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spacegoldilocks · 3 years

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The Gods Demand a Queen

Bjorn Ironside x F!Reader

Summary: You're a thrall in Kattegat, under the rule of Bjorn, who desires to one day be Queen and sit on the throne. He helps you realise these dreams, in more ways than one.

Tags/Warnings: NSFW, smut, rough sex, throne sex, fingering, edging, orgasm denial, bit of choking, bit of spanking, size kink, praise, language, no use of Y/N

Word count: 8.5k

The Gods have never favoured you.

You’ve been at someone else’s will for as long as you can remember. Not all of them have been nice. It’s toughened you up, though. You’ve learnt your place and your manners. You’ve learnt when is the correct time to speak, and definitely when isn’t the correct time.

You’ve been in Kattegat, under the mercy of Bjorn Ironside, for a few months now. He’s fair. You mostly stay in the shadows and out of his way. He’s not even here most of the time, anyway. You can’t really complain about your time here, even though you dream of a different life.

You dream of sitting high on a throne somewhere. Anywhere. Not having anyone to answer to. Your own thralls and slaves to do with as you please. A thousand people who call you their Queen, who sit around you, showering you with compliments and gifts. Sacrifices in your own name. A crown upon your head and your face smeared with colours that tell everyone that you are the Queen.

Alas, dreams are dreams. And you don’t dare defy the authority that lingers over you. The fate that awaits your disobedience and failure to capture the power you so desperately crave is worse than simply maintaining your fantasy. You listen attentively to the every need of the family in charge. Most notably, Bjorn.

He’s away more often than he’s here. In those moments, the throne lays empty. Practically begging to be used. At present, no queen resides in Kattegat and you long for the feeling of the throne beneath you. It calls to you like no other.

It’s more than a feeling that tells you that you belong on the throne. You feel as though the Gods have a plan for you. They keep you waiting, so you can ready yourself for when the times comes. It is a question of when not if. The Gods demand a queen for Kattegat, you can hear them.

You say Bjorn is away more than he’s here, yet today is one of the rare times he’s here and he’s active. A room full of people and many duties to attend to. Which also means you’ve been on your feet all day. With Bjorn home and his being busy, you’ve had no end of tasks to complete and requests to indulge.

It started this morning when he and his men arrived on the shores of Kattegat. You having to draw baths and prepare a feast, wash clothing and all the while do it quickly to keep time for any other jobs that might need doing. This included waiting on their every need as they enjoyed festivities for returning safely from their travels.

And so, the throne has been occupied. The only time Bjorn left his seat was to eat with his men, and he quickly returned to it when he was finished. You’d been watching him since he returned. The way he sits, spreading across the chair. Arms thrown over the sides, legs parted, head resting against the back as he looks down at everyone else.

Despite everything you feel, there’s no denying that power suits him. He makes a good king. He is fair and strong and courageous. And he is a son of Ragnar. He speaks with a loud, commanding voice when he addresses his people, thanking them for their bravery and telling them that they live to face more battles before walking the halls of Valhalla.

You won’t lie to yourself and say he’s not attractive, you’ve thought about it before. If you weren’t a thrall and spent more time with Bjorn, you like to think that something might’ve happened between the two of you. But you really have a knack for staying in the shadows, hidden, and only coming out when absolutely necessary.

Throughout the entire evening into night you’ve stayed hidden away as much as possible, watching Bjorn in his position on the throne. Gods, he’s so big. You shake the thought from your head, feeling the pain in your shoulders from so much time racing around today. Your back is killing you. But it’s getting very late, not long and you should be able to go to bed. Not long, you tell yourself. Everyone in the hall should be getting tired too, a long day of celebrations after an even longer time travelling.

They start disappearing in small numbers. Many women leaving in the arms of men, some already married, others seeking comfort in one another just for the night. You’ve made it your business to become familiar with a lot of people around here, not just so you can be a good thrall, but just in case. In case of what, you don’t know. You just think it might be good to have a good indication of who people are, and what they do, in case you need it.

Eventually, there’s only you, a few other slave girls and a handful of men, who are outrageously drunk. They’re so loud. They shout and bang their fists and cups on the table, spilling their drinks and making an even bigger mess that will need to be cleaned up.

Bjorn looks almost fed up, scowling as he watches the men from his seat. He holds his chin, elbow propped up on the arm of the throne. “That is quite enough.” He calls.

All eyes shoot to him. The men look like they want to argue back at him, but ultimately know better than to do so.

“Finish your drinks and leave. Everyone needs their rest.” He gestures around the room, even though there are only a few men, all concentrated on the table nearest the fire. “We have a long few days ahead of us.”

They chug their drinks, not wanting to disappoint or annoy Bjorn any further. They leave one by one, as soon as they each finish drinking, bowing to him before swaggering out of the hall.

You and the other girls are expecting Bjorn to up and leave, letting you all take care of the mess in the hall. But he doesn’t.

You each look at one another from across the room, spaced out along the walls. You’re all as confused as each other, trying to look for someone, or something, to take a cue from.

One of the girls, directly across from you, begins to move. She steps forward gingerly, looking at Bjorn as she does so for any sign that he wants everyone to remain as they are. It’s incredibly tense. This has never happened before. You’re waiting for his voice to boom and echo throughout the mostly empty room, telling the girl to return to her place.

His eyes flick to her, watching as she goes to the table, picking up as many items as she can carry, before returning to stare at the ground, lost in thought and twiddling his fingers. He doesn’t seem to have a problem - you’d know if he did.

And so the rest of you follow her lead, carrying things out of sight to clean and making the hall look more presentable after being thoroughly worn out by the returning warriors.

Your whole body aches. Your back, your feet, your head. Everything. At this point, you just want to sit down. The soles of your feet are probably worn from standing, walking, rushing from one place to the next.

You take any little milestone you can get. You told yourself everyone in the hall would leave and they did. Check. Now it’s four more tables to clear, the fire to put out, the goblets and cups to leave soak. The list goes on.

You and the other girls are dotted around the hall, cleaning and collecting different things when Bjorn gets up. You all make it your duty to not look at him.

Do not make it obvious that you were waiting for him to do something.

You hear him make his way across the room, his heavy boots making the wood underneath him creak, thumping across the stone floor as he descends from the elevated throne. His footsteps stop much too early for him to have already left the room, let alone the building. It’s unbearably quiet.

You audibly gasp when you hear whispering voices - much too quiet for you to understand what they’re saying, and thankfully they’re too far away for them to have heard your embarrassing gasp. Although, you immediately recognise one of the voices as Bjorn’s. Gods, you’d love to turn around to see what he’s doing. His behaviour tonight is continually fascinating.

You try your best to keep going with your task. ‘Just clean the table’ you tell yourself. ‘Focus on that. There’s a stain, try to get it out. Pay no attention to the-‘. Now there’s two sets of footsteps. One Bjorn’s, the other one of the girls. Is she leaving?

The stain. You scrub at it, trying to ignore the way Bjorn’s footsteps stop again. Followed by more whispering. And more footsteps. What the fuck is going on?

You think another one of the girls has left too. You scrub harder at the stain, thinking that perhaps if you channel enough of your remaining energy into removing it then your brain won’t have any to think about what Bjorn may or may not be doing.

Gods, why are you so on edge? Would you be this tense if you could actually see what he was doing? Shit, is that more whispering? And it’s closer. Maybe if you stopped scrubbing the table so loudly you could just about hear…

No. The stain.

Fuck, what is happening? In the room, to the girls, to Bjorn, to you.

You can probably guess what’s happening to you - you’re tired. You’re becoming delusional from being so exhausted by today. You’ve worked hard. You’re still working hard. This damned stain. You’re working so hard to remove it, to distract yourself, you’re only now feeling the way your shoulder is pulling from the harsh movements of your arm.

The stain’s probably gone. You lift your arm up to check and, sure enough, it is. Surely, you’re done for the night now? You’re exhausted, the long hours you’ve worked today are starting to catch up with you. You want to sit down. You want your bed. You want to rest. You want the hand that’s just started rubbing circles across your back to keep doing it. Gods, you could fall asleep right here, the motions lulling you.

Fuck. You flash back to your reality, your head whipping around as Bjorn’s eyes meet yours. He looks aggressive, towering over and shrouding you against the table. His hand rests on the small of your back as he just looks down at you. Maybe its your exhaustion, or perhaps its seeing him this close up for the first time, but Gods is he gorgeous.

Well, you’ve always thought he was handsome but something about seeing the many scars on his face that you’d never had the privilege of seeing before, and the brilliant blue of his eyes somewhat dimmed in the firelight, and the coarse hairs of his beard like this snaps you awake. His smile breaks through the tough exterior he presents, making you relax just a little bit.

The next words that come out of his mouth take you by surprise more than his hand that smoothes across your back. “Have a drink with me.”

Have a drink with him? You probably look insane because you just stare at him. Completely dumbfounded. Somehow you manage to nod your head, letting him lead you away from your lovely, clean table to a slightly dirtier one. At least he appreciates your hard work.

You set yourself down on one of the benches by the fire, resting your arms on the table to try to find a comfortable position where your back doesn’t ache. Bjorn, meanwhile, crosses the room, fetching with him two cups of ale. He sits down right next you, leaving a bit of space but not much.

He looks at you quizzically as he takes a gulp of his drink, whilst you sip. “What is your name again?”

You’re not surprised he doesn’t remember, it’s been many months since you last spoke to him outside of his instructions to you. You answer him between sips of the ale. It’s not your favourite drink in the world, but you like it. And you’ll probably get a small buzz off it between your sleepiness and the lack of water you’ve drank today.

“Hm,” he hums. “That was it. You have been here for several months now, no?”

You can’t help but wonder why he’s sat with you, asking you questions about yourself. Is he expecting you to ask questions back in return? You don’t think there’s a thing you don’t know about him. He is the king, after all.

You nod. “And what do you think of Kattegat?” He swigs from his cup, eyes staying on your face as you carefully consider his question.

You have nothing negative to say about the place, but you still try to choose your words carefully in case you say the wrong thing. “I think it is lovely here.”

He stays silent, willing you to keep talking.

“The people are nice, the food is good. And it is a beautiful place. There is much to see and do.” You elaborate.

He smiles under his beard, nodding in approval at your answer. You sip some more, waiting for another of his questions. He gets up to refill his cup, having finished it rather quickly. He checks yours, seeing it still mostly full, and walks across the room.

Just when he’s about to sit back down, he asks you another question. “And what do you think of the King?”

Your heart starts hammering against your chest - what sort of question is that? Moreover, what the fuck does he expect you to answer if not praise? You see his kind smile has turned into a devilish smirk when you look at him. Are you imaging it or has he sat ever-so-slightly closer to you?

You straighten yourself up, ignoring the painful tugging of your shoulders. “Well,” you begin. “I think that he is just, and fair. And that he makes a good leader.”

The smug look on his face stays, not bearing to stay silent long enough for you to make the decision to keep talking on your own. No, instead he insists you keep feeding his ego as soon as you take the smallest break in talking. “Go on.”

This time it’s you who smirks at him. “I know he is a fierce warrior. And I think that he looks rather good on the throne.” You mean the last remark in that the symbol of authority suits him. But, if he decides to take it … another way, then that’s up to him. Either way, you don’t mind what he interprets the comment to mean.

He looks away from you, chuckling, but giving nothing away. It makes you laugh a little bit too, any tension from earlier having melted away with your easy interactions.

It doesn’t last, not for you at least.

“Tell me, have you ever thought about what it would be like to be Queen?”

With one single sentence, you feel as if he can see right through you, right into you. Fucking of course you have, but how should he know? How can, in one sentence, he be able to floor you like he this, to ask you a question so unintentionally personal? One that pulls something deep within you, something you’ve never voiced to anyone and suddenly now it’s being unearthed by the one person who you should never have to confess it to. Not that you necessarily need to confess the degree to which you have thought about it, but even the insinuation that you have is enough for you to begin flustering, muddling any answer that comes into your head into an unintelligible mess that you can’t verbalise.

You’re quiet for much, much too long. You need to say something. “I’m sorry?” You settle for pretending not to understand.

But it’s no use. The damage caused by you silence is done. His jaw rocks to the side, clenched so hard his jaw bone juts outs under his beard. “So you have.”

Your drink lays forgotten, only serving as a distraction for your anxious hands as you fidget with the rim of the cup. You avoid his gaze, unsure how to act. Then again, surely everyone has dreamt about being king or queen? Maybe not to the degree you have, but doesn’t everyone strive for power? You hold your head up a little bit, feeling slightly reassured by your own line of thinking.

You keep your eyes trained forward, though. He tips his head to look at your face and you can just feel the way he’s smirking at you. He’s left you looking so stupid, stewing in your own thoughts.

“Come with me.” Is all he says as he swings his legs over the bench to stand up. When you look up he’s waiting, hand held out for you to take.

You get up, smoothing your dress out and taking his hand. He guides you out to stand with him on the other side of the bench and leads you towards the very far end of the long room. Towards the throne.

Your eyes flick from him, to the throne, to him again - back and forth as you walk the length of the room.

He stops at the chair and you stop with him, still with your hand in his. Is he doing this as a display to taunt you? Show you up close what you can never have? It’s fucking cruel if he is.

You wait for him to do something so you can take a cue from it. You look up at him and he simply motions with his hand to the throne. You frown, waiting for more information from him. “Sit.” He says.

Sit? On the throne? On his throne? Gods, is this some sort of test? Is he giving you a taste, a mere crumb, of how it might feel to actually have power? Or is he just pushing you to see how far you’re willing to go to obey him? It’s his throne, it belongs to him. You don’t think you’ve ever seen anyone else use it - not even while he’s away, far gone on a raid somewhere.

He drops your hand, using his own to push gently on your shoulders. He spins you around, pulling you down to sit on the throne as he stands behind you.

The room looks huge from this position. Slightly elevated above everyone else and able to see everything and, should the room be full, everyone. It’s comfortable too, and big. You expected as much, Bjorn doesn’t even fully fill the chair and he’s the biggest, broadest man you think you’ve ever seen.

He lowers himself to your ear behind you. “How does it feel?”

‘Correct’, is what you want to say. “Good.” Is what you settle for.

He straightens back up, placing his hands on your shoulders. He’s so big, and he’s putting far too much weight on your already sore shoulders, causing you to wince. “Are you alright?” He asks, alleviating some of the pressure.

“‘M fine, my back hurts is all.” You try to make it not seem as bad as it is, but truthfully you’re in pain.

“Let me help.”

“N-no, it is fine, really.” You lean forward to get up from the throne just as he starts using his thumbs to dig right into a tight spot in the middle of your shoulder blades. You let out a groan at how good it feels, closing your eyes and slumping your head against the back of the chair. Any desire to get up leaves you as Bjorn works the muscles at the back of your neck.

“Tell me if it is too hard.” The calloused pads of his fingers trace firmly across the tops of your shoulders, barely grazing your collar bones as his thumbs work into the top of your back.

It’s a power trip. You sitting on his throne whilst he massages the knots out of your back and shoulders. It’s getting you high, and you open your eyes to look out across the room. You imagine how it would look full of people. Like it was earlier tonight. Packed full with people there to see you. You'd kill for it.

Gods, his hands feel so fucking good and they spread across your shoulders so big. Your eyes flutter back closed, wanting to enjoy his touch without much other sensory experience.

You’re reluctant to acknowledge the fact that it’s turning you on, too. The pain of him rubbing away the aches mixes with just how amazing his warm hands feel against your bare skin. It makes you moan, forgetting where you are as you revel in his hands taking the pain away from you, leaving only traces of his touch behind.

He focuses on your arms now, the clusters of dull ache now gone from your back. His palms work down your biceps, squeezing your soft flesh over your clothes and coming back up to massage your shoulders. His fingers spread out over your chest, rubbing the skin there. You hum under his touch, which he can probably feel reverberating on your chest under his fingertips.

You didn’t tell him your chest hurt, but he spends time concentrating on manipulating your flesh there anyway. His fingers dig into the bones, coming up momentarily to wrap his thick fingers around your neck, squeezing before dipping back down. He repeats this a few times, making you whimper every time he does.

“Is this good?” He whispers from behind you.

You moan out a small ‘yes’, letting him continue with his handy work. His splayed hands come further down your chest, beginning to dip below the necklace of your dress. Your heart beats faster and fuck, you’re wet. You’re trying not to let it get to you but in this moment, you’d let him do anything to you, you realise.

You furrow your brows, trying to push it to the back of your mind, but his hands keep working further and further down, in tiny increments. You swear he’s going to reach your breasts any moment. But he doesn’t. It feels like he’s teasing you. In fact, he goes anywhere besides them. He massages the skin directly above them, kneading into it with the heel of his palm. Then, he dips his fingertips deep into the neckline of your dress, drawing a long, hard line through the middle of your chest, dragging between your breasts. He starts near the bottom of your sternum, feeling the rapid beat of your heart as you try not to think about the warmth pooling between your legs.

You don’t see the way his jaw clenches as he realises how rousing you’re finding this, being groped and touched by him. He told himself he wasn’t going to take it any further, but he can’t help himself. Not when you respond to his touch like this. All the little moans you’ve been making, and the way your heart thrums against your chest. He wants more from you. He wants to hear and feel more of you. Fuck it, he thinks.

He touch leaves you, and you feel yourself come down slightly from a high you didn’t even realise was so severe until it cuts short. You open your eyes to see him walking around to the front of the throne again. He extends his hand to you, much like he did earlier, and you know its your signal to get up from the throne.

You take it, feeling no pain whatsoever in your back, nor shoulders, when you hurl yourself from the comfort of the chair.

He surveys you, using his free hand to cup your cheek. His touch is intoxicating. You don’t know what it is, but the way his hands feel on your skin makes you chase the warmth of him, needing more than the short strokes he gives you. You lean your head into his palm, only slightly but enough to indicate your interest to him.

He’s trying so hard not to give into the part of his brain that tells him to kiss you and to touch you even more. But he hasn’t done well at fighting it up until now. And, unless he’s deluded, you want this too.

Your chest rises and falls, waiting for him to do something. It’s not your place to. His hand stays holding your cheek. It’s so fucking big. It’s big enough for his palm to cover your entire cheek. Gods, his hands were big enough to almost spread out across your chest. His long, thick fingers working at the base of your neck and down past your breasts. Your mind drifts as you stare at him, thinking about how they might feel somewhere else.

His hand drops from your cheek. You think he’s going to walk away and leave you desperate for his touch again. Instead, he sits back down on his throne, looking up at you as he settles against the back of it casually.

Fucking Gods, if he keeps looking at you like that you’re going to jump on him. It’s him that made you feel like this anyway. You were perfectly content to go to bed after finishing cleaning, but no. He had to ask if you wanted a drink with him, and ask you questions, and fucking massage you as you sat on his throne.

He keeps looking at you, considering what to do next. All he knows is he wants you out of your dirty, worn clothes. He flicks his hand up and down, gesturing at them. “Take it off.” He tells you.

Finally, you think, trying not to be too eager in removing your garments.

You start with your shirt, unhooking the top few buttons to allow you to slip the long sleeves down your arms. You let the sleeves fall and the rest of the garment goes with it, left in a heap at your feet. You’re completely revealed for him, your body glowing from the light of the fire behind you.

His cock twitches in his trousers upon seeing you bare before him. He’s trying not to be too obvious, trying to be patient in looking at your body, but he’s greedy. His eyes roam over you, drinking in every inch of your exposed skin that he can see.

You look down at the slight tent in his trousers, smirking at him. He returns it, curling his finger at you to beckon you forward. You’re much too far away, he wants to let his hands explore you. Much further than they already did.

You walk to him, meeting his hands as they come up to hold your tits. Those big fucking hands that trace under the swell of your breast. That grope at your flesh, and his thumbs that brush over your nipples, hard in the cool night air that makes its way into the hall.

He alternates between pinching your nipples, pulling them so hard it almost hurts, and soothing them again by gently rubbing over them.

Everything about this feels so dirty. Displaying yourself to Bjorn. The literal king. Offering yourself to him naked like this whilst he sits completely clothed on his throne. You know you’re probably not the first thrall he’s done this with, but it’s a first for you. And you actually like it. It’s a thrill. Whimpering at every roll of his fingertips over your nipples.

You ache for his touch somewhere else, trying to subtly squeeze your thighs together to relieve some of the ache. He doesn’t seem to be in any sort of hurry, taking his time to study every detail and flaw in your skin. It could be ages before he touches you elsewhere - if he decides to touch you elsewhere.

He pinches you again, but you’re so sensitive from his hands that you yelp, chest jumping under his touch. He looks up at you, looking at your face for the first time since you removed your clothes as he leans forward, enveloping your breast in his mouth. His tongue is hot but does wonders to soothe the slight stinging. He maintains eye contact as he swirls gentle circles around your nipple, leave a small bite before he moves to work on your other one. His beard scratches at your skin as he moves his mouth, melting in with the pleasure he's already giving you.

You snake your arm around his head, holding him to you as you watch him in awe. He’s an expert with his tongue, flicking and drawing patterns over the peaks. He moves on from focusing all of his attention on them though, sucking sloppy wet kisses into the bouncy flesh on your tits. He travels the kisses across your chest, leaving you glistening with his saliva. He goes down, grabbing at your hips as he traces his tongue down the centre of your breasts to just above your navel.

You want him to go further, resisting the want to buck your hips towards him to will him to go on. He draws his head back, his hands still resting on your hips.

He shifts his gaze down, watching his own movements as his fingers move across your lower abdomen, combing through the curls that lead him down.

“Is this okay?” He asks.

You nod. Gods, it’s more than okay. You’ve been waiting for him to touch you for the last … how long? You’ve lost all sense of time. All you know is you’re needy for him.

His tips of his fingers travel further, stilling as they reach the beginning of your slit. He lifts his head, studying how your face contorts in pleasure as he moves his fingers again, pressing one of them against your clit.

He pushes his finger down further towards your entrance, feeling how wet you are there. He smiles at this, satisfied knowing how turned on you are for him. He drags his finger back through, now wet with your slick, using it to draw an irritatingly weak circle around your clit. You try to push your hips further forward for more pressure, but the hand that remains on your hip prevents you from doing so.

Your breath staccatos as he pays not nearly enough attention to your throbbing clit. You moan at the loss of contact when he removes his hand from your cunt altogether, spinning you around so your back, and ass, face him. He almost pushes you over as he grabs handfuls of your behind, spreading your cheeks apart to really get a good look at you.

All you need is just a little push, a minute or so of strong, steady work on your pussy to send you over the edge. He’s intent on making you wait though. It’s cruel, you think. He knows what he’s doing to you - he’s fucking felt it. It’s sadistic. Making you wait. Teasing you.

He kneads your ass, his thumbs dipping into the space between your cheeks, so close to where you need him but never quite reaching there. It’s torturous. You know if you push your rear out against him, it’ll probably result in a longer wait before he properly pays you the attention you desperately crave. And so you stay just as you are, letting him manipulate your flesh as he so pleases. You can wait, you tell yourself.

Suddenly, he takes one of his hands away, using it to place a hard smack against your ass. You cry out as you feel heat rising where he’s slapping you. It stings and you’re surprised you like it. He watches your body shake, eagerly awaiting more. You clench around nothing as he lands another one. And another. He huffs a laugh, seeing how your body jolts at every strike, continuing to land a few more as he pleases.

He seems satisfied with his work on your behind, raising his hands to your hips once again. He places a soft kiss on your burning skin and then you’re being hurled backwards, landing on his lap.

He immediately starts attacking your neck with tongue and teeth, hands roaming around your stomach to pull you into a comfortable position on him. He then uses them to pull your legs over both of his, spreading them to give himself access to your body.

And he makes sure he makes the most of it. He grabs your tits, letting your head roll onto his shoulder as he continues his assault on your neck. You feel your skin going tender as he sucks harsh spots against the delicate flesh there. You feel the irritation there as his rough beard scratches your skin, with the potential to leave your skin marred.

“Do you want me to touch you?” He whispers between sloppy kisses.

“Gods, please.” You moan in response.

“Where?” He grabs your hand, placing it over his and pressing firmly, letting you guide him wherever you want him. You take his hand down, letting it hover over your trembling cunt. He nips at your jaw. “I thought so.”

He repeats his motion from earlier, pressing a single finger against your clit, but instead of only dipping down to your entrance, he opts to slide an entire finger into you down to his knuckle. Your back tries to arch away from him, but he keeps you locked down against his chest with his spare arm.

