to be other than leading House Vencasto.

Lord Vencasto’s eyes darkened, and his grasp on the iron bars tightened. “What can a girl like you possibly do for House Vencasto? You couldn’t even win the Trials, for Aenar’s sake!”

“Damn with the Trials!” Amara clenched her teeth. She was utterly exhausted by people’s perceptions of her as a loser. “I’ll go above and beyond what you think I’m capable of! What you’re capable of! That, I vow right here, before you. This prison will be your gravestone, and here I will rise.” She whirled on her feet and puffed her chest out, wiping away one treacherous tear. Lord Vencasto was enraged, yelling for Amara to come back. Albeit wishing to punish him more severely for what he had done, perhaps it was enough to evince his insignificance to the family he trusted to stand by his cruelty.

—

In the Palace’s parlor, you were met yet again with another hurdle that was your mother’s hysteria. She cried and gripped you hard as if to snap your bones like twigs, alternately and unexpectedly cursing like a sailor at the rebels while forgetting the language and profanity lectures she’d given you as a child. Your father had to help in placating her before she could faint.

“I was saved by the King and his men. I am alright, mother.” You would’ve poured her a glass of water if your father hadn’t grabbed the pitcher and glass from you and said, ‘Let me, Your Grace.’ You only let out a defeated sigh. Of course, much to your chagrin, not even your parents would allow a Queen to pour them a glass.

“They didn’t hurt you at all, did they?” Her eyes continued to flutter wildly, the glass shaking in her grip. “Oh!” she exclaimed, darting her eyes to you and your father feverishly, “We have to find them! Off with their heads!”

“Darling, you must calm down,” your father sighed, massaging your mother’s shoulder. “Our daughter is home. She is standing before you, healthy and safe.”

“But it could very well happen again!” she cried out. “We have to fight and kill all the rebels!”

“What if Eros was alive?” You felt two pairs of intense gazes thrown your way at the question. “What if he was alive and admitted he was part of the rebellion here, in front of our faces? What would you say, mother?”

None of you had a whiff of Eros leading a rebellion before. Certainly, he spent his leisure outside the manor often, but it had never occurred to you that it was to become a rebel. You were all struck dumb when news about his capture circulated the Capital, and heartbroken when you heard of his damnation.

He was eloquent and reasonable. Wise beyond his years, as many of the nobles would define him at gatherings. He spoke not with peers his age but with traders and politicians. Seldom would he dally with a lady and you had never seen him write any letters of affection to one. He appeared to have devoted his youth to the insurrection, to his beliefs, and to his convictions.

Your mother’s eyes were hardened with grief. A usual sight whenever someone mentions Eros’ name. “We need not dwell on things we cannot change. What ifs are sobriquet for poisonous regrets. It will eat you from the inside.”

“If we’d known… if we’d known…” You nibbled on your bottom lip like a child on the verge of crying. Having your parents before you now— the ones who shared the agony of losing Eros with you— felt like a punishment. How would you tell them about the truth? Liberation as it was from the false belief that Eros killed Shinichiro, would it be worth it if it meant saying that Eros chose and that choice was not your family?

“Something is bothering you,” your father quietly uttered, “You can tell us. We’re family, my love.”

You tipped your chin up to face them. “If we’d known, we could’ve saved him. And perhaps… perhaps he would’ve chosen us.”

Not Draken. Not the rebellion. But such was the pain of sacrifice, wasn’t it? It compels you to choose.

Did he ever think about you when he made a choice? When the sentries fettered his wrist and carried him to the dungeons, did you ever cross his mind? Was there ever a time when he regretted his choices? Why didn’t he choose you?

Lady Hestia walked up to you, her eyes stricken with worry. She grabbed your hand, encasing it with her gloved ones. “We have suffered enough. You have suffered enough, my love. You need not be cruel to yourself.”

Tears threatened to fall, stinging your eyes to the side. No mother has ever had to bury her child. And even that was taken from her. No body, no burial. Her only consolation was prayers that Valar would open its gates for someone who hadn’t been blessed here on earth. She wouldn’t speak of what befell her son, but she never went a day without lighting incense for him. For Eros’ travels wherever he was. It was stated even in the House of Sano’s maxim: From God the King, from the King the law. And a King’s punishment was therefore consecrated by the gods.

