wretched hour

Insomnia - Yoongi

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader

Genre: Fluff

Rating: K

WC: 2542

Summary: When you struggle with a restless night of insomnia, you ask an old friend for a favor // Part 2 // Part 3 // Insomnia - BTS

Namjoon wouldn’t let you go home.

You tried not to be annoyed, as he was right after all. Seoul after sunset was fun, but after two in the morning, it was all grayed out corners and the smell of soju on greasy tongues. You shouldn’t have stayed over at the guys place so late, but there was something about them that made your usually in tune internal clock shut down. With them, your mind became so filled with laughter and comfort, it was hard to imagine having to rip yourself from their dorm and stumble back home to your lonely flat.

(Almost) all of the boys offered you their beds, but you refused, claiming you’d be absolutely fine on the sofa.

“You could have Yoongi-hyung’s bed. He sleeps on the sofa all the time anyway,” Jimin suggested.

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“Hey, Blondie. You’re up early.”

The tall mage pulled his gaze from the sunlight just peeking over the mountains to look back at the approaching dwarf. Despite the frigid mountain air, Varric still had an impressive expanse of chest hair on display. Anders wondered how he could stand the cold.

“The same could be said of you,” he pointed out, smiling at his friend.

“Yeah, well,” Varric hedged, as always, brushing aside any talk of himself. He strode up and rested his arms on the stone railing beside the mage and looked out at rows of tents in the valley below.

Anders rested his hands on the chill stone and looked as well. For a few minutes, comfortable silence passed between them, a cold breeze ruffling their hair and the feathers on Anders’ coat. He really needed to get a new coat…

“You know, a lot of ‘em are here because of you.”

“What?” Anders glanced down and Varric gestured to people camping below.

“Down there. You know how many mages flock to join the Inquisition every day?”

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What is the greatest thing you can experience? It is the hour of your greatest contempt. The hour in which even your happiness becomes loathsome to you, and so also your reason and virtue. The hour when you say: What good is my happiness? It is poverty and filth and wretched contentment. But my happiness should justify existence itself! The hour when you say: What good is my reason? Does it long for knowledge as the lion for his prey? It is poverty and filth and wretched contentment! The hour when you say: What good is my virtue? It has not yet driven me mad! How weary I am of my good and my evil! It is all poverty and filth and wretched contentment! The hour when you say: What good is my justice? I do not see that I am filled with fire and burning coals. But the just are filled with fire and burning coals! The hour when you say: What good is my pity? Is not pity the cross on which he is nailed who loves man? But my pity is no crucifixion!
—  Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra
A Masked Night


Bailey’s night started off terrible. Her only dress from her now deceased parents had been torn to shreds by her stepsisters, she’d been forced to clean the rest of the house and the bakery again, even though she’d cleaned both almost an hour before. “Wretched servant girls” weren’t permissible (by their standards) to go even though all of the kingdoms had been invited. Supposedly the prince was going to be officially courted.

She wanted to go, really she did. But instead her bad luck had gotten the best of here and she’d split a whole thing of flour while sleeping. If only her parents were there, her brother. She didn’t quite know where he went. Tired, she ran out to the garden and cried. And the rest, well that was unexplainable.

But soon she was decorated in a soft cerulean gown, a sweetheart neckline with black beading that grew heavily spaced at the top of her skirt but closer near the bottom. Adorned with a black mask with the blue glint to it and black heels, she stood atop of the stairs. Her brown curls spilled over her shoulders, though the front was pulled away from her face.

The trumpets blared and she was just presented as a Lady. All eyes turned towards her, and she felt her cheeks flare with warmth as they continued to stare well after it was required. Women seemed to shoot her glares, others stood in awe. Men’s eyes grew wide, many smiling dreamily up at the mystery girl.