He pumps the finger in and out of you, making the most obscene squelching sound from the warm wetness he uses to ease the movements of his digit. Your arms lay useless at the side of you, letting him do all the work to pleasure you.

He adds another finger, scissoring the two of them inside you, stretching you open as he brings his thumb down onto your clit. To go from one lone finger to this makes you cry out, hips spasming from the shock. You can’t help moaning with how he works your pussy, curling his fingers to hit a spot deep inside you that makes you feel dizzy.

“If you keep being so loud people are going to hear you.” He warns.

“Maybe I would like that.” You retort, bucking your hips as far as you can with him restricting your body’s movements.

You feel his cock twitch against you as he snarls into your ear. “Such a filthy girl.” One of his hands begins snaking its way towards your throat, grabbing at it harshly to cut off any noise that tries to escape your mouth. “But as much as I like hearing your pretty sounds, I need you to be quiet.”

The moans get trapped in your throat, and you can’t warn him of your oncoming orgasm. It starts creeping up on you, burning low in the pit of your stomach as his hands work to push you further and further. You hit at the hand on your neck, trying to get him to let you go.

He loosens his grip but the fingers inside you work faster to make you cum. “What is the matter?”

“Close.” Is all you say, the oxygen able to reach your brain again momentarily before he constricts around your neck again.

He nods into your shoulder, kissing you there as he pumps, nudging your clit with his thumb as he does so. The way you make the smallest noises that he feels trying to escape beneath his fingers makes him groan. You’re making him so fucking hard. Your pussy clamps down around his fingers, preparing for your climax when he slows his movements down entirely, sending you spinning away from coming. He removes his fingers from you, bringing them to trace small wet circles around your nipples, as his other hand eases its grip on your throat.

It takes you completely by surprise, only seconds away from finishing when he rips it all away from you. You’re breathless, asking him why he stopped. “I didn't cum.” You tell him.

“No, I know.” He laughs the deepest, filthiest laugh you think you’ve ever heard in your ear. “You’re not coming yet. I want you wetter before I make you cum on my cock.”

The words hit deep inside you, making you clench on instinct. So this is what he wants to do? Prepare you to take him. Or maybe he just likes seeing you squirm and fidget on his lap, completely in control of your body.

Either way, it’s doing wonders to keep you wanting him.

He slowly drops his hand back down, bringing the same two fingers into your warm heat. He leaves your clit alone, focusing all his attention on dragging the rough pads of his fingers against the sweet spot inside you. He curls them, hitting just where you need him to every single time. It’s bliss and before long your walls start fluttering, a sign of your peak.

He feels it. He feels how your pussy starts spasming around his fingers, clenching the very tips of them as he pushes them so fucking deep into you. He loves this. Getting to push you further and further. He wants you begging for him to let you cum. Begging for him to fuck you and let you cum all over him. He wonders how many times he can edge you before he gives in to your sweet little cries and pleading eyes.

Both of you knew it wouldn’t take long for your high to burn back up as quickly as it diminished. It makes you crazed, letting your loud moans fill the hall with nothing around your neck to stop them getting out. He works faster, now knowing how you respond to being so close, pushing his fingers into your opening and using his other hand to absentmindedly play with your tits.

He knows now how to work you up unbearably quick and strip it all away before you're pushed too far - and it’s exactly what he does. As you're sent hurtling forwards towards your high once again, he takes away his fingers, leaving you edged again.

You slump back against him and let your head rest on his shoulder, already exhausted from the whiplash of pleasure and it being stripped away before it’s able to consume you.

He rolls your head towards him, pressing his lips against your forehead. “You’re doing so well.” He praises. He rubs your thighs, waiting for the right time to start playing with your cunt again. It’s surprisingly soothing.

He waits for your breath to become steady and for your body to cool down. You’re worked up beyond belief

Your body’s covered in a cold sweat, worn out from all the edging he’s putting you through. You don’t even know how much more of this you can take. How much more you can tolerate before you take matters into your own hands, giving yourself your own release. It sounds good, but truthfully? Waiting it out for the prospect of being fucked by him? Gods, it sounds a thousand times better. You can’t see it but you can just feel how big he is, his cock pressing hard into your back. You want to feel it stretching you, filling you in a way his fingers fail to achieve.

He decides you must be ready, because he takes two fingers to rub against your clit. Your hips buck up, the nerves in your clit overworked and yet desperate to chase any contact to give them release. Your moans come out frantically, whimpering in your slumped position lying against him as his hot breath fans over your face.

His fingers work around your bud with ease, using the excessive slick you’re producing to slip through your folds. He loves this, watching how your body looks, so worked up. You’re shining with sweat, an icy sheen over your entire body, coating your chest, your legs. Beautiful.

You’re so sensitive and you haven’t even cum. You writhe in his lap, waiting for the moment you feel yourself about to peak and trying to prepare for the eventual fall away from it. You know it’s going to happen. He told you he wants to fuck you through your orgasm, so you know you’re about to be denied three times in a row.

You feel it, again. Your clit becoming more and more needy as his fingertips swirl around it. Your back starts to arch, preparing for a climax that’s not going to happen. You push his hand away on instinct, already accustomed to being denied your high. The quick movement of your hand takes you both by surprise.

You keep a firm grip as your fingers lock around his hand, keeping it held hovered above your pussy. Your eyes flutter closed. You know you can’t take another round of this … whatever it is. Fucking torture.

“You learn fast.” He remarks, watching your chest rise and fall rapidly, your orgasm slipping away from you for the third time.

“Please, let me cum.” You plead with him.

“Here, get up.” He helps you to your feet as you stand on weak, shaking legs.

You get up, feeling just how wet you are at the apex of your thighs as they press together for the first time since he pulled you onto his lap. They move together, sticky, as you pad around to face him.

He’s spread out across the chair, just as he was earlier when you saw him. The only difference is the huge bulge in his trousers, and the wet spot - evidence of the messiness between your legs.

He dips his hand below the loose waistband of his trousers, pumping himself without you being able to fully see. With his other hand he pulls you by your hips onto his lap, facing him this time. You place your knees in the free space left on the throne on either side of his legs. You reach your hand to meet his in his trousers and feel how big he is for yourself.

Your hand can barely wrap around his girth. You give him a hard tug, making him grunt. It’s like music to your ears. Finally getting to hear the noises he makes, instead of him pulling the sounds out of you as he denies you. He twitches in your hand as you free him from the confines of his trousers.

And if you couldn’t feel it in your hand, you fucking see it. He’s huge. You bite your lip, anticipating the difficulty you’re going to have letting him fuck you. You don’t think you’ve ever seen anyone this big before, let alone let them inside you.

You look up at him, seeing how smug he looks knowing you’re gobsmacked. He knows he’s impressive. Just knows you’ve never seen a cock that big. He probably knows you’re going to find it hard to take, too.

So you’re determined to take it. And you’re so fucking ready to cum. You need it.

You rise up on your knees, lining him up with your entrance. You're wet enough, but even the nudge of his head against your opening makes your mouth fall open. He pulses in your hand as you stay there, trying to let your cunt adjust to the intrusion.

The way he stretches your tight hole makes it sting. But you can’t help but think it feels fucking amazing - he fills you so well as you sink down onto him. A different kind of pain and pleasure mixture than when his big, warm hands were caressing your shoulders and chest, earlier. It’s not warm and soft like that, it’s blazing hot and fiery, perfect around him as he throbs.

Your hands find their way back onto his chest, confident that he won’t slip out of you by accident. You move up and down on just the top half of his length, taking yourself further down with every jolt of your hips.

The hands on your hips still you as you move down on him. “Do you want me deeper?” He pushes his hips up, nudging his cock further into you by a mere fraction. “Tell me, is that what you want? You need me to fill you?”

Fucking of course it’s what you want, you want to feel him all the way inside you. You want to be able to feel him when you walk tomorrow. You’re just nervous at having to take all of him. “Yes, just go slow.”

He stays holding your hips, lifting his hips up to push into you. He loves watching it. Loves how it feels. How your tight heat clenches around him as he pushes into you. He takes it slow, like you asked, gently lowering you back onto him a little as he watches himself move inside you. You’re almost there and he thrusts the rest of the way into you, burying himself to the hilt.

You mewl, completely filled by him now. You roll your hips against him, feeling every time his head moves against your walls and nudges against your cervix.

“F-Fuck. Bjorn -“ you begin.

He feels your thighs clenching on either side of him, a sign that you’re about to cum. “Do it.” He says. “Cum for me.”

The relief washes over you just as your orgasm does. Your body jolts forward, unable to hold yourself up anymore. You cum hard. So hard. He feels his cock get flooded with more of your arousal as you squeeze him with the flexing muscles in your cunt. Your eyes roll back as you hold yourself against him for security, clutching onto him hoping to ground yourself against something.

He keeps moving his hips against your writhing ones, dragging his cock inside you. It makes you scream. The sound gets muffled against his clothed chest as you crumple into a spent heap on him.

You feel more than hear the guttural moans that escape Bjorn as he feels you coming undone so hard on his lap. The sounds reverberate in his chest underneath you and he holds you close to him. You nuzzle into his chest, letting him take over the movement to chase his peak now that you’ve reached yours.

He meets virtually no resistance from your cunt now, easing in and out with your slick and the slackness that came with your orgasm. He thrusts a few times before starting to hammer into you with zero remorse.

You try to thrash out, but he’s holding you so tight against his chest that there’s nowhere for you to go.

“You didn’t think I was only going to let you cum once, did you?” He growls into your ear. “You worked so hard, you deserve one more.”

Your arms are trapped under the weight of your upper body, all of which is held flush against him as his arms wrap around you. He holds you in place as he brutally fucks up into you, his skin slapping against yours and making the filthiest smacking noises that echo around the empty room.

You relax against him, feeling every inch he buries into you and letting yourself be carried away by the euphoric way he’s making you feel. You swear, no one’s ever made you feel like this.

He notices the way you go slightly limp against him, using the opportunity to keep one arm around you and wedging the other between the two of you. There’s just enough room for him to reach his middle finger up to stroke over your clit in perfect time with his thrusts.

There’s no sound that escapes your mouth when you open it to cry out. Only a hoarse, throaty moan that gets caught somewhere. Tears form at the corners of your eyes as you feel another peak approaching. It’s debilitating. Your cunt's been teased so many times and then allowed to cum, it’s as if it doesn’t know how to deal with the oncoming climax. You clench, drawing higher and higher and higher, waiting to be dropped down to your pleasure.

When you cum, it’s even more brutal than the time before. He has no consideration for your spasming body as his pace never falters, only becoming even easier for him to fuck you now with two orgasms worth of your cum to guide him.

You cry his name out, begging him to cum soon. You don’t know how much more of his savage, relentless thrusts you can take.

“P-perfect. So good.” He replies, losing himself in chasing his high. He can feel himself getting closer. And the way your pussy gets so wet and how you clench so hard around him. Gods, he’s surprised he didn’t cum with you. He has always prided himself on his ability to last, though. “W-won’t - fuck - won’t be long. Want to cum in this cunt.”

Fucking please, you think. You want to feel him fill you in the only way he hasn’t yet.

His movements begin to falter ever-so-slightly, so you know he means it when he says he’s close. He tries to get a few more good, deep thrusts into you before he cums. He lasts for maybe five or six more.

Everything about him is big and excessive. Big hands, broad shoulders, big cock. And even his fucking load is huge. He pushes into you as he spurts his cum, feeling it drip down his cock and drilling it back into you as he tries to keep fucking you while he cums.

He sounds so good moaning in your ear, louder than he’s been moaning this entire time. The noises he makes are gorgeous - low, husky groans right next to you.

He drops his hips down, but even still half his length is still buried inside you. You feel his cum leak out of you, probably mixed with some of your own wetness. And he, in turn, feels it run down his cock, dripping down onto his balls.

You’re both left breathless and completely exhausted. He rests on the chair, one of his arms still haphazardly thrown around you, the other hanging over the arm of the throne. You lie on top of him, still curling your upper body to huddle into the warmth of his chest.

He clears his throat. “I must confess something." He begins. You lift your head up slightly to look at him. The sweat gleams on his forehead, dripping down from his temples. "I have heard the demands of the Gods. And they demand a queen for Kattegat.”

Your eyes go wide, not that he can see.

“So,” he sweeps the hand on your back upwards, coming to hold your face as he asks you one final question. “How would you like to be Queen?”

#Bjorn ironside x reader #Bjorn ironside x you #Bjorn x reader #Bjorn x you #Bjorn ironside #smut #Bjorn fanfiction #vikings fanfiction

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jeonggukieandcream · 3 years

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Hi ! I love your writings so much 🥺

If it's okay may I please have Dracula x reader ? Maybe the reader has a bad anxiety attack and they get to the point where the shut down and hold their breath and that ends up making them lose consciousness ? Thank you - 🤍✨

Hi, my love!💙 You absolutely can! I adore writing for this immortal idiot🥺💖 I’ve experienced anxiety attacks many a time but I’ve never had one so bad that I passed out so I apologise in advance for any inaccuracies!💜 I hope that you enjoy this, and thank you so much for your kind words, angel, they mean a lot to me, as does your support!💗

Also, a massive thank you to @arwyn-the-cyrptic-bisexural for helping me to work out Dracula’s reaction and how he would handle the situation! This piece wouldn’t be what it is without your guidance; thank you.🥺💙

Word count: 1, 410.

Something was wrong.

Something was really... wrong.

You knew not what it was, but there was a tension which had been gently simmering within you for the last few days and you had a sinking feeling, low in your stomach and one which you could not shake, that the roiling waters deep within would come to a boil soon. No longer was it a question of if but now was it a question of when and you could only hope, perhaps in vain, that you would be wholly alone when the lid finally came off the pot. Rarely were you able to fully bask in your solitude. Between your daily responsibilities, chores and the endless list of things you had to do, within which every item you ticked off seemed to be replaced with five more, any socialising you managed to do even around that, and your relationship with Dracula, you had very little real time to yourself. You wondered if that wasn’t half the problem in the first place.

Over the last few days had your body felt heavy, your skin simply too tight. You couldn’t breathe and even the most basic of things were difficult to set about doing or completing. Your hands were unsteady, your grip looser than normal, and it seemed as though you had to concentrate even harder on doing things as you usually would because it seemed that your body was set on betraying you. It was difficult to speak, too, like your tongue was weighed down by your existence, and your jaw ached with how hard you were clenching it to keep yourself from crying out. You could barely speak, but, oh how you wanted to scream.

Yes, something was wrong, and you weren’t the only being in the vicinity who had picked up on the storm which was brewing deep within you.

So deeply intelligent and so intuitive was he that Dracula, too, had picked up on something off about you recently. Or, to be more specific, about your blood. Truth resided in the blood if one knew how to read it, and yours was practically screaming at him as it travelled through your veins, working to supply your body with what it needed to stay alive. You had always been a nervous little thing, anxiety, you called it if his memory served him well, but Dracula had never seen you like this before. Despite having been around for centuries was Dracula unsure of emotions and of the way they manifested within people. He only knew that something was wrong with you, his bride, and the same sinking feeling within you seemed to hold Dracula captive, too.

Neither of you would have to wait very long, in the end, for almost as if knowing that something was coming did your nerves only increase and it was all you could do to keep, for the very least, your body functioning as best as it could while your mind began to scream... though no thoughts were coherent. Your thoughts were a hurricane, words ran and bumped into one another in their haste to cross your mind, and those same thoughts repeated themselves as you lost the ability to think clearly. Your skin was itchy, too tight, your mind was too loud and yet too quiet, and you couldn’t -

You inhaled suddenly, sharply, and the dam broke.

“Ooh, listen to that. Your heart’s a lively one tonight.” There was a question within Dracula’s beautiful and hypnotic eyes but you couldn’t speak. It felt like someone had stitched your mouth shut and there was no way for you to tell a very obviously confused Dracula, whose thick, dark brows were knitted together as his dark gaze seemed almost to will to look within you, what was happening. With the realisation that you couldn’t communicate, you choked on your next breath... and you began to spiral as with every inhalation did you try to ease the ache which started to build up in your lungs. It was when your blood ran cold that Dracula rapidly approached you, concerned was he with the state of your blood as it rushed through your veins and only further quickened the pace of your heart. When you didn’t respond, he said, “I need you to talk to me, Y/N. What is it?” He was very careful to keep his voice low, soothing; it was the way he spoke to you after you had had a nightmare and you needed him to help you get back to sleep. The truth was in your blood but for once in his very long existence was Dracula unable to read it. This wasn’t fear, or happiness or sadness... this was something altogether deeper and he had no name for it. He knew not what was happening and you did but you had no way of communicating your knowledge to the vampire who was desperately trying to piece the puzzle together. Dracula’s dress shoes made no noise on the carpet but you saw him coming, you saw him, and you reached out blindly for him even through the haze of tears. Your cheeks were itchy with the drying of tears and you couldn’t bring yourself back under control. You gasped for breath and even the callings of your name as Dracula bent to your height, his eyes holding your own, and tried so desperately to bring you home to him did nothing to help you. You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t breathe.

You were too far gone.

Blackness overtook your vision as did the burning of your lungs become too much to take, and Dracula’s mildly shocked expression was the last thing you saw as you lost consciousness in his arms. He caught you before you dropped and with one arm around you to hold you up did he start to tap at your face; gently, gently, and it seemed as though your name was the only word Dracula himself knew how to speak. His hands were cold, dead was he, and after some minutes marked only by the clock on the wall which ticked your life away, you began to rouse in his arms. Dracula swept you up into his embrace and carried you through your home into the bedroom, where he laid you down upon the bed and ran his mind through the things you may have needed in that moment... water was good, it was cold. Bring something for your stomach to focus on. Food, perhaps? But what did you like? Should he put the moving picture box on? All of these questions and more raced through Dracula’s mind but in the end, you made his decision for him as your fingers curled into his waistcoat.

Your eyes fluttered open and Dracula’s face was the first thing you saw, bent over you was he. You had come full circle and you managed to give him a small smile. “Drac.”

Dracula smiled as relief swept through him and he chuckled softly. “Oh, Y/N, there you are. I thought we lost you.” A hand curved to your cheek and a clawed thumb stroked along your skin in soothing, slow motions. He was reassuring the both of you in this moment, not that he would ever tell you that. You knew him well enough to know that for yourself, anyway.

You shook your head and slowly sat up, maintaining your grip on his arm. “Just an anxiety attack. I’ll be all right.”

Dracula sensed a discussion and he sank down beside you on the bed, his cool hand still on your face. It grounded you, as did his voice, and you knew that the worst was over. “That wasn’t ‘just’ anything, dear. You’re a silly little thing, why didn’t you tell me, hm?”

“When it... when it’s bad, like that, I can’t talk.” You shrugged and leaned into Dracula as you sought him out for comfort now that you had weathered the storm. “It feels like dying.” With his face hidden from your view, for you had not yet learned never to trust a hug for the very reason that it presented an opportunity to hide one’s face, Dracula allowed his eyes to harden when you spoke the word “dying”. He swore to himself there and then that you, his finest and final bride, would never meet such a fate. Death came as a shock to mortals, but immortality would come as a shock to you.

#theichabbieclub #bbc dracula #bbc dracula x reader #bbc dracula imagine #dracula #dracula x reader #dracula imagine #dracula 2020 #dracula 2020 x reader #dracula 2020 imagine #claes bang #tw; anxiety

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purple-dahlias · 3 years

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recovering- chapter 2

word count: 1742

trigger warnings: eating disorders, disordered eating, mental health

hello! this is the second chapter of recovering. it’s taken a while (oops) but i hope you enjoy <3

(also chapter 1 can be found here)

The days bleed by, agonisingly slow. Sarah goes about her last days in the emergency department almost completely on autopilot, in a daze. If she had to describe it, it was as though there was a wall separating her from everyone else, everything just felt far-off and somehow muffled. Perhaps it was an overreaction, but things just feel different somehow, ever since match day. Even the way the others behaved towards her.

How Natalie had reacted when Sarah had told her. Polite with her congratulations, but somehow different. Maybe even apologetic, as though she herself had been hoping to be told something different. And maybe Sarah was overanalysing, picking things apart too closely, reading into them when there was nothing to be found. But still. It only contributed towards making her doubts more pronounced, every part of her screaming out: you’ve made a mistake. And how was she supposed to tell anyone that? Especially when she had seemed so dead set on pathology. How was she supposed to turn it around? There was only herself to blame.

None of Sarah’s thoughts do any good for her, and she wishes, oh how she wishes she could turn back time. That feeling, that unhappiness, seeps into every part of her, taking a vice-like hold over her, rooting deep within. This is supposed to be her future, the rest of her life. And already, she’s completely messed things up. So she does what she always does. Retreats into herself.

But it’s on her last day, incidentally the night of her graduation, that things take a turn. Even then, she just can’t let it go. Can’t shake the feeling that she had walked into something so very completely wrong. And where does that land her? The nurses’ station in the PICU, waiting for little Michael’s test results to come back from the labs. Dr Manning had already told her to go, she had a graduation to attend after all, but Sarah couldn’t. She can’t leave now. Not until she knows Michael, lying a few feet away from her in a cot fighting for his life, is going to pull through.

It means she misses her graduation, but what does it matter? Her mother’s not coming. There’s no one else to see her. It’s of no real importance to her, she tells herself. It’s only a ceremony, a formality. She’ll still be a doctor without going. And in any case, it was worth it, because now, now she knew, Michael was going to be okay. The hug she gets, the smile from Doctor Manning, the way she gets be the bearer of good news: there was a happy ending to this story. It was worth it. All of it.

Apart, she remembers, from the fact that this wouldn’t be her life anymore. Today marked the day it was all over.

What should be a momentous occasion almost feels like a cruel joke, opening the box to find her lab coat emblazoned with pathology across the chest. She’d made it, she was Dr Reese now. But it was all just more than a little bittersweet. Even with Ethan, for all his kindness and congratulatory remarks, she can’t find it in her to be completely happy, as she knows she should.

The guilt wells up inside of her, until she can’t quite bare it any longer. Until there’s nothing else for her to do.

It’s a rash decision, one she’s sure will send the others in the ED reeling when they find out. But it’s her only option now, she doesn’t quite know what else to do. And Dr Shore telling her she won’t have a job anymore, well… it’s not like she hadn’t already thought of that.

For the first time in a very long while, Sarah Reese has no plans, no direction. Nothing. And yes, whilst it was a completely self-made problem, it was still more than a little daunting. To have your whole future, which had only moments ago been filled, now completely empty, stark and uninviting. A perfect blank canvas stretching out for miles ahead. No prospects.

One conversation and she’s gone. One conversation and it’s all over. No residency, no reason to stay: as far as she’s aware, there are no other residency posts open at Gaffney. But nowhere to go, either. It’s completely ludicrous, what she’s gone and done. Even if Dr Charles tells her she’s going to be “just fine,” it doesn’t feel that way. Not one bit. In many ways, it’s more like the world has ended for her. And for her, maybe it has.

–

There were not many things that remained constant in Sarah Reese’s life. But one that was, was the only thing that she had left now. And it’s all too easy to collapse into herself, let it fill up the gaping, empty spaces inside of her.

Her apartment seems darker, colder, lonelier these days. Which she knows seems irrational, because physically, nothing had changed inside of it. But it still all just all felt wrong. Like she had stepped into the twilight zone, was living someone else’s life.

She was alone now, completely alone. She knew it was only a matter of time before Joey stopped calling, stopped texting, stopped trying to go and get her to meet him. That was the way. Sarah always pushed everyone away, that was just how it went. Yes, she had been alone before. In grade school, at college, in med school. But this was different. Then, she had been alone but alongside other people, even if it was on the outskirts of their lives, it wasn’t total isolation. This, however: she was an island. A shell of her former self. A shadow, an outline of a person. And it’s an awful thought, but it crosses her mind, more than she’d care to admit. If she died, if anything were to happen to her, would anyone notice; who would care?

“You have nothing,” she says aloud to no one in particular, glancing at her reflection in the mirror, the morning of the fourth day after she had quit pathology. It was all true. What was she to do now? There had always been a goal to work towards. Finish high school. Get into med school. Graduate. Secure a residency post. And now? What was there for her?

Time slips by. Hours, days, and somehow, strangely, weeks, without Sarah quite noticing. What she does with that time, if asked, she would never be able to say. And not for lack of trying—it all just passes in a haze. Her lab coat remains crumpled at the bottom of her bag, stethoscope discarded in a drawer in the living room to gather dust. She won’t be needing either of them. Laundry begins to pile up, but Sarah doesn’t care. All she needs is the blue cotton sweatshirt she’s been wearing for days on end, the fabric softer against her skin, hanging far looser from her frame than it had ever done before. Groceries go neglected, not that she needs much. She finds she can hardly stomach anything much these days, apart from wafer crackers with peanut butter, the occasional bowl of cereal (without milk, of course).