You locked your gaze on your mother and at her tender smile. Years of tears were shed in your home, most of which came from her eyes. Eros’ death might’ve broken you, but it took a large chunk out of your mother. And you couldn’t break her again, not when she had fought extremely hard to be better, to make peace with her despair. Perhaps Eros made a decision that was detrimental to all of you. But you had the option of not doing that to your mother again. You wouldn’t.

“Have I ever told you how brave you are, mother?” You embraced her, lips trembling. “And how incredibly honored I am to be your daughter?”

Lady Hestia pulled away to stroke your cheeks. “Silly child. I am honored to be your mother. Not because you are the Queen, but because you have grown up to be strong and wise despite our circumstances. Whatever it is you have experienced, it will not break you. Say it with me.”

She needn’t tip your chin up. You did it yourself. With one deep breath, you said, “I am an Aven, never will I break.”

—

For yet another week, your life revolved around the King and managing the kingdom. It wasn’t hidden knowledge how taxing the works were, as thievery had become rampant and tension kept brewing in the West, particularly in the Wall. Under your duress, the construction had been put off so that you could scrutinize the harm it causes the folks. Rindou and Ran assisted you in determining the families who’d lost a loved one from it and found out that Manjiro had been truthful about compensating them. He had also been honest about the benefits the Wall would bring if it were to be built. However, if it’s to the cause of lives, you stay adamantly opposed to it.

Aside from the Wall, there were the usual clashes between you and the Council. The lordships circling you had buried their tails under their legs with Lord Vencasto imprisoned in the dungeons. Not that it mattered to you, though. You had Kokonoi sifting through their treasury to find any anomaly. It proved to be a strenuous task, as you had deduced that the anomaly would be proven only with the records given to you by Amara. You couldn’t come down the Second Palace to Nera’s chamber. People were bound to wonder as she wasn’t in the Palace.

Scouts had reported about the Princess’ well-being. They were two days away from the Capital. Two days and you’d see Nera again. The thought of embracing your friend after weeks of separation warmed your body against the cold.

As you stood on the terrace overlooking the Capital, you tilted your cup to your lips, the bittersweet tang of wine coating your tongue and down your throat. The purging had ended two bells ago, and it had rendered everyone involved drained out to the dregs. It was nothing, you thought, especially when the King’s condition had improved. The nasty veins underneath his skin had faded, albeit he remained torpid.

“Fancy seeing you here, Your Grace,” someone from behind suddenly uttered. You turned and saw Haruchiyo as he carefully draped a coat over your shoulders. “Forgive me for being upfront. I didn’t want Her Majesty catching a cold.”

“Fear not, I wasn’t the least bit upfronted,” you responded without looking at him. Somehow, and even after months of your introduction, Haruchiyo carried with him an aura entirely different from Rindou and the others. You supposed it’s because of his nature being an assassin. Eyes always calculating, their steps silent and their thoughts veiled.

Haruchiyo slanted his elbows to the balustrade, his back turned against the horizon. “Something has been bothering me for the last few weeks, Your Grace. And I believed you to be the only one capable of helping me.”

Assassins were indeed veiled. Not one notion entered your mind about his intent, although Haruchiyo had been observing you like a hawk since your deliverance. One thing was for certain: whatever it was to fall from his mouth, you had best be prepared.

“Now, now. Shall we hear it?” You wrapped the goblet’s stem with your hand, its intricate pattern certain to leave dents in your flesh, as you shifted your attention to the assassin.

Haruchiyo’s emerald eyes glowed with iridescence, like gems hiding beneath his heavy lid. “Your Grace,” he started, almost purring, “Shall we speak about this hypothetically? You are a rebel, and you’ve held captive a queen from a great dynasty: would you, even for a heartbeat, ever take your eyes off her?”

Devils. Your eyes squinted at him. Daggers, you were walking on daggers. And now you should think where to grab a wooden plank to dodge its spiky and sharp tips. “Hypothetically, Haruchiyo, I will not. However, such was the essence of conjecture, is it not? And outside that, there are factors which affect the circumstances. Perhaps the rebels not once took their gazes away from the queen, but that doesn’t guarantee the success of their abduction.”

One muscle twitch on his cheek. Your grip on the goblet loosened just a tad bit. “Does it?” he pressed on with a chuckle, one that failed to reach his eyes, “But these are skilled rebels, Your Grace. A bone stuck in everyone’s throat. It would be baffling how one person could outwit them.”