The isolation doesn’t help; it makes everything a thousand times worse, she doesn’t know where to begin. Now there’s completely no one to hide from, no one to pretend for. Things are bad, and Sarah sinks into it. It’s like second skin. There again, there when she was absolutely alone.

When she finally manages to drag herself out from her apartment, summer is well and truly in full swing. She’s taken up long walks, through the parks and the streets of Chicago. Sometimes aimless, sometimes with purpose. Slowly she gets round to groceries, though never quite buying enough. But it’s not as though she uses it all up, anyway. Better to undercut, she thinks. Things seem to last longer these days, anyhow.

By the fourth week, Sarah knows this can’t go on. Her doing nothing. As much as she feels she has no energy, still no direction. Something has to change. In any case, with no job now, she needs to find a way to pay her rent at least.

She must be the most overly qualified barista in all of Chicago, with an MD attached to her name. Not that anyone knows that. Not that any of them would care in the slightest. She’s not so sure she deserves that title anyway, what with the way things turned out. But it feels at least a little better, having something to do, a little more routine, a little more structure to her days. It’s not ideal. No newly graduated doctor wants to be manning a till and serving coffee, but this was her life now. Small, quiet, trimmed down to almost zero people. The only person she still saw from her life Before was Joey. She’s pretty sure he’ll stop coming soon. And she’s right.

The upside, if there is an upside to any of this, is that Sarah Reese has always been good at working with what she had. She was used to getting things done alone, used to her own company, her own thoughts, however awful they might get. Just like in college. And medical school. She had been alone. Been there for herself. Pulled herself along. Her own champion and cheerleader in one. And maybe it hadn’t quite worked out perfectly; she hadn’t quite escaped without the scars, but still. She was here. And that had to count for something, didn’t it?

Sometimes, she thinks that when Will had asked her, she should have said something. What exactly, she doesn’t quite know. But maybe something. Because now, no one notices it happening this time. How groceries stretch further and further. How the gaps between her meals increase and the portion sizes decrease. How the dark circles under her eyes only grow. How she’s now a little more shaky, a little more unsteady. The dogs at the shelter she volunteers at on Saturdays don’t notice. The others on her shift at the coffee shop don’t notice. No one does. And it’s fine, it’s really all fine. Because there’s nothing wrong and Sarah’s never had a problem. Never.

And this is her life now, anyway. Just her, her apartment, the coffee shop a few blocks over and the dog shelter on Saturdays. That was her lot.

#recovering!au #recovering!fic #sarah reese #chicago med #my writing #eating disorder tw #chapter 2

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writingformymentalhealth · 3 years

Text

Chapter 5

The Black Brothers

Josephine Fawley or as her brother liked to call her the tomboy Princess had a striking romance with Hogwarts very own Pureblood rebel Sirius Black.

Sadly her parents deemed his Brother the so called Slytherin Prince as a better fit and arranged a marriage with the younger Black.

Tw: Arranged marriage, possible smut, swear words, lots of fluff, angst, mentions of abuse and depression,

Part 1

Wattpad link

Masterlist

The Newts went by in the blink of an eye and before any of them knew they were back at the platform 9 3/4.

“I will miss you so bad,” Isa said and Joey’s insides felt warm. Isa wasn’t one for sentimentalities usually and having her openly talk about missing her made her happier than she would ever admit.

“I’ll miss you too, Isa.” She said, pulling the girl in a quick hug.

“Hey Isa, don’t steal away my girl,” Sirius’ voice said from behind, earning him a playful shove from Joey.

Isa waved a last time before going to look for her parents, leaving the couple to bid their goodbyes.

“Farewell Princess.”

“We’ll see each other at the next boring pureblood ball.”

“I’ll still miss you like crazy.” His hand cupped her cheek, making a blush creep up on her. How could he make her feel this way, even after all these years?

And then kissed her. He kissed her like it was the last kiss they ever shared.

After pulling back, both teens were slightly panting.

“I’ll miss you too, Black”

“Write to me, love.”

“Every day.”

And with a last playful wink the boy disappeared between the people, going to find his parents - or hiding from them.

Just seconds later, Quentin appeared next to the girl.

“Let’s go, mum and dad will be waiting.” He said, nudging her.

It only took the twins minutes to find their parents chatting with the Malfoys, and even though Quentin’s expression remained rather neutral, Joey could practically feel her brother’s blood boil at the sight of Lucius.

Their Mother was the first one to see the twins hugging them both and mumbling something about having missed them. Their father just nodded at the scene, bidding his goodbyes to the Malfoys.

“We have something to tell you when we come home.” Cordelia whispered to her children before grabbing Joey’s hand.

Joey and Quentin exchanged a look.

With a plop the family landed back at the Fawley residence and Joey inhaled the familiar scent of Lavender and Moth balls that always seemed to linger in the old house and didn’t pay much attention to her mother asking for a teatime with the family to discuss ‘important matters’. At least until Quentin took her hand, and she felt just how clammy and sweaty his hand was.

“It will be alright Quen.”

He shook his head. And Joey prayed they weren’t going to tell her that his depression got worse.

With a weird feeling in her stomach, she made her way to the sitting corner in which the Fawley family always drunk their tea, carefully pulling Quentin behind, who seemed almost frozen into place.

Their parents sat opposite to them, both seeming suspiciously smiley.

“What’s up?” Joey asked, not able to take the tension anymore.

Her mother inhaled sharply before letting her catlike green eyes meet her daughters. “We arranged a marriage for you, Josephine.”

“You what?” The siblings asked simultaneously.

“We arranged for you to marry a respectable pure blood gentleman.” Her father explained, not looking his children in the eyes.

“Absolutely not.”

Her mother pursed her lips. “I fear you don’t have a choice, Darling.”

“You were always against that bullshit,” her brother spat, his voice being louder than ever.

“Things change, circumstances change.” Their father said, just earning a scoff from his son.

“It is the best for all of us.”

“Not for me.”

Her mother looked at her sadly, “You don’t have a choice.”

“Oh hell, yes I do.” Joey screamed, standing up, running into her room, still faintly hearing her brother argue with her parents.

In her room she pulled out her trunk, chaotically throwing clothes, pictures and other prized possessions in it. She didn’t know where she was going to go, but she knew she needed to go. Hot tears streamed down her face, she always thought her parents were different, sure most pure blood families had some weird beliefs about keeping their blood pure therefore arranged marriage looked like the best thing to do, but her parents always seemed to accept that their children would go their own way.

A faint knock on the door alerted the girl of her mother’s presence.

“Can I come in?”

“In your words, I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“We made a deal with the family years ago,” her mother sighed suddenly looking decades older, “we promised them you would marry their son in exchange for safety from the dark Lord.”

“What has Voldemort to do with all this?” her Mother flinched by the mention of his name.

“The family is very close to him. They inform him about blood traitors, eventual followers and all that.”

“So I don’t have a choice?”

“Not if you want your loved ones to live.” Her Mother said simply giving her daughter a reassuring squeeze before going out of the room leaving Joey at a complete loss.

After the initial shock, there was only one thing on her mind: Sirius.

She fidgeted with the silver ring on her left hand, knowing that she always wanted to marry him, spend her life with the boy she loved above everything else, and now she would have to face a relationship like Narcissa had with Lucius.

The lump in her throat grew bigger and bigger, and she barely noticed the tears streaming down her face mercilessly.

Perhaps the worst heartbreak isn’t getting broken up with, perhaps the worst heartbreak is knowing you have to break up with someone who you still love with every fiber of your body.

Two days had gone by, but Joey didn’t even seem to notice. Everything went on in a blur and no words from Isabella, who she wrote to immediately nor her brother, could pull her out of her misery.

“You know you need to break up with him, don’t you?” Her brother just asked, while soothingly drawing circles on her back.

“Isabella said I should break his heart really bad to make it easier for him,” Joey scoffed, tears still rolling down her cheeks.

“That’s a terrible idea, even for Isabella.”

“You just say that because you hate her. She said, I should just tell him I am in love with someone else.”

“Josephine, don’t do it, please. People will know about the arranged marriage just like they know about Lucius and Narcissa.”

“I could still love him though.”

“Sirius isn’t stupid - not that stupid at least.”

“If I tell him the truth he would try to fight the bloke in some deathly duel or something,” she laughed humorlessly, “he’d do anything for me.”

“You don’t need to tell him a reason to break up with him.”

“Don’t you think I owe him one?”

Her brother stayed silent, engulfing her in a hug, while her tears left a wet patch on his shirt. Quentin knew better than to argue with his sister. She already made up her mind.

Joey had asked Sirius to meet her at the park bench he once gave her the promise ring at. Her face was stoic, almost unreadable. She knew she couldn’t show weakness in front of him. She couldn’t make him question her decision. She needed to be confident and cold.

She already saw him from afar, his long hair hanging in his eyes while he comfortably sat in the grass even though a perfectly intact bench was right next to him.

As soon as the boy saw her his eyes lit up and he stood up to hug her, but she took a step back making his eyebrows snap together in confusion.

“We need to talk.” She said instead of a greeting slowly making her way to the bench.

“What’s wrong, love?”

She forced herself to look into his concerned eyes that were so full of love for her and she knew Isabella was right. She would have to break him so he could let her go.

“I am breaking up with you.”

Sirius’ eyes widened in disbelief, his hands fidgeting with each other like they always did when he got overwhelmed, and Joey had to resist the urge to hold them.

“Why? Joey we can fix this I-“

“I made my decision.”

He swallowed hard, and she saw tears starting to pool in his eyes.

“Why?” He asked again, his voice cracking.

“I found somebody else.” She said simply, not daring to look into the stormy grey eyes she was still very much in love with, “and I am in love with him.”

“I love you.” Sirius said, his voice barely above a whisper and it took everything in Joey not to say it back.

“I should go.” She said, not waiting for an answer before standing up and taking fast steps towards the point she knew she could Apparate away in safety. A small part of her hoped he would run after her, tell her he saw through her act, tell her he knew how to get out of it but he didn’t so she let the tears that she was holding in since the moment she saw him sitting next to the bench fall but to her surprise she didn’t feel the hurt anymore. Instead, her heart felt cold, as if it was made of ice or as if someone had just burst through her rib cage and taken it out, leaving only an empty space.

Sirius Black felt like he was having a heart attack, and for a short second he thought about admitting himself into St mangos hospital but he came to the conclusion that maybe having a heart attack right now wouldn’t be too bad because the one person he trusted and treasured over anyone else made his worst fears come true. He knew he was always jealous, but that was just because he knew deep inside that a guy like him could never keep a girl like her. That a girl like Josephine didn’t settle for family disappointments with lots of baggage, but he still tried and for a brief moment he thought he could be happy. Now he knew that some people just aren’t meant to be happy.

For the first time since the couple started dating, Sirius lit up a cigarette, inhaling the deathly smoke deeply, hoping that it would kill the sadness in him.

Sirius Black’s world became dull that day.

Unbeknownst to both they had the same essential question running through their head, ‘who is this other guy’ but while Sirius would have to wait some time till his question got answered, Joey had the option to confront her parents.

Of course she could have done this earlier, but she had to admit she was scared of the answer. She knew most pureblood families and couldn’t say she particularly liked them. Additionally a family that was close to the Dark Lord was bound to be involved in the dark arts and at least to some extent evil.

She shuddered at that thought; she heard all the stories about arranged marriages - the regular rape, the abuse and the fear and she wasn’t keen on joining that club. So when she saw her Mother that day ready to confront her - she couldn’t.

She couldn’t bring herself to ask.

Actually, she couldn’t bring herself to do anything besides lay in bed and sleep, she didn’t even have it in her to cry anymore. Even after her Mother informed her she was going to meet her future husband for dinner, she didn’t have it in herself to react.

In the end it was her brother who brought back the girl’s spirits on the day of the dinner.

“Oh no, you are not meeting your future husband looking like that.”

“Why? He has to marry me, anyway.” Joey said, rolling over.

“Go shower. Now. You smell, and if you don’t shower, I will conjure a bucket of ice water and shower you myself.” He said while rummaging through her closet.

Joey frowned, not being used to her brother being so authoritarian, but she did as he said, too tired to argue with him.

Even though she would never admit it, the shower did make her feel better, and the dress her brother chose made her feel like a real life princess.

“You have to do your clown paint on your own, I have no idea what that stuff is.” He said gesturing to her makeup and for the first time in eleven days Joey chuckled.

She was just doing her eye makeup as her mother came in, a sad smile decorating her face. “You never asked who.”

“Does it matter?” Joey asked, applying mascara.

“It’s Regulus Black.”

Joey almost poked her eye out as she heard that. Her heart hammered desperately against her chest.

“Why not Sirius?” Quentin asked the question Joey wanted to ask so desperately. “Isn’t he the oldest?”

Her mother made a sound with her mouth, “We discussed this matter but Sirius and his family have a complicated relationship, they want regulus to make the proud.”

And Joey felt like her heart broke all over again. She was so close to getting what she wanted, yet destiny had ripped it away from her again. If this was a story, the Author had to be downright cruel to put her through this.

At the Black Mansion Sirius - for the first time in his life felt completely and utterly broken. Hot tears ran down his face, and he couldn’t contain the sobs coming out of his mouth.

He almost didn’t notice his Mother coming in hitting him with the stupid Black family ring she was so proud of turning it outward so it would leave deep cuts on his cheeks.

“Crying is something for muggles and weaklings. Not for Blacks.” She screeched, but he didn’t care, he never cared for anything his parents wanted or said, he only cared for her and his friends and maybe Regulus even though his loyalty to their parents could be infuriating sometimes.

“We have guests this evening. If you aren’t on your best behavior, I will crucio you right in front of them.” His mother sneered, and Sirius knew from experience that she meant what she said.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?” His Mother grabbed her wand and Sirius bit his lip till it started bleeding.

“Yes, ma’am.” he grumbled quietly, just hoping that she would disappear soon so he could be sad in peace.

Walburga strutted out of the room, locking the door behind her, making Sirius sigh.

He looked around his room trying to ground himself, the red gryffindor flags, the muggle band posters from bands he didn’t know just to spite his mother, the pictures of the Marauders and of course the pictures of Joey that he didn’t yet have the heart to take down, her smile illuminating the whole room even through a picture. Tears filled his eyes again, yet he didn’t dare to cry. Instead, he got out his wand, muttering some spells to heal the wounds.

A few hours later Sirius was well aware of how horrible he looked, skin pale, deep rings under the eyes and his usually shiny hair hanging matted over his eyes, this look being further enhanced while standing next to his brother who looked more and more like Sirius every day, sharing his aristocratic features. But other than Sirius;, Regulus looked amazing, his tie in place, his hair combed and his shoes cleaned.

Sirius saw the disgusted face his mother gave him before gushing about Regulus and he couldn’t help but feel accomplished at his disheveled appearance that hopefully would disgust any weird poor blood family her mother invited for today.

“Adrian, Cordelia! How nice to see you.” Walburga greeted, making Sirius’ blood run cold at the mention of Joey’s parents’ names; and really just behind the two middle-aged wizards and next to Quentin, the girl of his dreams, stood. Her usually wavy hair was curled and neatly pinned up, leaving just a few strands to frame her beautiful face.

Sirius stood there frozen as the other people greeted each other. Joey stiffly shook his hand. Her eyes looking cold and disinterested, just like the first time Sirius saw her at the pureblood ball.

Joey, on the other hand, felt immensely grateful for her brother standing beside her, as she didn’t know where she should look. She was scared to look in Regulus eyes seeing the familiar cold and steely gaze of her future husband and even though she wanted to, she knew looking in Sirius’ eyes would just open up a Pandora’s box of feelings.

The dinner went over like a blur, Walburga asking lots of questions that were being answered politely, mostly by Cordelia.

As dessert came - crème brûlée, finally the point of the entire dinner was made clear.

“Josephine, Regulus, as you both know we arranged a marriage between you two, binding two of the most pureblood families together by law.” Orion said, his voice cold and calculated just like Regulus’ voice was. Sirius started coughing uncontrollably, choking on the water he just tried to drink, earning himself dirty looks from the pureblood parents, Orion especially looking at Sirius like Walburga looked at discounter clothes. “Don’t mind my son, he doesn’t take news like a gentleman, another reason why we chose regulus over him.”

Joey looked up from her plate - the first time this evening and her mask broke for a short second and Sirius saw how deeply horrified she looked before she went back to smiling politely with the same cold disinterested eyes every pureblood kid learned to have at a young age.

“We expect you to be a pleasant couple till you marry, no drama or other nonsense.” Orion continued.

“Josephine, darling, I suspect your parents already informed you about the risks of acting out?” Walburga asked, and Joey’s stomach turned at her sickly sweet voice. Her eyes automatically found Sirius’ for comfort, but his eyes were clouded with shock and something Joey could only interpret as realization.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Very well, how about you two go up to Regulus’ room to get to know each other better, while we discuss the details of the engagement party?”

Regulus nodded wordlessly, taking his future fiancée’s hand leading her up the stairs so familiar of the noble house of black, into his room.

It was the first time that Joey saw a room except the ball room and Sirius’ room and she was impressed at how unimpressive the room looked. The walls were empty except a Slytherin flag over his bed; the room was almost hauntingly neat, and she didn’t see even one personal item.

“I apologize for all of this.” Regulus said, looking at the stoic girl in front of him.

“No need to apologize.” She whispered, her voice sounding hoarse as she took in the room, looking anywhere but into the boys’ eyes.

“I’m sure no girl wants to have that kind of proposal.”

She chuckled at the absurdity of his words, sitting down on his bed, surprised at the softness of the mattress, yet shuddering at the thought of her having to have sex with him on that mattress - or anywhere, for that matter.

“We are practically engaged and you don’t even know my favorite color.” She said, looking into his eyes for the first time this evening.

There was a deep breath, and then Regulus sat beside her.

“Josephine-“

“Why are you marrying me?”

He looked shocked at the question and Joey wished she could take the words back, knowing that she crossed a line and being basically the property of Regulus now, she should maybe at least try to keep the comments to herself.

“Josephine, it’s what our parents want from us.”

“Nobody calls me Josephine, except my parents.” Joey whispered, her voice restrained from the fear pulsing through her body.

“I know, but I didn’t know if you wanted me to call you that.”

Joey looked into his steely eyes, and they looked surprisingly soft and understanding. And a small glimmer of hope tugged at her heartstrings.

“Why do you care what I want? Am I now not your property?” The words came out harder than she intended, and Regulus flinched slightly.

“I’m not a monster.”

Joey stayed silent.

She was glad, as Walburga called them downstairs, looking at them as if she just won the lottery.

“Splendid news, we will hold the engagement party in one week.”, Joey forced a smile but by the falling face of Walburga she could already tell that it came out more like a grimace, “and the even better news is that you will spend all summer with us so you and Regulus can bond and have some appearances as a couple before you marry.”

Joey’s stomach turned. Spending all summer with the guy they forced her to marry, her ex boyfriend who still gave her butterflies and their psychopathic parents sounded like a nightmare.

“We will have a guest room ready.” Orion added coldly, and from the corner of her eye she saw Sirius exhaling in something that looked like relief.

“Oh no, we aren’t in the eighties anymore. She can sleep in Regulus room, they can practice for their wedding night.” Walburga grinned wolfishly, and Joey felt so sick she was sure she would throw up all over the carpet.

Masterlist

Part 6

Let me know if you want to be on the taglist for this story :)

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a-problematic-writer · 3 years

Note

For a writing request, how about Jesse and Aiden sparring for funsies? Maybe after Season 2 when he's trying to make amends?

I was saving this request for last as a treat, but I've decided to just write it because my head is filled with nothing but Aiden and Jesse. The brainrot is real </3

Aiden has two favorite days of the week. Saturday because the bookstore gives out free volumes of old classics and Thursday because he gets to hangout with Jesse.

That was still new; hanging out with Jesse.

They weren't friends, per se. Though, he supposed two people who see each other on a weakly basis must be something more than mere acquaintances. She was still a dork. That hadn't changed, not much at least. He could tell the 'hero-in-residence' thing was dragging her down. She seemed more tired now then he could ever remember.

That's why they did this. Every Thursday Jesse got a well needed break and Aiden got an excuse not to stay at home alone.

[Home didn't know of his deeds in Sky City. Many didn't remember him at all. Some knew him as an old friend of Lukas' but nothing more. Still, Aiden wanted to stay to himself as often as he could. The last thing he wanted was attention.]

Today, Jesse had wanted to do something different. With Petra off on her own, she had lost a valuable sparring partner and had recruited him as her new one to keep herself from 'growing too soft'.

[He doubted Jesse could grow soft. She'd built up a lot of muscle during the New Order's heyday and was far stronger then he was even before prison.]

He agreed only because of Jesse's insistence that it would be fun. That she could show him the ropes. Aiden was a fair swordsman but admittedly was better at running then actually fighting.

He walks into the order hall and finds Radar sitting at the desk. He smiles at him, waving him forward.

"Hey! Jesse was just asking for you."

"She was?"

The younger male nods, pushing his glasses up. "She's in the training room. Go on in."

Aiden nods and walks past Radar and through the door that leads into the orders main living quarters. The place is still a bit daunting, but he knows his way around enough to only get lost once.

When he enters the training room, he finds Jesse there testing out a new sword she'd been gifted by Stella. It's an intricately forged blade of iron with jewels in the hilt. Definitely more ornamental then functional, but Jesse isn't one to burst someone's bubble like that. She's able to wield any sword with a finesse that is hard not to admire.

It occurs to him that he should have announced his presence right after she looks over her shoulder. A smile graces her features.

"I thought someone came in!"

She sets the sword in the weapon rack and crosses over to him. She's dressed in a loose-fitting t-shirt and sweatpants. Dark brown hair pulled into a tight ponytail. Her eyes have dark bags under them. He wonders if she's slept at all this week.

"How are you?"

Aiden shrugs. "I'm alright. How about you miss 'hero-in-residence'?"

"I'm fine," she answers. "a little tired but I had to finish the budget for the new apartment."

"We could do something more chill than train?"

"Absolutely not!" she jabs a finger into his chest. "You're not chickening out of sparring with me."

Aiden frowns. Perhaps his motives aren't entirely all based on care for Jesse, he's already certain his ego will be bruised, but he also doesn't want the woman to overexert herself.

"I just want to make sure you're~"

"I think you just know I'm better than you."

Her eyes are a light with a mischievous glint Aiden hasn't seen before. That usual spark lights in his chest. He will not be called second rate when he hasn't even given it a try.

"You think you are, but I'm pretty sure we both know I can hold my own."

Jesse grins. It's warm, no trace of malice in it. "Come on then! Show me what you got!"

She grabs his hand and tugs him towards the weapons rack grabbing two training swords. Aiden can feel his mouth growing dry already. He grips the sword tightly. It's been so long since he held one...

Jesse readies herself wooden blade drawn. Aiden frowns at her. He couldn't get himself out of this now. He mirrors her stance. They circle each other momentarily. Neither quite sure whether they should be the first to strike.

Jesse makes the first move slashing towards him. Aiden barely blocks the blow, stumbling back just slightly. He steadies himself and tries to remember the pointers he got from Gabriel so long ago.

Stand firm, move unpredictably, and never yield.

He knows Jesse's going to take advantage of his stumble so he cuts to the side. It only confuses her a moment but by the time she's turning on him he slashes at her. She parries it just barely.

"Cute trick!"

She swings and their swords catch. He puts as much strength as he can into pushing her back. She stumbles and he lunges forward swinging once then twice. She blocks both.

Aiden's breath is already becoming stilted. Jesse looks fine. If not a bit stunned. Aiden can't help the smirk.

He slashes at her again, she parries, and their blades lock again. Her gaze is firm and doesn't move from his. This is familiar to Aiden. Too familiar.

The training room gives way to the rain slick cobblestone extension of Sky City. He can smell the smoke in the air, feel the electricity that sizzles with each lightning strike, the cold rain that dampens his hair and makes it fall into his eyes. Ghasts screech, people scream, his own heartbeat pounds in his ears. Anger flashes red hot.

He freezes. Horrified.

Jesse pushes him back and he loses his balance, landing hard on the floor.

The training room bleeds back in. Aiden tries to even his breathing. Jesse approaches and kneels next to him.

"Hey, you alright?"

He meets her gaze and her brow furrows. He manages a nod.

"Yeah-yeah, I'm fine. Sorry."

His voice is barely above a murmur and cracks around the edges.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I just got dizzy."

She looks him over a moment before extending her hand. She doesn't believe him but they'll deal with that later. He takes her hand and she hauls him up.

"Dizzy, huh? Have you eaten?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine."

She frowns. "Aiden~"

"I'm fine!" his voice is a bit too harsh and he regrets raising his voice as soon as he sees Jesse wince. His mouth is far too dry. He feels like he can't take a breath. "I-I need to go."

Jesse frowns. "Wait~"

He doesn't; making a beeline for the exit. He can't be around Jesse. Not right now. He's too afraid of what he might say or do. He can hear her calling after him, but it doesn't stop him. He just needs to get away. That's all he wants to do; run away from Sky City. From Jesse.

Radar says something as Aiden brushes passed, but he doesn't catch it. The air outside feels grating against his skin. He doesn't know where he's going but only one thought screams at him:

You'll never be able to escape what you did.

#answered ask #Anon #my writing #kyler writes #mcsm #minecraft story mode #mcsm aiden #mcsm jesse #mcsm aidesse #I may have took this idea and ran with it a little #Made it kinda angsty... oops #Aiden's haunted by his mistakes #Guilt is a cruel mistress and Aiden knows it well

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genevievemd · 4 years

Text

A Love Like This

A/N: Takes place after ch 17(book 2), it started as I thought I had after I finished the chapter and then slowly turned into this. I really love this “super in love and not even trying to hide it” Ethan and I need more of it. So this is like kinda super fluff with a hint of angst from my mc. I hope you like it. Also please go gentle on me, this is the first thing I’ve ever written for Open Heart.

Ethan Ramsey x MC (Genevieve McClure)

Ethan hasn’t seen her in hours, not since she left the clinic to assist with one of her intern’s patients. He could see there was something bothering her, a storm brewing behind her gorgeous green eyes. He heard that she was asked to talk to the board, asked what she thought about the situation her intern, Esme, had put herself in.

He races down the hallways and corridors, checking every room and corner he comes across and he finds her soon enough, standing on the 4th floor landing staring out the large windows. He can see something is wrong, just from the way she’s standing - ankles crossed, shoulders tense, biting her nails. She only ever looks like this when something is wrong. It’s quite an extraordinary thing, he thinks, being able to decipher her moods just by looking at her. A sort of connection that he’s never had before.

Ethan approaches her slowly, as not to startle her. “Are you alright?” He asks quietly as he wraps his arms around her, still feeling as bold as the night before, and pulling her back against his chest. He can feel her sigh as she leans further into him and it makes his heart leap - perhaps her need to touch him is as strong as his need for her.

“Yes, I just needed a minute away from everything. I was going to grab something from the cafeteria, but then I overheard some of the not-so-friendly residents talking about us and last night and I just..with everything going on that was the last thing I needed.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What? Why?” Genevieve leans to the side and twists her head with record speed, looking up at him with surprise.

“I didn’t think about the consequences of my kissing you in front of everyone last night. I was merely thinking of myself and not taking into consideration how it might have affected you.”

“Don’t apologize for that, ever. I’m glad you did it.” Genevieve leans back against his chest again, resting her hand on his, thumb tracing circles on his skin. “All I’ve wanted since you kissed me that night after the softball game was to be able to be with you - fully, out in the open. So seriously don’t apologize, I can handle the side eyes and comments behind me back.” She smiles, twisting around and slinking her arms around his waist.“Besides, if you hadn’t, you definitely would not be holding me like this in public and it's exactly what I need right now.”

“Well, in that case,” Ethan kisses the top of her head, arms tightening around her. He likes this, not having to hide his feelings or his need to touch her, to hold her. It’s freeing and wonderful and it breaks all the rules he’s ever set for himself but that doesn’t seem like such a terrible thing anymore.

They stand there in silence for a few moments, before Genevieve speaks again. Her voice uneasy. “Did I do the right thing?”

“In regards to what?”

“Esme.” She pulls out his embrace walking back to the railing, turning her back to him and staring out the window once more. “I feel like a massive hypocrite. I was so angry at Landry for ratting me out last year and not having my back. And yet I just did the same thing to Esme.”

“Genevieve,” He wants to reach for her, pull her back into his arms and kiss her worries away.

“And to make it worse, Naveen looked so disappointed in me for saying she did help Levi end his life. He just gave me this face like he knows she didn’t and it was an accident and I just threw her under the bus for no reason and now he thinks I’m the biggest disappointment.” She’s pacing now, back and forth in the way she does when her mind can’t slow down. Ethan knows better than to interrupt her, better to let her get it all out before he tries to calm her down, to talk her off the edge. “Like he expected better from me. Like I let him down and now he doesn’t see me as the same person or doctor he thought I was. Maybe he’s right. I had no hard evidence that she did it. I wasn’t even there. At least Landry knew what I did, had actual proof that I gave the drug to Mrs Martinez. But I had no proof that Esme helped Levi end his life. And yet I told them that she did it. I feel like she did, but maybe I’m wrong. I kept trying to get her to tell me and she wouldn’t and just kept being so vague and skirting around the question. And the woman from the board said if Esme took the blame the hospital wouldn’t be liable and it felt like...” She stops pacing, taking a deep breath before throwing her hands up in defeat. “I’m the worst, like the actual worst person on the planet, no better than Freaking Landry Olsen.”

She grips the railing, knuckles turning white. He can see that she’s fighting back tears and it cuts him to his core. “You’re probably just as disappointed in me as Naveen, which you have every right to be. Esme did say she ‘expected nothing less from someone like me.’ I’m not entirely sure what that even means, but I wouldn’t blame you if you just walked away. Cut your losses and ran. Because clearly I am not the person everyone thinks I am or I thought I am.” "Genevieve exhales raggedly, covering her face with her hands.

Ethan feels his body fill with rage, an urge to run a scalpel through anyone who’s made her feel like she does now. How she could ever think he would or could walk away from after everything they’ve been through shocks him.

He walks towards her, but she doesn’t look up, doesn’t make a move at all. “Genevieve, look at me.” He reaches for her, cupping her cheek in his hand and forcing her to look up at him. Her eyes are red and cheeks wet with tears and it breaks his heart to see her like this. “I’m not disappointed in you and I doubt Naveen is either.” He wipes a few stray tears away with his thumb, “They asked you what you thought and you gave them your honest answer, yes?”

“Yeah but -”

“But nothing. You gave them your opinion on what happened and that's the end of it.” He pulls her back into his arms, placing a kiss to her forehead. “You have a tendency to take on everyone’s problems and then blame yourself when things that are out of your control go wrong. We have that in common, I think. And while I admire your tenacity, the fate of this hospital does not rest solely on your shoulders.”

He can feel her take a deep breath and close her eyes, snuggling deeper into his embrace. “You’re probably right.”

Ethan smiles, knowing that, at least for the moment, he’s dissolved her worries and fears. “I’m always right, darling. You should know that by now.”

Genevieve pulls back suddenly, looking up at him with such adoration that it makes his smile grow wider and his heart beat faster. God help him, he’s falling in love with her faster than he ever thought possible.

“You just called me ‘darling’.”

“Did you not like that?” His absolute certainty of their mutual feelings is replaced with a nervous worry. Has he gone too fast? Pushed harder than he should? He’s not used to being the one that pushes, the one that puts their feelings for each other before anything else.

“No, no. I like it. I just didn’t expect it.” Genevieve’s eyes are sparkling and her smile is wide - pure and unburdened and his worries quickly fade. “Are you done for the day? Because my shift ended like 10 minutes ago.”

Ethan looks down at his watch then back at her, “I’ve got anything 20 minutes, why?”

“No reason, I just…” Genevieve scrunches her face as she tries to find whatever it is she’s trying to say and Ethan thinks it might be the most adorable face he’s ever seen her make. “Do you care if I wait for you in your office? So we can go home together.”

Her smile is hopeful and radiant and he wants to make her smile at him like that everyday for the rest of his life. Ethan kisses her then, possibly a little too passionately for the hospital, but he doesn’t care - not anymore.

He has her, she has him, and it's everything he never knew he wanted.

#ethan ramsey x mc #ethan ramsey #open heart #open heart fanfiction #open heart second year #playchoices #is this trash?#im sorry if its trash #ethan x gen

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mor-beck-more-problems · 3 years

Text

Death Rings Twice || Morgan and Eilidh

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @braindeacl @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: While searching for answers, Morgan and Eilidh realize the situation is worse than they realized.

CONTAINS: conversations with dead people

They came and went in waves. The first time, only the first time, Eilidh believed them to be just a part of being a ghost. James had done so many times—go in and out of view like the watts on a bulb. But those changes had been consensual, come upon by his own will, and he never truly left. Not like she had, and did, and still do. Moments of nothingness. Blink and she was gone, truly and ultimately gone. Blink and she was back, not even left with a memory. Just a faint recollection, a faint feeling of a blank. Like trying to recall a blackout. You knew it was there, you felt it too—pages torn from a book. But you also didn’t, couldn’t, for nothingness was all that remained. Nothingness that seemed to be her destination. Those blinks got longer, longer, longer. With no sign of slowing.

Eilidh knew Morgan was facing her own bouts of strangeness. Maybe they were connected. Morgan believed them to be—magic set loose like a wildfire, with them in its path. Consumed in its flames, would it burn them all the way to the ground? Or would they come out the other side, for the better? This curiosity, and a gnawing worry, compelled her forward, right into Morgan’s residence. She ventured through those great and winding halls, as if she already haunted the place. She ought to haunt at least one. Before it became too late. Passing by an open door, that familiar face was finally seen. Eilidh stopped, stared. Felt that nothingness threatening to claim her again. Visage flickered—like a light on its dying breath. But the feeling passed, leaving her there, shining on. The motion, or her very presence, must’ve caused a stir. The two women met each other’s eyes.

“Boo.”

Morgan just needed to find the right book. Zombies had been around for ages and so even if whatever was happening to her was obviously very rare, it must have happened to someone else before. And that someone must have wanted to write it down. Because magic directly affecting a zombie body at all was worth writing about; doing so in this cruel, backwards way defied everything she understood about magic and living matter. So, Morgan sat on the floor in the library, swimming through a large haul from the scriberary, searching. When Macleod appeared behind the volume she was holding, calling boo, Morgan yelped with surprise.

“Oh! Stars! That was--” she laughed uneasily. “That was something alright.” She sat back and looked at the other woman. She had believed everything Macleod had told her but seeing her friend, so wild and earthbound, so connected to her flesh, floating and transparent was uncanny in a way her mind struggled to process. “I wish I had good news on the funky magic boogaloo front, but there’s just lots of dead ends so far. But that can wait. Are you...okay? At least, relative to our situation?

Good-hearted chuckle lept out of Eilidh—breaking the illusion of the spooky ghost in the corner. She closed the distance between the two, eyes curiously scanning the cover and pages of the book nestled in Morgan’s lap. More were strewn across the room, circling Morgan in a protective barrier, or perhaps a tomb—either for future study or determined unsuited. Where one group ended and the other began, she wasn’t sure. Mouth parted to offer assistance, her hands and mind well-versed to such a skill, but the words quickly died just as her flesh had. Wouldn’t be much use when turning a page was a difficult endeavor. She had learned that fact rather quickly.

When attentions were placed on her, Eilidh perked. “Aye. Convinced this guy his cereal was sentient. And some lady she could control plants.” Snort of delight shot out her nose as their faces returned to memory. But as the chuckles faded, so too did this delight. That lingering worry remained. A hand brushed her lips, seemingly in thought. “Also…” In absence of external stimuli, she bit on a knuckle. But where a prick of sensation, a prick of life, would usually awaken her hand, only a mere acknowledgement greeted her. Fucking hell, how has James not gone mad by now? A low growl rumbled, and at least it felt nice in her chest. Familiar. “Been going in and out. Kinda like blinking. If you did that with a soul. James says it isn’t normal. And they’re getting longer.” Another knuckle met her teeth; that same hollow impact replayed. “Guess it’s soon time.” Her eyes scanned Morgan, transferring the focus back to the other woman. Wandering gaze found the darkness under her friend’s eyes. “What ‘bout you?”

For what seemed like a long time, Morgan could only stare at her friend. Or rather, through her friend. She could see every title on the shelf behind her if she concentrated enough, because Macleod, despite speaking and smiling and grinning and mischief-ing as much as she had ever done, was incorporeal and transparent. Like a ghost. A baby undead ghost. Which wasn’t supposed to exist. “..Blinking? What? Uh, that sounds bad. And weird. I’ve never heard of ghosts doing that before. They cross over, and they have some kind of teleportation thing, but they don’t play peek-a-boo with a whole plane of existence. That’s…” Another very strange, logic defying twist of magic.

Morgan cleared her head and tried to answer Macleod’s questions. “I woke up at the beginning of the week able to feel again. All my physical senses that went dull were back. It took some adjusting, but I think it was more or less how they were when I was alive. But then my body started decaying even when I was full, or more than full, and healing was fading and now it’s basically gone! So I’m basically rotting away for no discernable reason, and I get to be super physically aware of all of it. Also, I smell, so maybe it’s a good thing you don’t have any senses right now. When did your stuff start? I mean, none of this should be happening at all, because the undead are immune to spellcasting magic that engages with our body’s energy, as far as I can tell, and we’re immune to most drugs and toxins, and I haven’t found anyone else in town being effected like this, so it’s not the big cosmic town bullshit--but if we can get a timeline, maybe that will tell us...something.” She sighed and closed the book in her lap, staring off into anywhere but Macleod’s face. The whole world was slipping through their fingers, just when she’d thought it really did want them after all.

Curt laugh escaped Eilidh. “Yeah. You’re telling me.” Just her luck to be subjected to the worst game of peek-a-boo in existence. Maybe her soul truly did want to pass over, but this supposed magic was keeping her here? Maybe the universe was trying to remedy the fact she shouldn’t have remained—at least not in this form—but the magic tried to go against the very will of the cosmos? Thoughts followed that tangent until it caused a dizziness. Bah, there’s too many maybes and what-ifs. She snapped a finger, sharp noise bringing her back to the present. Mind focused on Morgan’s words, her own story. As such a tale unfolded, her face fell, allowing that worry bubbling inside to find itself in her eyes, her parted mouth. Just as quickly, her eyes tightened, mouth closed, jaws tightened. Resolve overcame the worry, gave her goal new fire. “Aye. That is real bad.” Especially when it started so promising—the worst kind. “Best we hop to it prompto, then. Know anything I can look over? Double-check? Triple-check?” The ways of magic, the ways others shifted the energies of the world to their will, was not a strong subject of hers. But perhaps there were other pieces of the puzzle her ever inquisitive eyes could find. She needed that hunt, after all. Needed something to do—when all things physical brought boredom at best, her mind frequently rushed into restlessness.

Eilidh recalled the start of this plight. “I died beginning of this week.” The same as Morgan’s own unfortunes; a fact that did not escape her. “Or alchemied this way. Or some other magic.” At this point, she wasn’t sure which was true. Death was more reasonable to her. Familiarity always felt more reasonable, and she was very familiar with death. But Morgan seemed convinced its cause was magically induced and, well, she was the expert in that regard. Not Eilidh. “Blinked out the first time a few days later. Didn’t think too much of it. ‘Til a few more days later when it kept happening.” How much longer would this affliction let her speak with Morgan? Would it rip her away mid-sentence, as it had with Milo? Sharp snap of fingers returned. Temptation to bite the nagging thoughts away surfaced—to subject another knuckle to her teeth. But the snap sufficed. For now.

Morgan sat back, thinking. The town had already been shifted in the cosmos by the time she and Macleod were affected. And no one else she spoke to, dead or undead, was feeling anything strange in their body. So why them? And how? It didn’t seem right that the universe should literally change its rules just to be cruel to them. And if an alchemy break-through was responsible for Macleod, it didn’t explain her progressive deterioration. She would have to be confined to a circle in order for that to be the case, and the energy required to continually re-write her body would be outrageous.

She looked over at Macleod, aching to give her an answer. “I only have a few general compendiums on the stuff, but maybe there’s some kind of sickness, or some kind of critter that can affect people like us. Like, bookwyrms and brain biters mess with people’s brains, and there’s plenty of necrophages out there maybe…” Some magic, universe defying critter happened to chomp on both of them without their noticing on the exact same night? Morgan could hardly stand to hope for the idea, it sounded ridiculous enough in her head. But she had to try. If she stopped trying, this thing would take her. “Maybe there’s one that can explain this. Weird abilities that make people incorporeal or mess with their magic composition. Um, it’s those thick ones back there--” She pointed. “Or you could check out the area, see if anything unusual is sniffing around. Every critter’s gotta eat and sleep somewhere.” She smiled feebly. “We’ll figure this out before it’s too late. We’ve got too much to live for, right?”

“Critters!” The word shot out like a bullet. That was more Eilidh’s forte. A hand returned thoughtfully to her lips, though a bite did not come. Her mind was moving far too fast to focus on anything physical. Feet began to pace without her knowledge, beating against the air as if they contributed to her movements anymore. “Those bees cause hallucinations…” What were they called again? Those dick-hive bees. She had still yet to encounter them personally—such a treat will have to wait when she finally visits… that woman. Knowledge was acquired specifically for said venture, so she really should remember… “Eintykara.” But as research came tumbling back into her mind, so did an issue. “No. Cold.” Such weathers would cause them to grow sluggish—springing into action now would make no sense. “Hm. Caballi?” Her encounter with one had been very brief, but James’ was much more intimate. And she had certainly heard stories that mimicked their own. Of ghosts being attacked by them. Or more accurately, being fed upon by them. Could be the cause of their deterioration, those astral feedings. Perhaps they can affect zombies too? “But never saw…” They weren’t exactly invisible, to people like them. But much of them was left unknown, on this world at least. Could be a special sort?

More ideas flowed into Eilidh’s mind. And just easily flowed back out—conflictions and contradictions found in every sort. Though the universe was vast and wide and full of exceptions. Hardly anything could be said with certainty. And hardly everything was stored in her mind—that vastness refusing to be contained in just one thing. Or even in one world; creatures not found in any book had laid just beyond those cracks in the air. One, or two, or more could’ve slipped through. “You could be onto something.” Her feet stilled, and it was only then she realized she had been on the move at all. But they already missed that constant motion. Focus turned to the mentioned books, causing a chuckle to stir. “Would. But these guys do whatever the hell they want.” She wiggled her fingers and they blended and meddled together, like waves crashing into each other. “I’ll look ‘round. You focus on the books. We’ll see this through.” There was an attempt to turn and leave, but something held her there just a moment longer. Those hints of decay sprinkled on Morgan’s form—some grown worse over the course of their conversation. “Think you’ll manage?” The question spanning far beyond just Morgan’s research capability.

With the way Macleod lit up at the suggestion, Morgan could actually start to believe they were onto something. The world was full of strange things and there was so much they didn’t know. Of course if it wasn’t someone it had to be something. Maybe even a creature from another dimension. Some of the critters in those portals had probably gotten stuck on this side when Adam closed them, too, and maybe that was why they couldn’t understand the rules this infection worked on.

Morgan met Macleod’s eyes bravely. They were looking for a needle in a haystack. It might take weeks to comb through all of White Crest and identify the exact creatures they were looking for, especially if they turned out to be beyond sapient record on this world. But they would figure it out, wouldn’t they?

Somewhere beyond them, bewildered geese flapped their way to the sky and called to each other for safety, snow crunched under tired feet, a wind blew through the hollow tunnels of the world. Morgan took it all in, staring through the frosted windows. This was a world that buried its secrets better than its dead, but it was also one where life persisted in the most bitter cold. If anyone was proof of that, surely it was her and Macleod. And Morgan had a future to get to; Macleod probably did too, and if she didn’t, she deserved to stick around long enough to come up with one. So she had to be okay. There wasn’t room in this scenario for her not to be.

Morgan summoned her best smile and hoped with all she had that Macleod believed it and let some of the warmth rub off on her. “I’ve got this. And so do you. Death cut us a break once, right? Twice should be just as easy.”

That smile filled the air, found its way on Eilidh’s face, lifting her spirits in turn. Hell yeah. They had this. That implication hung in the air, threatened to bring it all back down. The one where she died. This soul she carried certainly had—will again. And technically death had touched her a few days prior. But the implication ran deeper than that, tied her to an assumption she kept getting chained to. But she did not let that weight touch her; only a twitch of a brow, a tighten of lips, betrayed these thoughts. Resolve kept her steady—kept them both just the same. Fate may try to give them a losing hand, but she’ll keep playing until a full house. And if not, well, seems she’s had her time then. Her soul will enjoy more, if these pesky blinks didn’t consume her in totality. For fate was hungry this week—eating away at her very soul, at Morgan’s very flesh. Was it feeding on others? How far did this hunger spread? She had no mind, no time to worry about passerbyers on the street. Those teeth readied to pierce again, steal more of them away. But she’ll try her hand at dentistry and rip them out before all was taken. “Good to hear! Let’s give this a–”

She vanished.

#wr eilidh #wr chatzy #wr eilidh chatzy #death rings twice

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joonsdiary · 4 years

Text

worth fighting for (08)

pairing: jungkook x reader genre/warning: royalty au, historical au // humour, fluff, angst / tw: mentions of character death, alcohol consumption, playful!general jeon and over-thinker!reader is back, this chapter is me trying to juggle scene vs. plot, even more yearning, slowburn word count: 6,775

summary: fresh out of the perils of war, jungkook didn’t think that his task as the newly appointed general would be to look after you.

EIGHT.

Dawn arrives without sunlight, carrying along with it the crispness of the air that signals the finality of summer. It’s unusual for you to feel such coldness so early in the year, but that only means that you’re much closer up north than you are in the capital. Your home. The mere thought of residing within the safety of the palace seems foreign and unfamiliar; remembering specific details feels as if you’re looking into someone else’s mind instead of your own.

Home now resides in the carriage you sleep in for much of your travels, or whichever dense forest you decide to stop over and rest for a few days. Home is the warmth of the quilt Jimin lends you; it’s the food he and Miyoung whip up in a pinch when ingredients are scarce, yet manage to taste delicious. Home is embodied in the way Jungkook’s eyes linger far longer than he intends to, thinking you haven’t noticed; it’s his noticeable hesitance around you, always teetering on the ledge between familiarity and professionalism.

Home is in the callousness of his stern voice when he instructs you to move in a particular way as you struggle to carry the long sword with both of your hands. It hadn’t been anything like the one he had lent you previously; the current one is much heavier, evident by the way your arms work strenuously just to be able to hold it properly.

The grass blade’s morning dew permeates into your shoe-less feet and you wobble from your position as he kicks your left leg further backwards.

“Like this?” you ask, unsure of your position. It feels awkward and unfamiliar; the weapon does nothing but makes your arms quiver in pain. Jungkook clicks his tongue as he uses his index finger to lift your elbow slightly higher than previously. You grit your teeth as you hold back the uncomfortable throbbing of your shoulders.

He finally nods in approval and you relent, groaning in frustration as you drop the hefty metal on the ground. It hasn’t been an hour since he woke you from your slumber to practice, and yet your forehead is already beaded with sweat. It’s hard to resist laying on the ground when the soft gust of wind tempts you to do so. Jungkook watches, eyes filled with curiosity as you yield to your whims and press yourself against the cold grass.

“That was intense. I didn’t think you’d make me hold the sword up for that long. If I didn’t know any better,” you pause to gaze suspiciously up at him, “I’d think this was some sort of punishment.”

“I thought you wanted something intense,” he shrugs nonchalantly, but the action comes across as a terrible attempt at hiding the roguish grin crawling on upwards on the corner of his lips. Smug bastard, what little remains of your dignity as a royalty prevents you from speaking the thought aloud.

“Yes, but I didn’t think you’d lend me the blade you use. Whatever happened to the wooden swords?” you whine, watching as he picks up the weapon with ease.

“It’s not too heavy,” he examines the sword before offering it back to you. “And you need to build up your strength—your arms are too weak.”

You simply stare at him impassively, hating that he has a point.

“It’s unfair. You’ve had twelve years of a head start, so you can’t say things like: It’s easy, Your Highness,” your tone is childish. But he stays impassive, undeterred by your mockery of him.

A few days ago after your full recovery, he met you in the middle with a compromise, promptly suggesting the idea himself that you should get back to practice if you were still willing to learn. Of course, you said yes in a heartbeat. It seems Jungkook’s mood is dictated by the moon and you know better than to simmer on a decision for long since the tides might turn against you in an instant.