“How so?” you posed with caution. This conversation was undoubtedly targeted at you. He was hinting at something, and it felt like spikes in your chest.

“It is winter in the coldest part of the kingdom. How can someone, unarmed might I add, escape a pack of rebels and make it out alive?” His eyebrows were drooping, as though the gravity of his question was nothing but a lone thread he could flick at any moment. “Hypothetically, of course.”

Your teeth began to ache from their tight gritting. Yet you could not afford giving him the luxury of you faltering. “Perhaps the queen is adroit in protecting herself without needing aid from anyone.” You smiled poisonously, tipping the goblet close to your lips. Before you could drink, you shrugged and said, “Hypothetically, of course.”

“Or…” It was faint, but the strength in it was notable. You turned your body to face him. The assassin stood tall, predatory eyes gleaming. “... the queen is a rebel herself? That would be a suited explanation, wouldn’t it?”

A lump quickly formed in your throat. He was onto you. You were naive to believe that no one would ever doubt your deliverance from the Advari. Yes, you would’ve fallen in the wrong hands had it not for Draken. And you crawled your way back but that wouldn’t simply suffice, not with the assassin as skilled as Haruchiyo.

“Such an audacious speculation, don’t you think so? It would have one’s head under the ax of the Reaper.” You walked over to the small table on the veranda and poured another glass for him and yourself. The wine reflected your disadvantage: you hadn’t been one to result in petty threats especially if your authority remained unchallenged, but Haruchiyo needn’t see your guilt— not tonight, not ever. You spun around and flashed him a luscious smile, holding out the other goblet for him to take. “Though, it sounds utterly familiar: that predicament.”

His eyes narrowed slightly before taking the goblet with a bow of his head. “It is, Your Grace. But what if it is not speculation? What if there is truth to it?” His voice had taken on a bit of a bite. Never had you been chummy with the assassin, which made it hard to escape the labyrinth he had placed you into. You knew, in the corners of your heart, that this talk had been tainted by your House. Again. Prejudices surrounding House Aven won’t simply vanish. That you had learned the hard way.

You hummed as if considering offering advice although the jab was for you. “I guess you had better start scouting out evidence. Such is the only way for people to heed your speculations.”

Haruchiyo’s throat bobbed as he downed his goblet. He carefully and soundlessly placed it over the parapet. “Oh, I will, Your Grace, hunt for evidence. After all, I am Their Majesties loyal servant, and eradicating enemies is why I am here.” He grinned, then. “I shall take my leave, Your Grace. Have a pleasant evening.”

You watched his back as he whirled. Two steps away, Haruchiyo halted. Only when you heard the shuffle of his robe and saw the length of his hair did you realize that Ran had arrived.

“A pleasant evening to Her Highness. I come bearing news about the Advari,” he said while lowering his head.

Your shoulders knotted in that instant. Albeit having his back against you, you could feel Haruchiyo’s presence looming over. It was heavy and immensely felt from your head to the tips of your toes. You cleared your throat and declared, “Summon the others to the Council chamber. I will be there shortly.”

Haruchiyo spun around again and bowed with Ran. They both walked off with your command. And the bottle of wine seduced you once more. You filled your goblet, downing its content like you were out in the desert for days without water. “Devils,” you muttered, slamming the cup to the table with a rattling force, “Devils, devils, devils!”

I am Their Majesties loyal servant and eradicating enemies is why I am here.

You leaned over the parapet, breathing ragged, fists clenching. “Who is he trying to fool?”

Haruchiyo might have preached about loyalty, but both of you knew it was only meant for Manjiro, the King. Never for an Aven. Never for you. Never for the Queen.

The Savant and the assassin traversed the silent corridors with the former’s robes whispering by the wind, and the latter’s katana thudding with each step. Their air was congested with unspoken words which the assassin felt to the marrow of his bones.

“Say it,” he hissed, boots thumping against the floor.

“Have you the intent of keeping your head intact for a long time?” Ran asked: a silent and friendly threat, if such could ever exist. “If yes, think about the weight of your words, Haru. That is the Queen, lest you’ve forgotten.”

He snorted in condemnation. “A suspicious Queen at that.”

They veered left, inclining their heads back to a servant passing by.