You hadn’t known at the time of agreement how serious he would take the whole ordeal, jumpstarting you far off from where you left last time. At first, you took the challenge head-on but after three days of gruelling lessons and drills, fatigue is beginning to settle nicely deep within your bones.

“All the more reason why you should keep training.”

“You are cruel,” you finally take the weapon from his willing hands as you push yourself up with a groan. “One day, I will snap and drive this blade straight into your heart. Please be aware that all responsibility falls onto you for any such actions hereafter.”

His expression morphs into a lopsided grin; the kind that steals precious oxygen right out of your lungs. The absence of the morning sun’s warmth is scarcely felt when he’s practically bursting at the seams with radiance.

“I’d actually like to see you try.”

“I’m serious, General Jeon.”

“So am I.”

The palpable challenge in his eyes vexes you enough to accept, doing so by wordlessly picking up right where you left off. You stand, but not without much difficulty, before bending your knees into position. It takes all your remaining strength to ignore the ache in your muscles that soon follows. Taking a deep breath, you step forward with one foot as you sling the weapon with all the energy you have left. It undoubtedly fails as your unstable hands drop the sword once again.

You groan as you land on the ground for the second time. You appreciate that he’s fostering your growth towards improvement, but a little part of you is still convinced that he’s doing this solely out of spite.

For what, exactly, you’ve yet to coax the answer out of him.

“Aw, is the princess giving up?”

Especially when he says the right words to rile you up.

“No,” you roll your eyes. It’s hard not to act silly when he invites such reactions from you. “General Jeon is just being spiteful. But I suppose that’s nothing new.”

“I’m merely following direct orders from you, Your Highness,” he extends his hand in an effort to help you up, but you brush it away with a scoff. “Your stubborn streak continues, I see.”

You prepare yourself for a barrage of snide remarks, or perhaps even a lecture about your feeble attempt to learn sword fighting when you shouldn’t. Much to your surprise, he sits across from you instead, tucking his legs neatly underneath him. He slouches forward, resting his elbow on his thighs as he places his chin on top of his palm.

“Um, what are you doing?”

“It’s unfair if you’re the only one who gets to rest,” he says as he mindlessly plucks several pieces of grass at once before opening his palms to let the wind take them. “Barking orders at royalty turns out to be an exhausting task. Who knew?”

You grin in lieu of a verbal answer, and he returns the favour with a soft smile. There’s a pause, and when you don’t say anything further, the lids of his eyes flutter slowly before closing shut. There is no question that he seems to lack proper sleep, evident by the dark circles and heavy bags under his eyes. You’re beginning to suspect that staying up well after dusk has settled in order to stand guard is beginning to catch up to him — certainly now more than ever if he’s cutting hours of slumber just to train you.

Your pulse hums unabated at the thought, and you have to quickly remind yourself that he’s doing this not due to his own volition, but because you ordered him to.

“Jungkook,” you make an effort to whisper as quietly as you can. You didn’t mind that he hadn’t heard you, you’d simply pretend you hadn’t called him out in the first place. His breathing stays even, and you smile to yourself; if there is one thing you’ll never grow weary of, it has to be seeing him simply be at peace. It’s maddeningly frightening how one person has the capability of banishing all your worries away, no matter how trivial they might seem.

If you weren’t in trouble then, you certainly are now.

Like a moth to a flame, your gaze lands on his lips, reminding you of the kiss you had so boldly initiated with him. What seemed like seconds at that moment feels like a lifetime when it’s embedded deep in the crevices of your memory. It appeared to be a good idea then, a quick way to dispel an itching curiosity.

Curiosities like: Would your attraction for him dissipate in thin air if you kissed him? Would he even try to kiss you back? Would it progress your relationship further? Did you want it to progress? Do you even have time to be thinking about all these things?

(The answers are: No, no he didn’t, no it doesn’t seem like it, maybe so, and perhaps not.)

Now that your concerns have been partially satiated, only regret remains. That very same foolish curiosity only brought an insurmountable amount of consequences you’d preferably avoid. You’re grateful Jungkook hasn’t asked anything yet; you hope it stays that way, for the sake of your well-being. It’s reached a point where it seems as if he’d much rather avoid than confront the topic, as well.

(But would it have hurt for him to care in the slightest? His non-reaction makes your stomach coil uncomfortably more than it should.)

“I hate you,” slips out of your lips unprompted.

“So you keep saying,” he mumbles, and you flinch back at his unexpected response.

You know the consequence of him catching you is nothing serious, but that doesn’t stop your heart from knocking steadily against your ribcage. “I thought you were asleep.”

“Me? Never,” he cracks one eyelid open as if to wink. With a sly grin, he says, “I’m always watching.”

“In any other context that would sound extremely repulsive,” he laughs at your displeased expression before he stretches both his hands up with a yawn. “Thank you, regardless.”

He shrugs in good nature as his arms fall back down, shoulders slackened. You thought you’d learned to ignore that part of you that tugs painfully at your heartstrings every time he smiles, but apparently, that’s not the case.

“It’s what I’m here for, right?”

That’s right, Jungkook’s not here due to his discretion. He’s here for a specific reason, tasked by the king to look after you and ensure your safe deliverance to the hands of somebody you’ve yet to meet. You’ve not forgotten the mere fact, but the almost month-long voyage only reminds you of how delusional you were to think that mulling your feelings for Jungkook would end anywhere but devastation. You even went as far as to put him in utter discomfort by giving into your foolish desire and kissing him, with a lack of remorse as to how he would feel afterwards.

“What’s wrong?” your attention collapses back to Jungkook, who’s now staring at you with confusion. “I feel like you’re always having some sort of crisis every time we’re conversing.”

You want nothing more than to grab him by the shoulders, shake him out of his boots and say, “That’s because it’s you. You’re the cause of my woes.”

“I feel like I owe you an apology,” is what you tell him instead. You’re unsure of how to begin when his attention is fully focused on you, and instead wish he were still half asleep. Perhaps then you’ll find the right words. “It wasn’t my intention to—”

“I knew it,” he crosses his arms and straightens his back with a newfound sense of confidence. Your eyes widen in surprise; have the not-so-subtle hints of your proclamation of affection been made known to him?

“You were the one who ate the remaining piece of red bean rice cake last night. Jimin told me it was him, but I had an inkling he was covering for you.”

Of course not.

“What?” you gape at him, trying to blink your anger away at his sudden accusation. “No, it wasn’t me!”

“Mhm, sure,” his nose wrinkles in discontent. “You were well on your way to apologizing but now you’re denying it altogether. Tsk.”

“I wasn’t talking about that!”

“I’m hurt, Your Highness. You know that’s my favourite dessert.”

You did know. That’s why you didn’t even bother eating a piece of it after seeing how much he prefers them.

“I was going to apologize for the unwarranted kiss I gave you, but now I’m not so sure,” you mutter. He must have heard what you said regardless of the quietness of your voice because he visibly deflates, back slouching forward and eyes seemingly bugging out of their sockets.

“W-what?”

You resist the urge to smirk despite your embarrassment at his change in demeanour; all his arrogance is chased out with a mention of one word. Although you’re unsure if you should act with such haughtiness in the first place. Your own heart, after all, feels as though it’s about to erupt from delight. So you continue, making sure to tread forward cautiously.

“I don’t know if it was right of me to do such a thing without your permission.”

For days you’ve been battling with yourself for the right words to say. You’re still unsure, feeling as though everything that comes out of your mouth consists of the wrong words to say. Yet at the same time, holding on to it doesn’t seem feasible. Telling him outright is the best option, for better or for worse.

You study Jungkook’s expression, or lack thereof, as he stares into the distance with an impassive gaze, mouth agape and evidently unresponsive.

“General Jeon?” you wave your hand in his line of sight. Nothing. “Jungkook?”

His gaze finally meets yours, but only for a brief second, before his eyes scan the vast surrounding. He clears his throat before idly rubbing the nape of his neck. You can gauge his struggle with what to say by the way his mouth opens without uttering a word, then quickly closing.

“Apologizing is not necessary. I mean…” he trails off, and you hang onto every syllable he says. Your expectations soar to unattainable heights. “You weren’t feeling well, to begin with, so I’m aware you might not have fully realized your...um, actions at that time.”

Your mood quickly spirals, bringing along with it your hopes. And your poor, poor heart, always bearing the brunt of your misfortunes.

In essence, you should have seen that type of response coming. There’s nothing Jungkook did, or said, which would have made you misinterpret his intentions. This has always been a one-sided charade from the beginning, fueled by nothing else but your disillusion. Recalling the way you had acted so wantonly before him weeks ago even before the kiss occurred feels silly and juvenile. If you’re ever given means and the power to reverse time back to that situation once more, you would, only if it means saving your past self from your present heartache.

“I wasn’t apologizing because I was half asleep and didn’t realize what I was doing,” you mutter under your breath with a frown. You’re apologizing for the lack of consent, not because you think you made a mistake as he interpreted it. The fact that he even thinks it’s a mere slip-up says all you need to know.

“Hm?” with his furrowed brows he leans forward, encouraging you to repeat what you’ve said.

“I said it’s good we finally cleared that up,” you heaved a sigh as you noticed a movement from the corner of your eyes.

“I had a feeling you two would be slacking off,” Jimin offers his hand, which you gladly take. He pulls you towards him and with a bright grin, you mumble a quiet thank you. Jungkook mumbles something but you give your outpouring attention to Jimin instead.

“I’ll have you know I’ve been hard at work for the past few days,” you cross your arms with a pout. Jimin grins as he gently pats the top of your head.

“I know, Your Highness. That’s why I’ve come to save you; General Jeon asked if I could provide a less brute lesson. I couldn’t say no,” he angles closer to whisper, “or else he’ll have my neck below a guillotine.”

“Hey, there was no intimidation of sorts!” Jungkook protests.

“Jimin, your new dancing master, at your service,” he bows. When he straightens his back, he tosses you a wooden sword, which you catch with ease.

“We’re going back to these?” you inspect the material, brows furrowed in confusion. Wasn’t Jungkook preaching to you just moments ago about having to build resilience towards brandishing broader swords? You glance towards the general in question and catch his gaze momentarily but he looks away while scratching the back of his head. You glance back at Jimin instead. “Also, you never told me you were skilled.”

“You never asked, and I never thought to share,” he grins, slipping one hand behind his back as he holds the weapon with another. “I’m teaching you a different method than the general did, so yes, we’re using these again. But only for a little while.”

You grip the object with both your hands and Jimin shakes his head.

“One hand,” he instructs sternly, and you chew your lower lip in hesitance. You relent, however, and point the sword towards him with your right hand. Its heaviness is magnified by the soreness of your muscles, but you grit your teeth instead of complaining.

“I suppose he grew tired of teaching me, since he asked you,” Jimin strikes swiftly above your head and you parried, albeit clumsily. Jungkook laughs somewhere behind you.

“He practically begged me to let him take over.”

Your eyes trail back towards Jungkook briefly, allowing Jimin to jab you on your torso. You push his sword off with yours as you frown, but he merely grins with glee.

“Eyes to me, Your Grace,” Jimin catches your attention with another stab on your lower shoulder. “You just died.”

Jungkook clicks his tongue as he folds his hands above his chest. The way he mockingly shakes his head puts you in a foul mood. “You’re always unfocused. I thought we’d gone over this before.”

“That’s because you’re the one distracting her, General,” Jimin says pointedly, and you nod in agreement before you realize what he said.

“Exactly! Thank you, Ji— wait, no.”

“I highly doubt that.”

You and Jungkook speak over each other, prompting you to face him with a scowl. Jimin merely watches with a bemused expression. “Miyoung was right, this is going to be entertaining.”

The following morning, it’s Jimin who wakes you before daybreak. He explains that it might be the last proper training you’ll have before you embark once more. It’s not like you’ll decline otherwise, so you do your best to rub the tiredness out of your eyes. You work to move with as little noise as possible so you don’t wake Miyoung, who’s still sound asleep, as you slip in a pair of unworn trousers lent by Jungkook previously. Because according to him it seems tough to move in a billowy skirt, which is something you both agree on without any argument (for once, it seems). The fabric is large, undoubtedly, but they weigh less than your dress; movement is not much of an issue as it had been.

Much to your surprise, it’s Jungkook you see outside of your tent, however, who continues to sport fatigued, sunken eyes.

“I thought the point of Jimin taking over was so that you can catch up on sleep,” you greet him with a soft nudge to his arm.

“I don’t remember that being the reason,” he replies with a lazy grin before running his hands through his dark hair. You belatedly remember that you hadn’t exactly pointed it out to him the day previous.

“Well, it should be. You’re in dire need of rest, General Jeon.”

“I’ll catch up on sleep when I’m dead.”

You know he means it in jest, as evident by the playful lilt in his tone, but there’s nothing amusing about imagining his demise. The thought of losing him, now more than ever, sends your stomach spiralling into intricate knots.

He frowns when you stay unresponsive, and inches closer before reaching up to pinch your cheeks. “Good thing I work for you as a general and not a royal jester. Or else the frown on your face would get me thrown in the dungeons.”

“I don’t recall permitting you to touch me,” you glower, but no effort is placed into moving away even an inch.

He stares at you in disbelief. “Who was the one that decided, completely unprompted, to put their lips on mine—”

You’re swift to place your palm on Jungkook’s mouth to silence him when you spot Jimin emerging from his tent.

“Did I interrupt something?” he looks between the two of you as he approaches. You free yourself from Jungkook and he doesn’t protest when you pull away.

“I was just telling General Jeon that he didn’t have to come with us so he could rest,” you give Jimin a strained smile before giving Jungkook a pointed look.

“Alright, as you wish,” it still surprises you, however, when he relents without much protest. “I shall not be a distraction, as you so-kindly point out I was being, for you this time around.”

He winks at you and gestures a salute towards Jimin before walking towards his sleeping quarters.

“Does he always do that?” Jimin asks as you both watch his figure disappear behind the tent.

“Do what?”

“Pretend to be all smug. I’m only speculating, but his ears were practically bleeding scarlet.”

You bite your lower lip to prevent a grin from spilling, but they curl upwards nonetheless. No matter how direct his words may seem or how rough he wants to appear, he still gets shy, after all.

It doesn’t take long for you to realize why Jimin refers to himself as a dance master, despite the name baffling you the first time you heard it. The man moves with such poise and grace that you would never expect in someone teaching sword fighting. It’s a skill no one possesses but him, and him alone.

When the afternoon arrives, you forgo resting altogether and push Jimin to use the sabre he brought along with him.

“Right,” he announces just as you deflect his oncoming blade with yours. “Right. Right. Left. Low. Left. Right,” he’s relentless in his attacks, not letting you breathe even just for a moment as he steps forward with each command. You move back, but meet each blow with calmness as you keep your left hand training behind you.

“Heads up,” he thrusts forward as you sidestep, swiping his sword with yours and subsequently disarming him. You point the blade, barely touching his neck as you huff with satisfaction.

“I win this round,” you announce with excitement, as you lower the weapon. Jimin claps in the wake of your triumph and you make the effort to amuse him with a bow.

“After losing seven in a row,” Jungkook points out. You wrinkle your nose in annoyance but choose to ignore his snide remarks; so far, your attempts to combat his presence as a distraction have been working. Hours prior, he arrived to convince you to take a break, but you refused when Jimin admitted he wasn’t tired yet, so Jungkook opted to stay on the sidelines and watch, instead. “You are picking this up faster than I thought.”

You finally turn to him, chin high with pride. “It’s easier since it’s lighter than your sword. And I actually don’t mind having to carry it with one hand as much anymore.”

Pain clambers from your back shoulder all the way to your right arm as you boast, but you repress the affliction with the grit of your teeth. You hope none of them noticed the slight change in your demeanour as you turn to Jimin.

“Thank you for being patient with me.”

“It’s an honour to be able to share my knowledge with you, Your Highness,” Jimin bows, but you’re quick to push his shoulders and straighten his posture back up.

“No need to be so formal. I should be the one who’s honoured. I feel quite embarrassed to not have known you possess such talent.”

His cheeks turn ruddy as he looks away. “Ah, well…”

“Yeah, we could have used your expertise weeks ago when we were attacked. Maybe I wouldn’t have been injured, then,” Jungkook adds, slinging an arm around Jimin. The latter huffs as he crosses his arms defensively.

“To be fair, I thought you had that handled, General,” he deadpans. “Thank heavens the princess was there to save us.”

The statement must have rubbed Jungkook the wrong way as he moved to place Jimin in an uncomfortable headlock. Despite the obvious disadvantage he’s in, Jimin giggles, whining about how Jungkook should learn to respect his elders. Jungkook relents with a chuckle and Jimin sulks, gently rubbing the nape of his neck.

“I knew I should’ve shared sooner, but I honestly thought you’d be insulted by it,” your brows knit in confusion at Jimin’s words, but you let him continue. “A lot of people don’t prefer this style of combat because it’s slower and often a defensive method. There’s a lot of waiting and anticipating the enemy’s moves. General Jeon’s style is more straightforward; you’re taught to attack, which is the usual training for our infantry. Also, the blade isn’t as impressive.”

You examine the steel in your hands — it’s merely a little more than the size of your fingers. You offer to return the weapon to him, and he takes it. “It’s much easier to wield, nevertheless.”

“That’s what made me reluctant, to begin with. I wasn’t sure if you were going to take offence simply because it might seem easier.”

You profusely shake your head in disagreement. “I can only hope to be half as skilled as you while emulating your poise.”

“I swear my ego is always being fed every time we talk, Your Highness.”

“If anything, you deserve all the praise in the world for being such a gifted mentor,” you hear Jungkook clear his throat beside you.

“It’s really the least I could do. After seeing you dedicate yourself, I couldn’t just stand by and watch idly, twiddling my thumbs.”

You grin shyly at his words, unsure of what to say next. It’s Jungkook who breaks the silence as he nods towards the direction of your campsite. “If you two are done flirting, I think Miyoung is trying to call Jimin.”

He quickly sheathes the sword and turns to wave back at her. “I almost forgot I was going to help her pack up before we embark tomorrow,” his attention returns to you momentarily, his smile mischievous. “It turns out you carry a lot of items with you, Your Highness.”

“H-hey, most of the items were bought along the way. I didn’t,” you pause when he runs off. “I’m demoting him from dance master back to a stable boy. I swear.”

“I highly doubt that. You can barely resist the man,” Jungkook mumbles impassively, and you chuckled in agreement.

“That I can’t deny.” You turn to follow after Jimin, but before you could take one step, Jungkook grabs your wrist tightly causing you to hiss in pain.

“You’re injured,” he murmurs, forehead creasing with worry.

“It’s fine,” you twist your arm to free yourself from his hold, but it only brings you more discomfort. You bite your lower lip to prevent a moan from revealing your true condition. You watch as he rolls your sleeve up. “I’m fine, General Jeon, I don’t need you—ack!”

This time, Jungkook allows you to pull your hand back, and you cradle it against your chest protectively. “Please don’t do that.”

“I barely pressed your skin.” He gently tugs on your arm and despite your early protests, you relent and let him examine your hand. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It’s not a big deal,” you mumble as he drags your sleeve further up, revealing a newly formed mark on your forearm. Jungkook turns to you, eyes thinning to slits in an obvious look of disapproval. “It’s not! I’ll be fine.”

He grows quiet as his grip loosens, but he doesn’t let go of your arm completely. Gaze downcast, his thumb runs gently across the bruise, as if doing so would ease the pain.

(It does. Because for the briefest moment your attention is shifted away from your burning muscles and onto the singular point where his skin meets yours.)

“I’m not a fragile porcelain made simply for display, Jungkook.”

“Says the person who almost got swept away by the river.”

“That was one time.”

“One time is still too many, if you ask me,” his bottom lip juts into a pout. It took quite a lot of self-control not to giggle at his defeated state.

“As you said, that’s what I have you for,” your free hand finds its way up the top of his head to ruffle his hair. You feel his body go rigid upon your touch. “I’ll try not to get killed to make your life easier, don’t worry. That’s why I want to become stronger.”

Jungkook hesitates, before inhaling sharply. “You know that you don’t have to prove yourself to me, or anybody for that matter,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. The sudden seriousness in his tone almost gives you whiplash.

“What do you mean? I’m not doing this to prove anything,” you intend to keep your voice level to let him know you took no malice in his words.

His forehead creased in confusion, nonetheless, eyes searching yours. “Then what?”

Prior conversations with him play in your mind, persistent and foreboding. One wrong word could send Jungkook spiralling into the limbo between a stranger and someone seemingly only there because he’s bound by the duty to serve his country. The thought of laying down parameters for you to walk around each other is terrifying.

Therefore, you believe there’s no use in being privy to your fears anymore; not when you’re about to enter the lion’s den. “The same reason as before. I just want to be able to protect myself, and everyone for that matter, including you. That isn’t to say that I don’t trust you, but I want to be of use if there comes a time when—” you pause, unsure of how to continue. Jungkook’s worried gaze is unnerving, but he allows you to finish your train of thought. “Hearing your horror stories about the dangers that might be waiting for us when we cross that border…”

“I’m not saying everyone who lives there has evil intentions by default. I’m just relaying whatever information I’ve been told by the others.”

His statement makes you wonder even more why your father decided to ship off his only heir if they weren’t the kindest people, to begin with. Surely, he was aware of their reputation despite how diplomatic he thought the matrimony would be.

Jungkook continues. “I’m sure Min Yoongi is reasonable. I heard he refused to let his men get killed in battle, so they yielded. He probably agreed to this deal because he’s a pacifist, unlike his father.”

No matter how reassuring his words are on the surface, there’s still an underlying tone of uncertainty in his voice. It’s understandable because neither he nor you know what type of danger lies when you step foot beyond the safety of your kingdom. You couldn’t bring yourself to muster even a smile as a response.

Jungkook must have sensed your distress as his fingers slid down to clasp his hand in yours. The gesture might not be anything other than a mere consolation, but it’s enough to keep your nerves buzzing with intensity.

“I won’t let harm come to you. I promise,” the gentle breeze seems to heave a sigh, ruffling the fringes of his hair ever so softly.

You hold the weight of his words gently between the warmth of his palm against yours. In reality, no matter how much you try to shield yourself by swimming away, you’re caught by the hooks and reeled right back into him, always. The space he occupies within the confines of your heart grows infinitely larger each day that passes by, and you’re unsure if you should feel elated or terrified.

* * *

Min Yoongi reckons he has a great sense of proclivity for fortune without ever having to work for it; all according to hearsay, that is. He never quite understood where such sentiment roots from. The last time he checked, the inheritance rightfully belongs to him so any notion that he has to “work” for anything is moot. However, being within close reach of the throne does come at a costly price; one that is paid with people’s lives as currency. It seems that when one barters with Fate, Death comes tagging along.

The first victim is his younger brother.

During the tail-end of the recent war that passed, he catches wind of the crown prince’s demise and immediately orders his men to withdraw from their position of defence to return safely behind enemy lines. Retreating at the first whiff of danger is not his proudest moment, admittedly, but at the time he decided he wanted to be alive to see another sunset rather than being buried six feet below the ground to become a feast for maggots. As much as he’s a man of pride, he still values his life to a certain extent; at least enough to get himself out of peril.

It seems to be a backwards decision to the people of Tuo, but he is to assume the crown prince’s responsibility, therefore assuming the position to control what little remains of their infantry. The subsequent and constant deterioration of his father from an unmistakably paralyzing disease no one in the kingdom knew the cure of only brought about his hurried ascension to the throne. Yet, instead of being elated in the position he finds himself in, he’s inclined to feel otherwise.

And rightfully so, because the provision to him being a ruler includes marriage to a certain princess who heralds from the land which they sought war in order to stake a claim on.

His father, unbeknownst to Yoongi during the genesis of the agreement, promptly carried out a deal with the so-called scums of the South to unite the two countries together through matrimony. The inclination to roll his eyes is strong with such a clichéd premise.

“Even on your deathbed, you manage to make life a living hell for me. I commend you for that, I suppose,” he mutters under his breath, tightly clutching the neck of the ceramic vial that holds his rice wine. He’s well aware that his father couldn’t hear him from a safe distance. He isn’t even sure the king is alive at this point—for all he knows, the queen could be playing it up to prevent Yoongi from fulfilling the role of the king.

His father lays peacefully, bed surrounded by a thin, almost see-through muslin fabric. The canopy serves both as a barrier and a warning; unless you’re an experienced physician or the unfortunate chambermaid who has to look out for him, you should not pass through.

“You despised that your favoured son to inherit the throne died, making me the next in line. That’s why you’re doing this, am I right?” he raises his voice, unconcerned with the fact that servants and guards just outside the room can possibly hear him. “A matrimony I never agreed to.��

He’s unsure whether it’s a well-known truth among the nobles and anybody else living inside the palace walls, but it does raise questions in their minds as to why Yoongi hadn’t been the second in line to the throne after his father. But then again, nobody questions anything the Mad King did or said, not when he raised hell against his enemies in the South, and certainly not when he declared his second-born son as his successor.

Except for Death, of course, who’s seemingly the only true entity that’s able to cripple the king in his tracks. He likes to think Death is on his side and took away the bane of his existence, the stain in his claim to the throne. But then again Death also took the only person that matters in his miserable life, so Yoongi concludes one simply cannot have everything they covet. Perhaps he is lucky after all, and fortune will willingly land on his lap if he so wishes.

Too bad it’s not what he truly desires.

Yoongi takes a swig of his makgeolli wine, taking pleasure in the way the fiery water washes down the undesirable lump in his throat. He chugs and chugs, ignoring the excess liquid that spills from the corners of his mouth, as he desperately wishes for the goddamn ache in his chest to disappear. Once the ceramic decanter runs dry, he tosses it across the room and the chambermaid yelps in surprise when it shatters into tiny pieces.

A low chuckle emits from within his chest as his legs buckle from underneath him, bringing his knees down on the wooden floors with a thud.

“Do you really expect me to roll over like an injured beast and be receptive to whatever it is that you’ve planned for me?”

He didn’t think the people who they called enemies merely a few months ago would easily submit to such a fallacy for the sake of maintaining “peace”. But they immediately sent out the only heir to their throne, and without so much as a mere palace guard as a form of protection! Yoongi partially believes they’re more foolish than any palace jester he’s met, but the failure of the men he hired makes him conservative against such prejudice.

Perhaps dealing with their princess will be quite entertaining, after all.

“It’s a damn shame you won’t be alive to see what will become of this kingdom and its people whom you failed,” he hollers in between his unhinged laughter as he clutches his stomach. He swipes the spill on his chin using the sleeves of his golden speckled black robe. “Don’t worry, my only aim is to uphold your vilified reputation. It’s not like I’ll be doing anything sacrilegious, certainly not one that you haven’t already attempted in the slightest. After what you did to her, it’s the least I could do in return—”

“Sorry to bother, Your Majesty, but the queen has arrived for her visit,” the eunuch’s voice pierces through the closed doors, interrupting him. Yoongi hisses in indignation as he staggers to get up from his position. “Do you need a bit more time?”

“I’ll be right out, for fuck’s sake,” he manages to get to the door without stumbling over. The door slides open to reveal the eunuch in question, as well as the queen herself, in all her youth and glory, and the now noticeable bump on her belly. Yoongi doesn’t know how she managed to procure such a thing from his father, at that state, not to mention at her uncertain age to bear another child, but he digresses.

“Queen Dowager,” he slurs, choosing the name for no particular reason other than to draw ire from her. She finally shows her maturity when her forehead wrinkles in displeasure, showing certain lines that cannot be hidden by the flaked lead she generously patted on her face.

“What an abhorrent name to greet your mother,” she seethes and Yoongi couldn’t hold back his scoff. “Especially when the king is very much still alive.”

“Is he, though?” he points behind him with his chin mockingly, before his grin widens. “I’ll leave you to it then, Mother. Be careful though, he just won’t shut up. I could barely get a word in.”

Yoongi collapses on the floor when he takes another step, prompting the eunuch and some court ladies to rush to his aid. He waves them off with a mumble and a hand gesture, before pushing himself up using the wall.

“Sober up, will you,” the queen calls out from behind him. “Our guests should arrive tomorrow.”

The corner of Yoongi’s mouth curls up in delight as he locks gazes with the eunuch, whose face blanches with fright.

“Finally.”

— previous ; next ; series masterlist

note (edit): now that i don’t want to claw my eyes out from being sleepy, i just want to give credit to “game of thrones” (book one) for bearing inspiration to this chapter. again i hope you enjoyed reading ♡

taglist: @apurpledheart @koochiekoo @fan-ati--c @grandqueen1533 @awsome-small-k @novusluna @yodakoo14 @politically-acurate @bangtandongsaeng @taevkimchi @ausjeons @zxlummxxd

#jungkook fanfic #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook x reader #jungkook scenario #jungkook x you #jungkook fic #bts fic #writing #jungkook

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salenakingston · 3 years

Text

Mystery March Day 2 - Music

What did one expect whenever a certain group of paranormal investigators was mentioned? Was it their bizarre choice of hobby that they had turned into a part time job? Was it something to single out each person of their group? The tall, broad shouldered man with the pompadour working at one of the busiest restaurants in Tempo? What about that skinny man with the spiky blond hair that could probably be called a mechanical genius? How about that blue haired girl that found an unnatural attraction to the strangest things? Her dog that has weird, spiky red hair for some reason? No?

Well, one thing that generally never came up in conversation was the group’s love for music. Oh sure, they practiced on their own time, and their families were well aware of their talents, but it wasn’t like they performed for anyone outside that small bubble. Why would they need to?

It was just friends being friends.

Even they could use a break from the craziness that came with their line of work. Didn’t matter if they were still out on the road, or somewhere in Tempo, there was always time to indulge in their musical tastes. Sometimes one of them would entertain with a solo act, and others would be with all of them. The combined melody that came from their instruments was one that ordinarily would create nothing but a musical mess. Still, they somehow managed to make it work, whether it be taking a moment for a certain musician to pause, or simply matching tones with one another.

Even Mystery had an instrument of his own, a little… well maybe not little… but a gift from Vivi. Her reasoning had been that every investigator of the Mystery Skulls team had to have one, and that technically included him. It wasn’t exactly easy transporting his drum in the van, so sadly, he had to be benched until the times they played at home. It was cute to see the way he would take the stick in his mouth, beating it against the drum as hard as he could. It always got a laugh out of the core three when they watched him play.

But now there was nothing. It was an unending silence.

There were no laughs, no singing, and certainly no music. Even being in the van held a constant state of silence. Their instruments had been retired to their respective homes, and where there would usually be music blaring from the radio, there was barely an uttered note. It was unsettling in a way. It didn’t matter if they were all trying to work out their differences. It just wasn’t the same anymore.

A tall figure snaked his way through the darkness of the Yukino home. Night covered the sky, save for the twinkle of the millions of stars. The figure twisted the knob of the front door, plunging itself out into the darkness. Lit street lamps gave a glimpse of his form, a male, with spiky black and red hair.

Familiar spiky red and black hair.

Mystery rarely ever saw a need to resort to shapeshifting, his only time using it to take the appearance of the pet Vivi had come to know him as. There wasn’t much point to that now when his secret was out to the three of them. He made sure no one was around before passing through a place where anyone would readily be able to see him. Even in the shadows, he had to be careful. The only thing he had going for him was that he didn’t look quite human. Anyone that spotted him could easily be written off as seeing things.

It’s not like most took the work the Mystery Skulls did with a serious outlook.

To the passer by, his form was probably just a mesh of too many things to make out one solid shape.

Walking certainly made the trip to his desired location take longer than he would have liked. He would have likely reached it sooner had he been walking on his paws rather than two feet. How did humans stand to move around at such a slower pace? And why did the drum he had to like be so big? Taiko drums were a staple of Japan, a little piece of home he supposed. Still, without any support to hold the instrument, and no reliable way while walking around on all fours, he had to resort to this, a couple tails protruding from his rear to aid with support.

The kitsune dragged himself to the familiar forest of tangled, dead trees. There would be no one to disturb while he was out here. Who was going to come this way anyways? All that was left out here, as far as anyone knew, was an empty, and frankly a little overgrown, lot with a small brick wall surrounding its edge. In fact, that lot would have made for an even better spot, were it not for the ghost that had taken residence there.

Mystery carefully set the drum down, using his leg to tilt it some. He held the stick in his hand, giving the instrument a whack. It’s ‘boom’ echoed through the woods, but the silence that followed was just as empty as the space around him. He gave into his inner turmoil, letting the drum rest against the earth as he shifted back to his dog state. Sad eyes turned on the instrument, taking the stick into his mouth. He began to bang on it, just as he always had.

As if it would help to mend things.

As if it would summon the laughs he remembered loving so much.

But nothing came.

Honestly, he didn’t know why he kept coming out here to do this. It wasn’t like anyone was listening. Perhaps the sentimental feeling was overpowering any sense of logic. He had age and wisdom on all three of them, but even he had times where feelings outweighed it all.

Mystery wasn’t sure how long he was sitting there before he decided it was time to go back. He would need to get back before Vivi woke up. His form shifted again, taking the drum back into his arms before following the path back home.

As he left, he failed to notice the flicker of purple and gold among the trees.

----

Another night out here, and another night alone.

The dog took his stick to the drum again, and again… and again. Nothing ever changed. When would he finally learn? Maybe it was time to throw in the towel… at least for tonight. He couldn’t seem to break this habit, no matter how hard he tried. Even if he held off for a few nights, he always came back. Just as soon as he dropped the stick from his mouth, his ears shot up.

Another note rang in the woods, one that he didn’t create.

His head whipped around, trying to pinpoint the source of that sound. He knew it.

He knew it.

The note played again, followed by another, until he could very clearly hear the music. It seemed to encase itself around him, playing from all parts of the woods. Red eyes peered down at the stick again, taking it back into his mouth. He returned to banging on the drum, tail beginning to wag behind him. After so long, he could finally have a taste of what was missing.

He could soon hear the notes growing louder and louder, and with that discovery, the realization of what instrument was being played: a violin. There was only one person he knew who could play that instrument so well. Sure enough, the ghost made an entrance, accompanied not only by a flash of flames, but a choir of deadbeats circling around them. Strange, he hadn’t noticed their singing until they were present with Lewis.

Perhaps because they hadn’t begun their song until they were all seen.

No words were exchanged, just letting the music do the talking for them.

Not too far from the pair was someone stalking the black and white dog. Vivi had caught wind of the fact he had been sneaking out at night, just playing along to make it seem like she was none the wiser. It made her curious where he was going, and why he was always leaving with his drum. She could barely believe all this time he was coming out here to play it, in the middle of the night where no one would be able to hear here.

Well, it seems someone heard him this time.

The bluenette couldn’t resist pulling out her phone, taking a few snapshots of the mini concert. She ended up sending them to Arthur, as well as a quick text: ‘Look at these nerds.’

No response. Well that was fine, he was probably sleeping anyways.

The grin she wore along her face hadn’t faded in the slightest, not until she noticed they were starting to wind down. If she wasn’t going to get caught, she would have to beat the dog back home. Ooooh she was going to have some fun once he got home.

Sure enough, when the humanized kitsune stepped through the front door, there was Vivi, waiting for him. Mystery began to hang his head in shame, sure she had caught onto the fact that he was sneaking out, and was standing here the entire time waiting. She hated the way he resigned himself to her. Frankly, there had been more than enough sadness to last them a lifetime. Stepping forward, she helped guide his drum to the floor, then took his hands in her own. He could see nothing but the warm smile she offered to him.

In fact, if he looked close enough, he could see that starry look in her eyes, much like the one she had when she first discovered his true identity.

And then she pulled out her phone, showing him the pictures.

Oh boy, there was no way she was going to get rid of those.

----

This night, there were two leaving the house instead of one, one carrying a drum while the other held a guitar. It was about time she dusted this thing off. The more she thought about it, the more she wondered why she had even stopped playing to begin with. Well, whatever the reason, that changed tonight.

Vivi pulled out her phone, checking her messages. Her eyebrows furrowed as she stared at the screen.

‘Going out with the nerds tonight, you should come too.’

Delivered.

‘Haven’t heard back from you. Busy day?’

Delivered.

‘Artie?’

Delivered.

‘Arthur Kingsmen.’

Delivered.

‘Well whatever. We’ll be by Lew’s mansion if you decide to come out.’

Delivered.

The bluenette uttered an annoyed huff before pocketing the device. It’s not like she was going to get something out of him. There were times when he would go silent like this. In a way, she couldn’t really blame him. Out of the four of them, it wasn’t hard to argue he had taken everything the hardest. Time was all he needed now.

Sure enough, Lewis was there, waiting for the dog to turn up, but was pleasantly surprised when he was joined by another, making their pair a trio. She simply smiled, giving a strum of her instrument. The violin was quick to join in, strings playing together while the kitsune tended to his own set up. Their tunes danced around each other, playing a very familiar song. It wasn’t to one that already existed, rather one they created on their own. It came to a point where the melody died out, expecting a fourth to take its place.

But as the music stopped, silence was all that came after it.

Silence.

A note.

Mystery’s ears moved up, the other two noticing his attentive stance. More notes, ones that sounded like a strange mix of a piano and what could only be described as techno. There wasn’t a doubt in their mind who was playing that music.

The synth faded out slightly, leaving an opening for them again. Synth, guitar, violin, and drum played on in harmony, playing as if nothing had ever happened. Despite the hell they had been put through, some things could never be torn away from them.

When the piece finally reached its end, the three followed the dying sound to their blond friend, keeping himself hidden behind a nearby tree. Vivi lowered herself down to his level, reaching out to take him into an embrace. How could he not return the gesture to her?

Having a skull made displaying emotions terribly difficult. The bone under his eyes moved up some, eyebrows moving up to express his joy over their impromptu session. The ghost extended a hand out to each of them, “Come on, it’s getting late. You two will stay here tonight.”

And that was the end of it.

The deadbeats helped to carry their respective instruments inside the mansion, resting them neatly to the side of the front door. Four friends travelled up the foyer stairs, the dog’s tail wagging with more excitement then he could remember feeling in a long time.

#MysteryMarch2021 #mystery skulls animated #my writing #my submission

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wallyaxiom · 3 years

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𝚆𝙰𝙻𝚃𝙼𝙴𝙼𝙴: 𝙵𝙰𝚅𝙾𝚁𝙸𝚃𝙴 𝙲𝙷𝙰𝚁𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝙴𝙻𝚂𝙴 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝚈𝚂

hey besties it’s me coming to do the waltmeme thing. I couldn’t just pick one character to call my favorite. it also felt unfair to do that as well when there’s so many amazing characters here. so grab a snack, put on your favorite tangled song in my honor and buckle up as i go through the list of my fave characters here at walt each person plays. present gen only. sorry to my next gen faves. maybe one day i’ll write a list for you. or not. i’ll keep you on your toes.

𝕔𝕒𝕤𝕤𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕣𝕒 𝕛𝕒𝕘𝕖𝕣

cassandra is a character i love so much. tangled is a movie that means everything to me. kiara is the person who understands my tangled feels. the way you play cassandra...like how you said i have a grasp on reagan, you have such a perfect grasp on who cassandra is as a character. her voice is so clear. you understand who the character is and have transformed her into something more than what was given in the bio i wrote and also in the show that’s used for inspo. she’s a spectacular character and i love her so much. it’s an honor to be one half of elssandra but also cassunzel. she’s such an amazing character. you should be so proud of what you’ve brought to life, kiara.

𝕝𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕞𝕔𝕢𝕦𝕖𝕖𝕟

listen i told you every day how much i love monty. i literally scream it to you in your living room sometimes. i’ve seen every iteration of monty but i think this one is my favorite. i didn’t even know lightning’s real name was montgomery that was all you. so much of yourself is in monty. it reminds me of myself with wally and i think that’s the biggest reason why i love monty is because he’s bits and pieces of you and i love you very much. as much as i love cocky era lightning i love dad lightning even more. i wish i had a dad like him i’m not gonna lie but we’re not gonna unpack that on the man lmfao. i’m glad i’m more enveloped in his story now because he’s such a good character dude. like such a good written and played character. he’s second in my heart to sulley but is inching closer to number one by the day.

𝕗𝕣𝕒𝕟𝕔𝕖𝕤𝕔𝕠 𝕓𝕖𝕣𝕟𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕝𝕚

fran !!! my bestie !!! my fave !!! i would die for them !!! like bee, i love talking to you about fran and all the tomfoolery they get into. you’ve played them for so long and each time you transform them into something better than the last. they age like a fine wine. in the past almost two years i’ve been able to be part of their story more & i’m so happy for that opportunity. you’ve put so much love, care and devotion into fran. you’ve added so much to their story. like they’re so fleshed out, how does your beautiful brain come up with all this backstory ??? lemme know i need some of those brain cells. they’re amazing. you’re amazing. i want fran to buy me and island and make me pasta but i’ll just them do that for caspian the favorite child.

𝕠𝕣𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝕓𝕒𝕣𝕥𝕙𝕠𝕝𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕨

hands down i had to put orion my future father in law. i’ve had the honor of watching you develop orion into something incredible over these past six years. ( holy cow !!! six ??? insane. ily ). he was a big bad, misunderstood boy and you’ve humanized orion. you’ve brought life into him and created such a beautifully crafted character. he has a heart now. perhaps a tiny one but it’s there. the backstory you’ve created for him and the future he has - all stunning and wonderful. i love this man. he deserves so much after the shit he’s been through. i’ve had the privilege of being in his orbit for a bit when i played logan. I still get to watch him and enjoy the light chaos he brings. i’m ready for the new era of casino owner orion and what trouble he’ll bring now.

𝕤𝕙𝕒𝕘𝕘𝕪 𝕣𝕠𝕘𝕖𝕣𝕤

the boy !!! the legend !!! i love shaggy so much. first of all, the future you planned for him. how dare you ?? do you like to see me cry ?? is that it ??? i’m glad he hit his happy arc now because WOW. pain. shaggy is just a nice guy, man. he’s so nice to everyone he meets. i want to be friends with shaggy and scoob. i love mystery inc. i can’t imagine anyone else playing shaggy but you. to me, you are him. he’s the heart of the group. it’s not mystery inc without him. therefore, you’re the heart also. it’s not the same without you.

𝕤𝕒𝕕𝕚𝕖 𝕥𝕖𝕒𝕘𝕦𝕖

i could easily write an essay about how i love all your characters and how you play them all so well but i had to give this spot to sadie. the teagues are my og loves. every time i see sadie the part of my brain where logan resides lights up. she’s such a good character. she’s a little devil and it’s exactly what we need. we need someone to stir up the pot and throw eggs at kids. sadie is a product of her environment. she’s so tough and had to be so young. no one her age should have to grow up so fast the way she did. i would like to wrap sadie in a blanket give her some coco with bat marshmallows and tell her to take a break. hug her. maybe give her some therapy to. i love her. you’ve brought her to life in such an amazing way. i hope her brothers join her soon so we can have that sibling goodness.

𝕟𝕒𝕝𝕒 𝕠𝕞𝕚𝕥𝕒

i was tempted to put ian here because ian lightfoot is joel and we already know how much i love al and wendy but i decided to show the og love so i put nala. from the get go you knew who nala was going to be and where you wanted to go with her. you always bring so much to your characters. you develop them in ways that amazes me each time. go bestie go you’re so talented. i love how devoted she. how fierce she is but also the vulnerability you bring to her. she was thrown into a world at a young age fighting a war she wasn’t meant to and THAT’S a lot on someone. and we see that. i love the way you play her and i’m so happy you decided to take her up. sorry you have to deal with simba tho. pour one out.

𝕘𝕖𝕠𝕣𝕘𝕖𝕥𝕥𝕖 𝕗𝕠𝕩𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕥𝕙

everyone and their grandmother knows the oliver and co cast means everything to me. i’m so glad that you decided to join them ! you’re a wonderful addition. i love miss george. she’s fabulous in every sense of the word. sharpay evans is shaking in her lil boots. i just love divas. i love them. i am one. she’s perfect. and we know that’s not easy for her. i know your beautiful mind works wonders so i know there’s a lot of growing that georgette will be going through in the future and i’m excited for it. prayer circle for a jenny and oliver.

𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕔𝕜𝕖𝕣𝕪 𝕓𝕚𝕟𝕩

when you auditioned for thackery you already had an idea of where you wanted to take him and how you wanted to add to his character while staying true to the bio. that is the kind of stuff i like to see. this man has seen some shit and also has been through some shit. i do hope one day his soul can be at ease. he needs a long cat nap. you care a lot for thackery and it’s lovely to see. he may be a hamilton hoe but we have to respect the drip & love him for it anyways.

𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕠𝕥𝕙𝕪 𝕝𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥𝕪𝕖𝕒𝕣

timmy boy deserves a hug. a hug and a nice space movie to take the edge off. you always put so much of your heart and yourself into your characters. you care so much for them and that’s evident in buzz. he’s goofy, he’s cool and he’s just so wonderful. i’m excited to see where buzz will go from here and how he’ll develop over time. i’m hoping some happiness. maybe some resolution with woodrow just to spice things up. that metal arm is still cool too.

𝕕𝕒𝕡𝕙𝕟𝕖 𝕓𝕝𝕒𝕜𝕖

hey bestie !!! wow !!! daphne ??? gives me so much pain. I am so glad to be going on this angst journey of mystery inc and fred/daph with you. your love for her and the gang makes my heart so happy. i will happily spend hours talking about them and sending tiktoks to each other that remind us of them. you went beyond the assignment. you were just born to play daphne. you write her so well and understand her past the bio, past the inspirations of the live actions and mystery inc. you get her. you see her. she’s in good hands. i’m ready for all the pain she’s about to cause me.

𝕡𝕖𝕟𝕖𝕝𝕠𝕡𝕖 𝕙𝕒𝕚𝕟𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕖

i love penelope. i really do. i am penelope’s number one stan. it was discussed before but it’s so easy to play miss piggy as unlikeable since she is such a brash character but you bring so much light and love to penny. it’s hard not to be in love with her and want her to succeed in everything she does. she’s the miss piggy we all grew up with but she’s also special because you’ve added your own personal touches to her. she’s an amazing character. i would punch anyone who’s wronged penelope. i’m excited for the layers to start peeling back and we see more of penny - especially her badass ways. i just love the way you play her and i love penelope hainline okay. i lovoe divas as stated above what can i say.

𝕒𝕦𝕣𝕠𝕣𝕒 𝕔𝕒𝕡𝕦𝕝𝕖𝕥

ANNIE !!!! WOW AURORA ??? genuinely she is the love of my life. I love her so, so much. she’s so sweet and wonderful and deserve to be tucked in ??? read a bed time story ??? and not be cursed ??? why’d i do that. she deserves the world and so do you. in the short amount of time you’ve had her you’ve added so much depth to her story. which is not always easy the first few months you have a character but you’ve put in a lot of love into aurora already. you understood the assignment and & went beyond. i’m so excited to see where she goes on her journey and what will happen when he hopefully get a maleficent one day. also is it an aurora shoutout without me saying philip loves her ??? bc he does.

#waltmeme #me: already has two mascots why not throw in a third ???#take a shot everytime i say wonderful amazing andexcited

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calamityk8 · 3 years

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"My name is Barney Rolfe, and there is something wrong with my brain. I am admitting this to you with the full understanding and acknowledgement that what I am doing is absolutely not going to be fully understood; but perhaps in pieces it can reconcile the most fragmented and deranged parts of my psyche, or at least arrange them in a way that will relieve this incessant pressure that always haunts me. Whatever happens, well, at least I have tried to do something to explain this innate and incessant madness, which is more than most get a chance to do.

Okay, here goes.

Belatedly, I suppose, there were neurons misfiring to account for, some chemical mishap that perforce disengaged my social abilities to adapt and be of use to others. Panic and hysteria have ruled the contours of my experience for longer than this busted-up brain can recall. Looking back, well, I can gauge the horrific aspects of it, in the present. Of course hindsight’s a malignancy at this point. I have become this disease; it as all that I am: a sporadically hebetude-induced corollary on the razor’s edge of sanity’s rusty hook. Saying things like this doesn’t help. I know. It’s just hard to judge oneself from the outer limits of perspective’s gush and flow. Trapped in this insidious circle of discontent and maladjustment, I am oozing the sap of life’s lost lust.

I might have a way to put it, so let me.

Having severe systemic and constant depression and simply “being bummed” are two very distinct and different things. One is a disease; the other is just one of the myriad consequences of being alive. If someone has cancer you don’t tell them to, “buck up and get over it.” We don’t admonish a stroke victim to, “stop lying around, and get up and do something with yourself.” Even our advice for sufferers of the common cold is sympathetic, as cough-and-congestion victims aren’t told they are being “weak” or “soft” and should just “be happy because things could be a lot worse.” But, for some inane reason that is preconditioned into us by years of inhumane pseudoscience, diseases of the mind are linked to some weakness or lassitude of the individual, as if that person who is suffering from a disease such as depression or severe anxiety is somehow inept and is to be blamed for their troubles. As if it is within their control to get better by “just trying a bit harder at it.” It’s really a nonsensical viewpoint to take; but, alas, it is one of many such idiotic theories held by the masses.