“Suspicious or not, you ought to be careful. Inconspicuously threatening a monarch equals insanity,” the Savant responded, his tone hushed.

Another mocking sound echoed from the assassin. “Even you cannot deny my words. She’s onto something.”

Ran gritted, “And what do you plan to do? Tell His Majesty once he wakes up?”

Haruchiyo halted, his brows folded in confusion. Ran was before him, but he couldn’t quite grasp the content of their conversation. “That is our duty, is it not? To tell His Majesty.”

If Ran could slap his face, he would’ve. He looked as though he wanted to strangle the assassin. “Fool,” the Savant spat, “Have you gone blind? Haven’t you seen him back in Caelfall after the news of the abduction? Had he allowed us to camp and sleep when we reached the North? He is madly in love, Haruchiyo.”

Haruchiyo was a kid lost in the maze. “But she is an Aven.”

Ran leaned closer. “Her house isn’t your enemy here, Haruchiyo. It’s the King.”

All of them were already in the chamber when you entered. Ran was poised on your left, Rindou on your right. Haruchiyo sat in the window nook, his elbow leaning against his folded knee. You exchanged a short glance across the room before proceeding to your seat— Manjiro’s seat.

You placed your hand over the table, clasping them together as you eyed the men in the room. Do they share the same sentiments as Haruchiyo? No. You shan’t let that affect you. “Shall we begin?”

“Scouts have informed us of suspicious men in Caelfall, Your Grace. None has confirmed their identity but we are looking close to it,” Ran stated.

“What plan do we have if it’s the Advari?” You leaned back on your seat. Who could they be? There’s a high possibility that Draken was still in the North with Mitsuya. It could very well be Baji, as Chifuyu was the only one present in the North.

“This is outright treason, Your Grace. Not only they are the suspect for the late King and Queen’s assassination, they have also attempted to abduct you and harmed the King,” Rindou added his sentiments. “In the grand scheme of things, not even the Reaper would suffice as punishment.”

“We understand that you wish not to resort to violence which could lead to civil war, but these are hard times and the Advari seem to be yearning for it themselves, Your Grace.” Ran’s words were careful, as were his movements of flicking his hand to the air. “If we are to let this come past without retribution, not only will the people think us weak, but the neighboring kingdoms, too.”

You’d argue that none of them mattered as long as no blood was shed on Elorus’ soil. As a reigning monarch, though, you knew better. Being kings and queens meant wielding power not just in front of the people, but also in front of neighboring kingdoms. If they think you are weak and incompetent, they could very well conquer your lands to expand their territory. Which would be a bigger problem than dealing with the Advari.

“We need only your word, Your Grace,” Haruchiyo chimed in. It didn’t matter that his voice was as leveled as tranquil water, it rang in your ears like a blow of a horn. Haruchiyo was backing you into a corner like a scared cat.

He was right, though. He needed only your words. But what he would love to hear felt like coals in your mouth and shackles in your chest. It should be easy to command the rebel’s annihilation. It should be easy to have Draken, Mitsuya, Baji, Kazutora, and Chifuyu killed under your order. Yet as you stared blankly at the wooden table, your heart felt as if it was sinking.

Draken’s steady and calm demeanor. Mitsuya’s kind smile. Baji’s endless quips and his way of enjoying your sweets— almost defeating Eros in complimenting it. Kazutora’s one and only goal to best you in archery. Chifuyu’s belief in you before everything came crashing down. They might have wronged you, but they were friends. The only solace you had outside your manor. They were the ones who believed in you first.

And here you stood, on the verge of commanding their deaths.

Eros didn’t kill Shinichiro. I did.

Did you know, Mitsuya? About my brother?

I have heard one of his nightmares. And by myself, I have deduced what truly happened.

“Your Grace?” Rindou searched for your face, all the more making it harder to contain your emotions.

You lifted your chin up, nails digging in your flesh below the table. “Hunt them down. All of them.”

—

“Your Grace, what do you prefer to wear today?” Vienne asked, “It is cold. Shall I include this coat for your regalia?”

“Yes,” you responded weakly. Staring at your reflection in the mirror and the wrinkles that adorned your forehead, you sighed. You hadn’t been taking care of yourself due to alternately dealing with the kingdom’s affairs and it’s slowly appearing on your face.