Here — there is this too: you’ve got to fight this one alone. Other people can help you, but in the end it comes down to you fighting for your life all by your lonesome. This is a difficult thing to internalize, but once you do, in some wary way, a strand of hope will spring from this, as finagled and shoddy with trepidation as it may be. There will be a surge of selfhood guiding you, a reliance on the one person you can always count on: yourself. It is a scary thing, but like most scary things one finds as obstacles on the wayward path of one’s existence, extremely worthwhile to conquer. Just like any other terminal disease, depression kills; suicide is merely its mechanism.

This shouting in my head, it never seems to cease.

I am nervous and concise around others. I only laugh when it’s expected. Being alone has become my only comfort, though it too is getting to be unendurable. To guide me I take some small salvation in the long history of human endeavor to fight through the gnashing teeth of internal strife. According to Lecky’s History of European Morals, “A melancholy leading to desperation, and known to theologians under the name of ‘acedia,’ was not uncommon in monasteries, and most of the recorded instances of medieval suicides in Catholicism were by monks.” I dream through these trials and tribulations of ancients, attempting to stem the tide of my own demise with less troubling thoughts than the ones I’ve come to own: I am the angular distance of a star below the horizon; the dusty truth of eons of suffering through a terrible weight’s pressing down; sunken and lost; in old, forgotten times what they once called grevoushede. Grevoushede. Acedia. I breathe the words and balance the syllables on my tongue, unable to savor their taste or texture. I am a weightless pin pricked in the skein of an upside-down world I’ll never get close enough to know.

Who could ever fall in love with this raggedy bag of afflictions?

I trek through the ruins of my obsession, draped in sorrow’s mask, leaning on tiny tics and safe places to guide me. The cracking of my toes, one by one. Snapping all of my fingers back and forth. Clicking my tongue on the roof my mouth. Blinking an even number of times with one eye and then an odd number with the other. Popping my ears with my jaw. Smoothing my eyebrows down with my fingertips. An innumerable array of distractions that ease the arrhythmic pulse of thoughts that come but never go, blurring out my sight, and leaving me trembling, all filled-up with static but as empty inside as an ice cream shop in the freezing rain.

Woe is my middle name.

All of these little vacancies in my head surface and fill into the most chronic of all conditions. Possibilities go awry with suspicious and judgmental looks. Maybe I’ll put on some Dolly Parton and fall in love with a bookmark. These are thoughts that calm the deliriousness at it swarms. Exceptional circumstances to bow down to in this glut of terrors, this amassing of torturous routines: the bath mat must be lined up perfectly with the tiles, the showerhead at just the right angle, the curtain stretched just so, and the shower water, the god-damn shower water…always and forever just a touch too hot or too cold. The chores of being me, they never end.

The human senses can somehow even detect whether a television set is off or just on mute without looking. And everyone can tell the difference between boiling and room-temperature water being poured in much the same manner. But it is when these senses go astray, when they slip and frazzle and get pinched, that’s when one comes to know the real intensity of those senses’ powers. A daily trauma that haunts me wherever I go, my brain stuffed with the lint of leftover churning, dizzy and lopsided and playing alive, I ignore the impossibilities of being able to maintain a normal existence for as long as this sapped torpidity allows. The courage I need to muster just to leave my place and walk to get groceries is at most times an insurmountable obstacle, and so I stay in and worry and worry and worry about everything. Every object grows too precious to disturb as I put it on the pedestal of the postponed quenching of my desires. There is nothing I can do or think that will snap this spell of disenchantment that grips me tighter as it deepens this hole I am eternally residing in. Just making it home from the grocery store with a few shopping bags of food sometimes feels like the greatest accomplishment in the world. I should be doing other things with my time, I know: concentrating my efforts on more grand pleasures and goals. But these things of consequence, they are not for me. I lose so much more than I gain in these battles. Small, inconsequential, pyrrhic victories are the only ones I’ve known.

Hope is a bestial thing with daggers and fangs; I make up a thousand reasons to not have any of it bombard me as this disease attacks relentlessly. There are honestly times when I cannot even bring myself to lift a finger to scratch an itch. I’ve been prescribed a list of medications too long to register properly in the catacombs of my lingering doubt about the chemical cohesion of my wherewithal: Abilify, clomipramine, Lexapro, bupropion, Celexa, Cymbalta, Lithium, Xanax, Paxil, amitriptyline, Lamictal, and that grand old sturdy classic Prozac. Etcetetra. It seems that I am only etceteras: more and more of less and less. It’s all a wash. It was a messy chorus of boos from the cheap seats as I struggled through side effects and listened to the growing drone of a singularly horrible voice that wasn’t quite my own resounding in my skull: “You’re no good. You’re a lost cause. Stop whining; start winning. You’re no good. You are just no good,” over and over; nauseated at all times; woozy, delirious, insomnia-plagued and diarrhea-bound; garbling my words when forced to speak, fumbling through life like a doped-up zombie with no appetites, every little thing so impossibly far away.

The window washers will not sing for me. The faucets around here all look like dead swans. I sweep. I litter. I am unable to know for sure if anyone else ever feels the way I always do. I am ill with this ravenous beast that pesters and claws at and drapes itself over me, leaving me with the gumption of soon-to-be-roadkill sluggishly slouching across a busy highway. I yawn instead of moan. I burst into tears in the dark of crowded movie theaters just before the feature starts. I am normal. Really. I am sane — maybe even too much so. I do wish I could just go insane, but, sadly, I cannot quite contemplate how to accurately achieve this feat. My brain will not assuage nor relent with its ceaseless cracked and mangled disturbances.

The boring by-rote recitation of symptoms rattled off to every doctor who’d listen. They don’t know who I am, what I’ve suffered through, how I came to be this way that I am; and there’s no device by which I can properly explain it to them. It’s not like they can run a test, take some blood, or do a biopsy, and then figure out what’s wrong with me. It’s a hidden thing, deep within the walls of my pain, not on or off any scale they’ve ever invented. I am my own example. There are no answers to any of this. They used to take out parts of people’s brains, thinking it would relieve their suffering. But it just left folks lobotomized to a dull, vegetable state, unable to form words or dress themselves. Perhaps they were happy, though. Perhaps they were thankful for the big, empty space that now occupied what they’d formerly called living. Perhaps there was no person behind those dead eyes left to care. The disease wins yet again, as it always does.

Clinical diagnoses follow me with heavy clomps. “Heavy dysthymia with a robust anxiety level. Somatic cross-cutting, serious signs of high Altman-scale mania, repetitive and troubling thoughts bordering on multiple phobias and generalized panic. Personality Trait Facet Scores high on rigid perfectionism/grandiosity/anhedonia type, though scores lower across board than patient believes. Unusual and abnormal, but not psychotic at all.” As you can see, the weather inside my head is rather frightful, to say the least. I trudge through the murky terrain of my past with great regularity. I am muddy with it, soaked through from the storm of my memories, which are remembering themselves over and over and over again and again and again, until I do not rightly know what has happened or what is happening now. Who am I but this box of disturbing thoughts?

Madness in the family. A quirk in the genes being passed down just like Huntington’s or any other inherited affliction. This one’s just as deep in the bones, though not as noticeable, not as prominent in the makeup of one’s persona. My father was a brazen raver whose depression put the business end of a rifle under his chin to finally wreck its one final havoc on him as pulled the trigger in defeat; his father before him too came to an early funeral, though his disease’s weapons of choice were gasoline and matches, as he lay in immolation by the pumps of an empty gas station in the wee hours of his final night on earth. This dreary thing, it just goes and goes right on down the line. Shelter from it is inconstant at best. It is as if I am in hiding from my inheritance, from my own true self — a hibernation of sorts: falling in and out of a troubled sleep, groggy and drooling through another afternoon, I become obsessed with trifles. I organize the cups and plates on my shelves until they all perfectly line up. I become tempestuous at a single hair being out of place. I talk to myself constantly, mostly demeaning phrases and freshly coined derogatory slurs aimed at myself. I have been parked too long in my heart’s handicap spot. There is very little “me” left here to notice.

So, do not look at me lightly, with deferential judgement or pity’s hidden ire. My sorrows are so much smaller than you’d suppose. My shoes come untied just as much as yours do. I can be as brave and also as craven as most. I eat blackberries and put salted butter on my toast. There are no cures, only temporary stopgaps for relief of symptoms. I am not in control of the way that I feel. I will try. I do try. None of this is less than extremely difficult. I do not need nor crave your sympathy; I just want understanding. Perhaps, even after all this exegesis and other inexplicable explanatory notions are through, this is still too much to ask. In the end, casting aside whatever ideas anyone might get to having about me and my plight, I only return right back to where I began: my name is Barney Rolfe, and there is something wrong with my brain."

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nightrosebud · 4 years

Note

💫 with author's choice!

Can I Exist? by Missio

So I kind of cheated a little and put Missio on shuffle to choose a song. I have been wanting to do a fic using one of their songs for a while. Can I Exist? is not my favorite song from them, but I think it works for some Stricklake angst.

Home is where they say the heart is Mine's buried in the yard

Strickler let himself out of the Lake household, checking that Jim's Vespa was not waiting for him in the driveway: the only thing that could have ruined such an excellent evening. Young Atlas was probably off on his fruitless quest of requiring the Triumbric Stones. Let him. It kept Jim out of his hair and could even result in his death.

But what would that mean for Barbara?

Strickler tried to ignore the pang of guilt he felt thinking about the good doctor while getting in his car. It wasn't his fault the Amulet had chosen Jim. It's wasn't his fault Jim didn't tell his mother what was going on, making her worry. It wasn't his fault that Jim put himself in harm's way and could end up in a troll's stomach.

But it is your fault he is being hunted by an undead assassin. It is your fault you are seeing his mother. It is your fault her fate is tied to yours, for better or for worse. And we all know it's for worse.

Strickler winced. He was getting emotional in his old age. It had to be done. He had no choice.

Hell's a place they say is for sinners I'll be the man in charge

Strickler rubbed his eyes, trying very hard not to curse in Trollish while at school. "Otto," he gritted through clenched teeth, making his tooth ache even more. "I have gone over this already. Many times. This is for the benefit of all Changelings."

"Ja, ja, you say that mein freund," Otto replied over the phone. "But I feel that if that is true, you won't object if I called a meeting of other Changelings to make sure it is not for the benefit of just one Changeling."

"No," Strickler responded, hopefully not too sharply, as he signed a form allowing Miss Janeth to take a field trip to the planetarium. "It won't be necessary." He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his sore jaw. "What if I visited with the Lady today? See what she has to say?"

"She talks to you?" Otto asked in awe.

"Of course," Strickler lied. "And if she truly wanted Gunmar free, she would tell me."

But... how, can I exist? Within the mist of this? But... how, can I admit? That I would quit on you?

Strickler went into the travel agency. The Changeling at the desk flashed him a broad smile. What was her name? Susan something. No matter. She was a terrible spy hence her role here behind a desk.

"Good day, sir," she said with that disturbing smile. "Where would you like to go today? Down?" She grinned as she lifted the phone and dialed a number to make the floor move just as he stepped on the secret elevator. He didn't respond but started inspecting his nails.

"You know," Susan said in the ensuing silence, "I saw something interesting the other night." Strickler looked at her, feigning indifference, but something in her tone made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. "You were on a date," she continued. "A doctor I have come to find out. You certainly have good taste, sir; she is beautiful."

"Just keeping up appearances," he drawled, but inside he was screaming. "You know how humans talk if you don't appear to be interested in a romantic relationship."

"Oh, I know," she said, as the elevator continued down. The mural behind her was showing Gunmar with the Decimaar Blade. "But I was able to find out who she is. Doctor Lake. You wouldn't be sleeping with the enemy, would you, sir?" she asked innocently.

He flashed her a smile, probably with more teeth than required. "Well, look at you, Susan," he said in cheer, and she blinked in surprise. "You find that out all on your own? Maybe you are a better spy than I thought." Susan blinked again but started looking smug. "I will reevaluate your position. See if you can go out on the field."

"Thank you, sir! I appreciate it, sir! All glory to Gu— to the Pale Lady."

"Yes," he agreed as the elevator stopped. "To the Pale Lady." He started to go down the hallway, the smile sliding off his face as soon as Susan was out of sight. Blast it all; he would have to take care of her before she blabbed to the whole Order.

I wrote God a simple letter Still haven't heard from him

Strickler stood in the room that housed the phonograph. It always seemed silly to him how they had to talk to inanimate objects and instruments to hear her. But they didn't choose the vessel; she did. He started turning the handle to play the old record that had always lived on the phonograph. Maybe he could find another record to put on there. Wasn't there a record shop in Arcadia? Perhaps some punk rock for the Pale Lady. He smirked.

There was nothing but static for several minutes, just long enough so he could tell Otto that he tried, he really tired, and just before Strickler gave up, he swore he heard a whisper.

"Free... Gunmar..."

He stopped completely. Well, that was nothing. His imagination really. He quickly exited the room. He had a dentist appointment to get to. No time to listen to old phonographs. Yes. Quite.

I must have really messed up this time Shit must have hit the fan

Strickler stood in the street. He left. Otto left him. Otto. How many times had he gotten the other Changeling out of trouble? Just for Otto to stab him in the back. Metaphorically. Stickler would have been proud if it didn't mean his own head would be the one to roll.

What should he do? Angor Rot would not stop until his head was ripped from his shoulders; that was abundantly clear.

Barbara!

Jim! There was the answer. Jim would have to protect him; he would have no choice if he wanted his mother to survive. Strickler winced. He didn't want anything to happen to Barbara either, dammit, but here he was, thinking about his own bloody hide. And what would happen if Jim insisted that he get rid of the bond? Would Jim throw him to Angor, as a peace offering? Surely he wasn't that cold?

Why not? You were that cold, said a voice in Strickler's head that sounded a lot like Barbara.

He gulped and started walking towards the Lake residence.

But... how, can I exist? Within the mist of this? But... how, can I admit? That I would quit on you?

Barbara was looking up, following the sounds of Jim fighting Angor Rot upstairs. Really, she was taking this better than Strickler had thought she would. Fainting spell and drinking a whole pitcher of water aside.

"This tunnel leads to the sewers. You can get to the street," Strickler explained, gesturing to the giant hole in her basement.

"What about my son?" she asked, hands clutched in front of her. Strickler followed her gaze, and they listened to the fighting for several tense moments. "What's going to happen to him?" she asked in terror.

"No, you have to go!" he cried as she took a step towards the stairs.

He grabbed her arm, but Barbara whirled in anger. "No! He needs my help!"

"You don't understand," he started to explain, hands held up. "Our lives are bound magically."

Barbara scoffed. "Are you really talking about our relationship right now?"

Oh, darling, if you only knew.

"My boy is in danger!" she cried, and blast it all, she had circled so that she had a clear shot to the stairs. Strickler grabbed her, fear for her and fear for himself making him rougher than he should be, and he winced when he felt the pain in his own shoulder. "Let me go!" she screamed, and she slapped him. A second later, her head jerked back as an unseen force hit her back. "Ow!" she cried, and then she clutched her cheek. "What was that?"

"Listen to me!" he growled, emotions starting to run wild. Barbara needed to go, and maybe she needed to be scared enough to think of herself for one bloody moment. "Leave now!" And he let his eyes glow.

"What are you, Walk?" she asked in awe.

"I'm someone who can help your son... "

But weren't you the one who got him into this mess in the first place? something whispered in the back of his head.

"...but I can't until I know you're safe." He put his hands up in a pleading motion. "Please," he begged.

Barbara paused, and he could see the war on her face. A mother just wanting to help her son, her only child. And she opened her eyes, with the stare of a warrior, and issued a command he could finally follow. "Then go to him!"

But... how, can I admit? That I would quit on you?

"Don't talk to me," she growls, a frosty tone of anger Strickler has never heard in her voice. "You're the one thing I'm looking forward to forgetting."

And he sighs as she looks away. That's fair. He deserves her anger, her rage. The things he put her through, without her knowledge. This was the conclusion that he always knew would come if Gunmar had made it to the surface, if Angor had killed Jim, or if Jim had survived everything thrown at him.

Better she forgets him. Forget his betrayal. Even if Jim told her the truth as he promised, she would be upset, but not sad. He would bear that pain. Bear the weight of his consequences. That would be better. Better for her.

Quit their relationship, once and for all.

#Stricklake #Trollhunters #feather-dancer

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tiramisiyu · 3 years

Text

【未定事件簿】 Tears of Themis: Xia Yan Personal Story 4-4 Translation

Translation Masterlist | Xia Yan Masterlist | Video

Chapter 4: 4-1 / 4-2 / 4-4 / 4-5 / 4-6 / 4-7 / 4-9 / 4-10 / 4-11 / 4-12 / 4-13 / 4-14 / 4-16

North District

Ji Xiaoyu and older sister Ji Xiaoqing originally lived in a two-bedroom apartment in the north district, left by their parents.

After that apartment was forcibly seized by the loan company, the sisters started to rent an apartment.

Xia Yan and I came to the place that Ji Xiaoyu was now renting, according to the address Sphinx gave. However, we waited for a long time, during which Ji Xiaoyu never showed up.

Xia Yan: According to Sphinx, Ji Xiaoyu took on three to four part-time jobs at the same time after Qian Yi’s death.

Xia Yan: Within a few months, she took on a severely high workload from morning to night. Typically, she returns home at around 11:30 at night.

Xia Yan: However, she suddenly left all her jobs two days ago.

MC: Could she be engaging a lawyer for a lawsuit? To repurchase her parents’ real estate?

MC: She’s saved enough money now and needs to focus on the case, so she left her jobs?

Xia Yan: Possibly.

MC: Then I could probably provide her legal assistance to talk to her, right? Perhaps she’ll be more willing to communicate with us then.

Xia Yan: Okay. I’ll say that I received a commission to investigate the Bedo Loan Company trap loan issue, and that I’m preparing to help my client file for a civil compensation lawsuit.

Xia Yan: If she wants to file for a civil lawsuit, she’ll probably be willing to talk to us.

Xia Yan and I were in the middle of talking when we heard faraway footsteps – it just happened to be Ji Xiaoyu.

In the video Xia Yan and I had seen in the afternoon, Ji Xiaoyu’s condition could be called “haggard” or “fragile”.

But now… she was basically skin and bones, surrounded by an air as heavy as death, and her face was completely frozen.

START INSPECTION

⊳ Box and leaflet

MC: (A casket and a cemetery leaflet…)

MC: (So she worked hard to accumulate money to buy a place in the cemetery for her sister?)

MC: (The casket looks newly bought. She’s probably selected a place at the cemetery and is preparing to bury it…)

What are the injuries on her right wrist?

⊳ Wrist slit injuries ⊳ Scrapes

MC: (Injuries layered on top of each other… she must have attempted suicide many times.)

MC: (Though they look like old injuries, she really doesn’t look like she’s come around…)

⊳ Clothes

MC: (Her clothes are splitting at the seams, yet there was no attempt to fix them… it looks like she doesn’t care about herself.)

⊳ Eyes

MC: (Such severe dark circles. She must not have slept in a long time…)

MC: (Ji Xiaoyu’s condition does not look good at all. I should carefully observe some more and think cautiously first.)

END INSPECTION

MC: Xia Yan, Ji Xiaoyu…

Xia Yan: Mhmm, I know. We have to find out what’s going on with her as soon as possible.

Xia Yan and I walked towards Ji Xiaoyu. However, she walked past us expressionlessly, without even giving us a single glance, as if we did not exist.

We could only double back a few steps and block her with outstretched hands.

Xia Yan: Hello, you must be Miss Ji Xiaoyu?

Ji Xiaoyu: …

Xia Yan: I am a private detective who’s received a commission to investigate the case of Bedo Loan Company’s trap loans.

Xia Yan: This case will open trial soon. My client plans to collect evidence to file for civil litigation.

Xia Yan: Miss Ji, may I ask you a few questions?

Xia Yan: With your clues, I might be able to find a few new investigative directions.

MC: Miss Ji, I am Lawyer MC.

MC: If needed, I can provide legal assistance for you and help you file for a civil compensation lawsuit.

Xia Yan and I handed her our own namecards, but Ji Xiaoyu did not take them.

She searched up the employers indicated on Xia Yan’s and my namecards, only stopping when she saw news that involved my legal defense.

She lifted those lifeless eyes slightly.

Ji Xiaoyu: What do you want to know? Do you want me to serve as a witness or write a testimony?

Ji Xiaoyu: I’m fine with it all. Only… my sister will be buried within a few days. Please do not give me trouble during this time.

MC: Understood, we will be careful.

Xia Yan: My apologies, Miss Ji, but we have a request right now.

Xia Yan: Can we speak with you about the progression of events for this matter? Of course… I understand that this will make you remember unhappy matters.

Ji Xiaoyu’s expression remained as numb as ever. Only her lips pursed slightly.

Ji Xiaoyu: … Come with me.

Ji Xiaoyu’s Residence

We followed Ji Xiaoyu into the place she was now renting.

That was a room of a mere ten square meters. The room was filled with a musty smell, as if no air had circulated here in a long time.

Miscellaneous items were piled in the corner of the room. Only the two boxes of corrugated cardboard near the door were uniquely neat and tidy.

Ji Xiaoyu: I’m guessing that you wanted to ask why I ended up in that trap loan?

Xia Yan: We do have some questions about that.

Ji Xiaoyu: Because I wanted to buy something, but was short by two thousand dollars.

Ji Xiaoyu did not wait for us to continue asking and began to speak.

Her tone as she spoke was completely emotionless and smooth, as familiar and indifferent as if she had repeated it many times.

Ji Xiaoyu: I feared being criticized by my classmates if I bought something so expensive suddenly, so I did not borrow from them.

Ji Xiaoyu: Back then, I thought that I would be able to repay it the month after, when I received my wages.

Ji Xiaoyu: I never thought that I would end up trapped.

Ji Xiaoyu: Because I could not pay back the money, they said that if I agreed to take a nude photograph, they would extend the time I had. Otherwise, they would tell my sister and school immediately.

Ji Xiaoyu: Foolishly, I took the photos.

Ji Xiaoyu: So after, I was even more scared of telling my sister, and I didn’t dare call the police. And for my reputation, my sister could only bear the humiliation and not call the police.

She narrated until the end, a heavy self-mocking gradually settling itself into her voice.

MC: (Miss Ji…)

Ji Xiaoyu: What else do you want to ask?

START QUESTIONING

⊳ Qian Yi

Xia Yan: Miss Ji, you once accused Qian Yi and Bedo Loan Company of being related. But the police concluded that evidence was insufficient after investigation.

Xia Yan: What did Qian Yi do during the case?

When this name was brought up, Ji Xiaoyu’s frozen face suddenly distorted as she clenched her fist.

Ji Xiaoyu: He never came to collect debts with that loan company before.

Ji Xiaoyu: He merely kept providing me and my sister’s whereabouts to those people.

MC: Providing your whereabouts?

Ji Xiaoyu: After Bedo Loan Company took away me and my sister’s house, we thought everything was over.

Ji Xiaoyu: But they refused to release us, saying that I still owed them money, pushing me to work at a karaoke bar to return the money.

Ji Xiaoyu: Otherwise, they would reveal that photo to all the people around me and my sister.

MC: …

Ji Xiaoyu: Sister moved houses with me several times to hide, but he kept finding us very quickly.

Xia Yan: After finding you, what did he do?

Ji Xiaoyu let out a strange laugh.

Ji Xiaoyu: Nothing at all.

MC: Nothing at all?

Ji Xiaoyu: He merely appeared near our rental location and smiled at us smugly.

Ji Xiaoyu: After, the scoundrels from the loan company would come to our door.

Ji Xiaoyu: Once, big sister couldn’t bear it anymore and begged him to let us go, but…

[Flashback]

Qian Yi: You say that I’m following you and revealing your locations to Bedo Loan Company. Then… “where’s the evidence”?

Qian Yi: Under the clear heavens, all is balanced. You cannot slander others based on nothing.

Qian Yi: I simply just… somehow always manage to run into you. Maybe this is some sort of destiny?

Qian Yi: Then, I just happened to bring you two up with those that I know.

Ji Xiaoqing: Then… what will it take for you to stop bringing us up?

Ji Xiaoqing: You all have already taken all our money—

Qian Yi: Miss Ji, people are also a sort of financial property.