Vienne draped a coat reaching up to your elbows on your shoulders. Half of it was tailored with fur, and the bottom was in a dark red fabric embroidered with leaves.

“Your Grace, I forgot to tell you but Nera has arrived—”

You hadn’t whirled so quickly in your life. Standing up, you grabbed Vienne’s shoulders and looked at her with feverish eyes. “W… when? Where is she?”

If Vienne could giggle, she would have. “She visited earlier, but Her Majesty was sleeping. She’s now in her quarters, I suppose— Your Grace! Your coat!”

It fell down the floor the moment you dashed for the door. Picking up your heavy skirts while running towards the Second Palace was thick mud underneath your boots. Yet you ran, and ran, and ran. With the servants gasping and eyeing you as you sprinted towards Nera. Down in a group of stairs, you nearly slipped hadn’t you gripped at the balustrade.

“A pleasant day, Your Grace.”

“Your Grace, a blessed day.”

You merely nodded your head, heart beating fast until you reached the door of Nera’s chamber. Without ado, you pushed it open and nearly sobbed when you saw her sitting on her mattress.

“Nera…” you spoke her name, chest sinking.

“Your Grace,” she gasped, bolting upright and closing the distance between you. “What are you doing down here— oh!”

“I’ve missed you so much!” you sobbed, pulling her into one tight embrace. “I wouldn’t have forgiven myself had something happened to you.”

Nera softly giggled in your shoulders. “I am home, Your Grace.”

You hesitantly pulled away, wiping away tears. And as if the weight of the world was only waiting for this moment, you felt its gravity on your shoulders. Your body met her mattress, and there were tears in your eyes.

“Draken…” You bit your lower lip to stop its shaking. “He… Oh, god.”

“W… what happened?” Nera prodded as she gripped your hand. “You can tell me, Your Grace.”

Your sight fell to the bandage covering her shoulders, and to her pale face. The journey had taken a toll on her and you shouldn’t burden her further. There would be a right time for everything. You blinked back tears, forcing a generous smile for your friend. “N… not now. Tell me about your journey. Are you hurt anywhere? The Princess has told me about your nausea. I will summon the physician to have your wounds tended to.”

Nera smiled as she covered your hands with hers. “There is no need to, Your Grace. My wound is healing and I suppose the nausea is only normal for a woman carrying a child.” She gently pulled your hand towards her stomach.

“What…” You blinked rapidly. “What do you mean?”

You had never seen her so happy. Tears were rolling down her gentle face as she said, “It is my and Takashi’s child. The physician traveling with us confirmed it. I know the situation is hard, but I want Takashi…”

As if she was speaking a language you couldn’t understand, her words disappeared faintly and won’t reach your ears. You stared at her, heart engulfed with thorns. There was a sob that arose from your throat. Or was it something else? Was it something more gutted than that?

You felt it: the gods staring down at you, laughing for the wicked fate they had put you in. And the world had you spinning on its fingers. Again.

Why? Why would you hear of this after giving the command to hunt the Advari? Including Mitsuya?

“Nera… I… I have to tell you something…”

Nera wiped her tears with the back of her hand. Before she could speak, a commotion echoed outside. And Rindou was barreling through her door.

“Your Grace, His Majesty has awoken. And he is looking for you.”

+ TAGLIST. @jojoxo33 @omiikeii @primsonnn @hoshina-shiro-universe @ken6ma @lavandula-stuff @catjoucatoru @imkumichan @gabby9456 @timetoten @devilgirlcrybabiey @tsookieloopie @princessatoru @gem1nis @wkasa @zvies @daiisukii @rinstars @nozomiasl @megumirose @nameless-ghoul @quirklessidiots-trashdump @sakumorubywy @chinduda @q-the-rockaholic @lilkiwikiara @cosmotoic @alllostone @h6nekazu @ryouhoe @edens-melodies @instabull @marifujioka @tendous-socks @sadkingkai @narinchan @smolaf-filipino @yeye-chan-blog @batatossaura @fairyfuyu @g-ghostly @lagrimasdeglitter @chaoticyuna @aintyourholy @moonlightkawa @sseorin @honeyspalette @manjir0 @aeaea7 @ssshimuratomura @destybeesart @broken-scene-queens @yvzuha @mvkimas @yvonnesky @fuyuluvs @shinichirosupremacy @mqtsuno @aethermelancholy @hxked