Qian Yi: According to what I know, Miss Ji, you just hopped to a big company with a pretty decent annual salary?

[Flashback end]

Ji Xiaoyu: Sister originally wanted to move out of the city, but my student enrollment is within Stellis.

Ji Xiaoyu: Which is why we’ve always stayed here.

Ji Xiaoyu: Bedo Loan Company and Qian Yi were basically two colluding villains.

Ji Xiaoyu: But in the end, the police said that there was no evidence and they could only let him go.

Ji Xiaoyu let out a mocking laugh.

Ji Xiaoyu: I’ve heard people call this “procedural justice”. What is justice, then…

Xia Yan: …

MC: …

⊳ Relationship to Qian Yi’s death

Xia Yan: Miss Ji, according to my investigations, you bought a restricted blade the day before Qian Yi’s death.

Xia Yan: That day, you were given a violation ticket from police for carrying prohibited items, and the blade was confiscated.

Xia Yan: After Qian Yi’s death by cardiac arrest, the police also investigated you.

Xia Yan: Back then, a police officer testified for you, saying that he had been keeping an eye on you secretly, and that you did not have the time to commit the crime.

Xia Yan: But if I’ve guessed right, you were following Qian Yi back then, correct?

Ji Xiaoyu: Is how that human scum died that important to you?

MC: It’s like this, Miss Ji. Qian Yi just might be linked to another case that we’re investigating.

MC: So we wanted to ask you whether you noticed if Qian Yi was acting unusually at any point.

Ji Xiaoyu: No need to explain. He’s dead anyways, and I don’t care why you’re investigating him.

Ji Xiaoyu: But you came for nothing.

Ji Xiaoyu: I did follow him for a few days, but didn’t notice anything unusual about him.

Ji Xiaoyu: Even if someone did kill him, they would have just been “enforcing justice for the heavens”.

⊳ Ji Xiaoqing

MC: Miss Ji, we… have a few questions about your sister Ji Xiaoqing…

Ji Xiaoyu: No need to be so hesitant. Go ahead and ask what you want.

Xia Yan: Miss Ji, according to what we know, your sister found out about everything only when Bedo Loan Company seized your real estate.

Xia Yan: After, she was always low-spirited, and then ended up getting into an accident due to drunkenness.

Xia Yan: I’d like to ask you about the details when your sister found out about the trap loans.

Xia Yan: Did she make any unusual actions?

Ji Xiaoyu: Unusual? Under those circumstances, what sort of actions wouldn’t be unusual?

MC: …Could you tell us about where she was different from before then?

Ji Xiaoyu: My sister had always been a very hardworking, motivated person, both in work and life.

Ji Xiaoyu: The year my parents passed just happened to be the one where she was testing for university.

Ji Xiaoyu: Because of limited money and to take care of me, sister gave up on the famous university she’d set her heart on and went to a typical university.

Ji Xiaoyu: Without the halo of a famous school, she worked harder than anyone when it came to studying and work.

Ji Xiaoyu: A few months before Bedo Loan Company found my sister, she had just job-hopped to a very famous company.

Ji Xiaoyu: When Bedo Loan Company had just come knocking, sister still pretended to be lively as she went to work…

Ji Xiaoyu stopped for a moment.

Ji Xiaoyu: But when the police were investigating my sister’s cause of death, they found the people from her company. Only then did I find out…

Ji Xiaoyu: Those scoundrels knew that sister was working at a big company, so they often went to harass her, to make her hand her earnings to them…

Ji Xiaoyu: Sister refused, so those people handed out flyers insulting us at the company…

Ji Xiaoyu: Sister’s mistakes increased in frequency at the company. After, she resigned.

Xia Yan: But you just said that she would pretend to be lively at work? So she went out to…?

Ji Xiaoyu: I don’t know why sister pretended to go to work in the days after.

Ji Xiaoyu: I’m guessing that she just didn’t want to see me at home and think of sorrowful things…

MC: Have you ever secretly followed your sister?

Ji Xiaoyu: … What right do I have to follow my sister?

Ji Xiaoyu: It makes perfect sense for her to want to avoid me, to have time and space to herself.

Ji Xiaoyu: I harmed her so much. Should I not even give her this bit of space?

MC: Miss Ji…

Ji Xiaoyu: But you’re also right. I should have followed my sister.

Ji Xiaoyu: If I watched over her more and worried over her, then at least, I could’ve brought her home after she got drunk, and she wouldn’t have gotten into an accident.

Ji Xiaoyu: But back then, I was only worried about my own sadness and shame. I never thought once for her.

⊳ Other people she’s interacted with

Xia Yan: Miss Ji, may I ask, has anyone found you after you told the police about the trap loan?

Ji Xiaoyu: After sister passed, I dropped out of school.

Ji Xiaoyu: After teachers at school found out, they came to see me a few times.

Ji Xiaoyu: The rest were a few reporters who came to interview me and take pictures for news.

Ji Xiaoyu: After attention on this matter subsided, no one else came.

⊳ Civil compensation

MC: Miss Ji, Bedo Loan Company will begin trial for a case soon.

MC: I read the case details – the real estate that your parents left behind were defrauded away by the company using a fake lawsuit.

MC: After the court comes out with a criminal case verdict on Bedo Loan company, I can help you file for civil litigation.

MC: This way, what your parents left, as well as your assets that were defrauded from you, can be taken back.

Ji Xiaoyu: No need. I don’t need compensation.

Ji Xiaoyu: It’s already pointless…

END QUESTIONING

Ji Xiaoyu: Are there no other questions?

Ji Xiaoyu finished answering all of Xia Yan’s and my questions.

I originally thought that asking these would poke at her emotional wounds, but the whole time, her voice was expressionless, unusually indifferent.

Xia Yan and I locked eyes for a moment, seeing the same confusion and worry in each other’s eyes.

Xia Yan observed the items in the room again, looking at those two cardboard boxes near the door.

Xia Yan: The things in these boxes are…?

Though we could guess what was in it, Xia Yan still acted with caution, avoiding saying anything along the lines of “things left by the dead”.

Ji Xiaoyu: They’re my sister’s things.

Xia Yan: Can we take a look?

Ji Xiaoyu nodded slightly, then opened the cardboard box.

We first saw a journal with Ji Xiaoqing’s name on the cover.

Xia Yan flipped through the diary, giving it a few flip-throughs. The handwriting was beautiful and organized, and the contents focused on work and the comfortable times spent with her little sister.

Xia Yan: Your sister had a habit of writing in a diary, yet she didn’t write anything after finding out about the trap loan?

Ji Xiaoyu: She did. Several times, I saw her writing things in a black leather notebook.

Ji Xiaoyu: I don’t know what she wrote in there. Every time she saw me come over, she would immediately hide the notebook away.

Ji Xiaoyu: She probably wrote a lot about hating me…

Ji Xiaoyu: She clearly should’ve blown up at me, beat me, cursed me, and thrown me away so she could live in another city… but she still put on a strong face in front of me, every day.

Ji Xiaoyu: She also needed to vent, so I didn’t sneak any peeks.

MC: (Miss Ji…)

Xia Yan: Is that black leather notebook still around?

Ji Xiaoyu: I couldn’t find it. Maybe she tossed it away after she finished writing in it, or maybe it dropped somewhere on the day of the accident.

Just when Xia Yan and I were planning to look at some of Ji Xiaoqing’s other items, Ji Xiaoyu brought up a suggestion.

Ji Xiaoyu: You can take these boxes away and take your time going through them.

MC: Can we? These things…

Ji Xiaoyu: I’ll be preparing to bury my sister tomorrow, so I’m very busy. I need to rest right now, and I can’t wait for you.

Xia Yan: I understand – we’ll take these away for now, then. Don’t worry, we’ll examine them carefully and won’t break them.

Ji Xiaoyu: …

Ji Xiaoyu: I’d like to let you know that after my sister’s accident, the police also examined them. But they didn’t notice anything.

After hearing Ji Xiaoyu’s words, Xia Yan and I picked up the boxes with Ji Xiaoqing’s items and prepared to leave.

Ji Xiaoyu: Wait.

MC: Miss Ji, is there anything else you need?

Ji Xiaoyu: Why… why are you treating me like this!

Right when we were about to leave, Ji Xiaoyu suddenly became agitated.

MC: I’m so sorry, Miss Ji. If we have offended you in any way—

Ji Xiaoyu: Why aren’t you condemning me!

Ji Xiaoyu: It’s because I got too greedy and wanted to buy something expensive that I borrowed the money! It’s all because I wasn’t cautious enough that I ended up in the trap loan!

Ji Xiaoyu: It’s because I was a coward who was too scared to tell my sister or call the police that I kept sinking deeper!

Ji Xiaoyu: It’s all because of me… that my parents’ house ended up being defrauded away and that my sister died…

Ji Xiaoyu: You asked me so much, but why didn’t you scold me…

Ji Xiaoyu: Why… did you speak to me so sympathetically… when I committed so many unforgivable mistakes…

MC: …

Xia Yan: …

For a moment, I wasn’t quite sure of how to respond.

Xia Yan: Miss Ji, though this issue started because of you, you were not the one to cause all the misfortune.

Ji Xiaoyu: Have you not heard of the phrase, “flies don’t bite eggs without cracks”? Those who are pitiful must have a hateful side…

Xia Yan: But those who did evil are ultimately those “flies”.

Xia Yan: Whether pitiful or hateful, I have never thought that the focal point of a case should be whether the victim is perfect.

Xia Yan: You’ve already condemned yourself enough.

Ji Xiaoyu: …

Xia Yan: Even if you’ve already bought your sister’s resting place, don’t rush to do anything foolish.

Xia Yan: At least wait for our investigation to end.

Ji Xiaoyu: W-what do you mean?

Xia Yan: I feel like we might be able to find your sister’s black leather notebook.

Xia Yan: No matter how much you just pretended to not care, you must actually want to know what your sister was thinking and doing during that period of time.

Ji Xiaoyu was silent as tears rolled nonstop down her face.

Ji Xiaoyu: If you really find any clue that my sister left behind…

Ji Xiaoyu: No matter what it is… no matter how angrily she cursed… please tell it all to me.

Xia Yan: We will.

#Tears of Themis #tears of themis translations #xia yan #luke pearce #未定事件簿 #pls make sure that if you really need a loan #you get it from trustworthy ppl or reputable institutions;;#highly recommend listening to the voice acting #poor ji xiaoyu

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houseofhurricane · 3 years

Text

ACOTAR Fic: Bloom & Bone (4/32) | Elain x Tamlin, Lucien x Vassa

Summary: Elain lies about a vision and winds up as the Night Court’s emissary to the Spring Court, trying to prevent the Dread Trove from falling into the wrong hands and wrestling with the gifts the Cauldron imparted when she was Made. Lucien, asked to join her, must contend with secrets about his mating bond. Meanwhile, Tamlin struggles to lead the Spring Court in the aftermath of the war with Hybern. And Vassa, the human queen in their midst, wrestles with the enchantment that turns her into a firebird by day, robbing her of the power of speech and human thought. Looming over all of them is uniquet peace in Prythian and the threat of Koschei, the death-god with unimaginable power. With powers both magical and monstrous, the quartet at the Spring Court will have to wrestle with their own natures and the evil that surrounds them. Will the struggle save their world, or doom it?

A/N: I had a lot of fun writing this chapter -- so many gowns and flowers! people who are doing what they love to do! Nesta! -- but also it's hard to keep putting Elain through the wringer. That said, I am very excited to show you more of What Is Going On With Elain. You can find all chapters here.

“I didn’t think that Tamlin’s gardens extended so far into the forest,” Mor says, leaning against a tree. She’s been delivering flowers from the continent over the past three days, and once the plants are handed over to the gardeners, she finds an excuse to hover over Elain while she gardens. Elain is sure that Mor has received instructions not to leave her alone, but she doesn’t mind chatting with Mor while she gardens, preparing all the special plots she’s not sure she could convey to the Night Court gardeners in words.

“I’m trying something new,” Elain says, patting the soil around a columbine, the blue and white flowers bobbing in the fragrant breeze. “These flowers are happier in the wild.”

“Any news from Tamlin?”

“You may be scaring him away.” She aims a smile at Mor to show she’s mostly joking. “I’ve seen him in the gardens a few times but we’ve only exchanged pleasantries about the renovations. Feyre warned me that he takes hardly anybody into his confidence.”

She feels the golden weight of Mor’s gaze, the frank and generous assessment that Elain has always loved and admired, even those first months after the Cauldron. Mor sparkles like champagne, effortless and loveable and impossible to forget.

“You have the makings of an excellent spy,” Mor says, apparently out of nowhere.

Elain snorts, and Mor laughs at the sound, the way she always has, the overwrought daintiness that, she’s told Elain a dozen times, she can’t quite believe is real. Elain has never told Mor about the hours she spent practicing the sound until it was pretty, the way she was always expected to be.

“I’m not trying to flatter you,” Mor continues when she’s collected herself, settling herself more firmly against her tree, so that her golden hair catches on the bark, “I mean it. A good spy is a person you’d never expect, a pleasure to talk to, someone who listens well.”

“Azriel never said--” Surely the spymaster of the Night Court would have recognized her potential if it had ever existed.

“Az can be a little blind when it comes to the people he cares about.” There’s a strain in Mor’s voice, which Elain thinks she’s being allowed to detect it, because she’s heard Mor’s effortless diplomacy in a hundred more trying situations. “He likely wouldn’t want you to come to any harm.”

“And you do?” Elain asks, to keep the conversation going more than anything, while she works on the hole for the bleeding hearts, her favorite forest flowers, the pink and white blooms almost too good to be true. Give her enough time at the Spring Court and she’ll adorn the forest with them, all the way to the human lands, to their wretched cottage and straight on to that little village that never cared if the Archerons lived or died.

“Of course I don’t want you to be hurt,” Mor says, firm enough that Elain realizes she angled the question too harshly. “It’s only -- I think that maybe you are tired of beauty alone. Not that it isn’t enough. I’ve spoken with so many people who have found healing in the gardens you’ve helped them build.”

“But you think I could be useful in other ways.” Elain looks up at Mor from her crouch on the forest floor, and sees the other female’s worried expression. She wipes a scraggle of hair off her brow, feeling the dirt as it forms a smudge. “There’s something you aren’t telling me, Mor.”

“Do you ever get tired of being seen as easily broken?”

Elain finds that her hands are grasping air, the bleeding heart having fallen from her gloved hands and into the ground with hardly a thump.

“Only when I can’t --” she starts saying when she knows she won’t begin to cry, because what’s inside her is pathetic and dangerous enough, and therefore must be spoken as prettily as possible. “I think there is something truly wretched and useless inside me. I think that’s what you see when you tell me I could have this other life.”

Mor takes Elain’s shoulder in her palm and squeezes, then says, “I grew up in a place where I was a beautiful object to everyone but my own heart. I worry, Elain, that you have fooled yourself and believe that’s all you could be.”

The vision swims up through Elain’s mind, so vivid even on repeat that she almost gasps with the force of it, the sheer power of the Crown on her head, Tamlin looming over her, the life in him banked in the gloom, though he’s still broad and tall and handsome and breathtaking in spite of everything, though these are thoughts she would never admit, not even if the vision were pulled from her by force, even if a knife were held to her throat. Before, considering the vision, she thought they’d be in his ruined estate, but that’s changing thanks to Laella and her builders, fixing the rooms wrecked by Tamlin’s rage and the obliging elements, and adding all those sparkling windows and interior gardens, so apparently she will one day go and build her own house of horrors.

She does not know the first thing about being useful, has no idea how to prevent this fate, except for her certainty that her jealousy and wretchedness will lead her there. And perhaps she was born to be more than a sweet and pretty girl who men could easily fall in love with. Perhaps that is how she can unravel the vision, make a new future in which she can be approximately good. Or perhaps that is how she becomes the crowned monster on the throne. The visions never contain sufficient instruction for Elain to know that she’s avoided the future until the moment passes by, the danger suffocated by a new reality. She’s all too aware that, for example, there are other battlefields on which Cassian could be killed.

She does not tell Mor any of this, only: “Tell me how to be a spy.”

And calmly, in her sparkling voice, Mor begins the lesson.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

On Elain’s last night at the Night Court, Nesta enters her room without knocking.

“You thought I’d let you leave without a goodbye?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest, the ring Cassian gave her at their mating ceremony brilliant even in the candlelight.

“I knew I’d see you at dinner.”

“You left without a word to anybody.”

Gwyn and Emerie had been there, and everyone had laughed, and a small cross part of Elain had felt as though they would all be fine without her. Azriel, across the table from her, had been smiling and laughing, content as she’d never seen him, his hazel eyes golden when he so much as glanced at Gwyn. Elain had left as soon as she finished dessert, telling Feyre she had a headache, and her sister had squeezed her hand firmly enough that Elain knew she’d heard the lie in her words. In the morning, she would start her residence in a new court. For a little while at least, she’d be able to leave these feelings behind.

But of course Nesta had found her.

“Did you really ask Rhysand to send you to the Spring Court?” Occasionally Nesta will still believe the worst of him, despite all the witnesses to the contrary.

“It was my vision,” Elain tells her. “I’m the one who--”

“You know what Tamlin did to Feyre.”

“I’m not--” She stops, not sure what she’s going to say next. Without a plan, the next words will surely be too revealing. “You were the one who once said I could stand to be more useful in this world.”

“If he so much as lays a hand on you, I swear to you I will un-Make him.”

“I expected nothing else,” Elain says, and the smile is easy. All her life, she has been comforted by Nesta’s growling, known that she’s always been safest inside the circle of her sister’s wrath.

“And in spite of everything, I’m glad that you’ll finally see the Spring Court.” Nesta’s words are a grudging grumble, their impact lessened by her hand in Elain’s, the two of them in a long embrace that says everything they have a hard time saying, now that everything has changed. “I heard that Tamlin is unleashing you on his gardens.”

Elain knows that Nesta truly loves her because her sister listens to her plans and ideas and dreams for the garden for an hour, despite the fact that she has no more than a passing interest in even the most exquisite blooms. She even asks Elain about the arrangements of colors and fragrances, and Elain pulls out her parchments and perfumes so that Nesta can have the closest thing to a full garden experience it is possible to conjure indoors.

“Who knows, maybe one day you’ll bring one of your novels to the finished gardens.”

Nesta makes a sound between a snort and a growl, totally unique to her sister, that prickly glee, but then her face grows somber.

“I keep thinking that he’s finally got what he wanted, when he showed up at our cottage years ago.”

“Tamlin isn’t dragging me out into the snow,” Elain says, though she doesn’t remember the scene, a side effect of the glamor that turned Feyre’s disappearance into a joyous reversal of fortune.

Sometimes she wonders what memories her mind has hidden from itself, what secrets it’s been forced to keep silent.

Nesta’s hands are around hers, squeezing until Elain can feel their pulses beating, aligning as they look at one another.

“I never wanted to give you up,” Nesta says. “I would have let him shred me to pieces before I let him touch you.”

Elain knows she should tell Nesta she’s not as fragile as her sister thinks, but that would lead to a conversation which would be deep and cutting and maybe devastating. Instead she reaches for Nesta and holds her close, murmurs that she will be all right, until Feyre enters and hugs them both, and when the three of them wake up hours later in Elain’s bed, warm and sleepy, Elain wonders, half-asleep, why she ever thought of leaving.

But when her sisters have gone to their mates’ beds, and Elain is alone again, her sleep is not dark and dreamless as before. Instead she dreams of her father as she last knew him alive, the straight back and broad shoulders and thinning hair and the kind smile that made his lips disappear. When Elain was little and bold enough to ask about such expressions, he told her that his joy had swallowed up his lips, he was so glad to see her, and then he would whirl her around until she’d give unladylike whoops and get scolded. After what feels like an eternity of watching him, it occurs to Elain that she has never been to the place where they’re standing, a gray-blue blur that looks like the inside of a cloud or wall of seawater.

“Where are we?” Elain asks, with none of the certainty she experiences in dreams.

Her father’s face clouds, the smile winking out, and she begins to wonder how, exactly, this dream will turn nightmarish. She’s already seen his corpse.

“There is only one thing I can tell you, sweet one.” Her father’s eyes are glinting, his fingers balled into fists, the knuckles the same skimmed-milk color as the air around them. “The thing you seek is inside of you. It is inside of--”

He is reaching for her, as if to indicate the location of the thing, and then he vanishes, and Elain opens her eyes in bed, the light through her window still gray, her mind racing, the way she always feels after a vision.

A thousand questions immediately surface. How can her father appear to her in the future? Where is he, that she can find him and receive directions? And who has silenced him? Has he seen the monstrosity inside of her? And if he has, she does not understand how he can smile at her in that way, so lifelike and tender.

Elain breathes deep again and again, trying to will herself to sleep, hoping she will see him, hoping for even just another second of his smile. She’d always loved the way her father beheld her, that delight. For years she’d imagined a similar expression on her husband’s face. His features shifted depending on her circumstances and feelings, except for the light in his eyes, the smile with joy that would gladly pay whatever cost was required of it.

Morning arrives and she is still staring at the ceiling, trying to puzzle everything through.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Elain’s arrival at the Spring Court is more uneventful than even she anticipated. Tamlin greets her and Rhys and Mor in a smooth and practiced way that leaves his rage only an assumption, even when Rhys makes veiled threats during his goodbyes, promising to return whenever she’d like for a visit to the Night Court. When he’s gone and Tamlin has left her to the company of the newly hired servants, while Mor winnows to the continent for the last of the tulips, Elain makes her way to the newly renovated room that will house her at this estate.

The room is perfect, in shades of pink and white, the white warm and bright, and the pink-upholstered sitting area almost mauve. On every flat surface, there are flowers, their scents carefully considered so that the room is fragranced but not oversaturated, and the outside wall is nearly all window, with a view of the woods, the growing hedge of tulips which is even more gorgeous than the last time she’d seen it, two days ago. The curtains are gauzy pink, thin enough that she’ll always be able to wake up to this view, the blossoms and the gentle fluttering of leaves in the breeze.

She had explained her favorite colors to Laella, hoping the dryad wouldn’t think she sounded like a little girl, and instead she walked into the most beautiful space she’s ever been able to claim. Tamlin told her that a maid would arrange her things, but Elain hangs her dresses and stores her jewelry in the cunning little box that keeps each chain and thread from tangling, arranges her perfumes on the vanity until there’s a knock at her door and the maid enters, not looking Elain in the eyes as she walks over to the trunks and boxes. She’s half Elain’s height and her skin is pink and her hair is alabaster, so that for a second Elain wondered what lengths Laella took, to make this room so perfect.

“I am sorry to be late, Lady,” the maid says, her voice a buzzing hum, the sound of bees drowsy on nectar, an accent Elain adores immediately.

“Nonsense,” she says, reaching out to squeeze the maid’s hand, gentle and watching in case the faerie flinches away. She never forgets her training. “And please call me Elain.”

“The High Lord said--”

Elain waves her hand, trying for imperious, in command, the kind of person Tamlin would trust with his military stratagems and political intrigue. “Leave the High Lord to me. You can call me whatever you’d like in front of other people, but I’m just Elain.”

“There are whispers about you, Lady. The winds say that the Cauldron granted you great powers.”

Elain would say that unreliable bits of the future don’t seem like such a remarkable gift, but she’s not sure whether the deprecation would help or hurt her cause.

“What is your name?” she asks instead, shifting her tone so it’s gentle as the petal of a rose.

“I’m Melis, Lady.” The faerie’s hands have not strayed from Elain’s clothes, arranging them on the hangers so that the pleats and ruffles fall just so, and there’s a longing in her eyes that reminds Elain of the way she’d look at roses in those years when she was poor and they would not grow in her pitiful garden by the cottage.

“Would you like one of my dresses?” Elain asks, after Melis has hung the golden gown she never feels quite ready to wear but loves to admire among the other dresses, a ray of sunlight in her wardrobe.

“Lady, the offer is generous, but I do not know where I would wear such a fine gown.”

“There are no celebrations in the village?”

“Nothing that requires a gown so… elaborate. And the High Lord allowed me to design the servants’ liveries.”

For the first time, Elain looks at the maid’s dress, the green-gray muslin gown which is moulded perfectly to Melis’ shoulders and torso, the skirts light enough to allow an easy movement but sufficient to sweep aside for a dramatic moment. The color makes Melis even rosier, her sparkling white hair striking. Even the white fichu at the neckline is soft and light and lovely. She thinks of the elegance of the new footmen, the muted green of their tunics. No doubt Melis had designed their garments. Elain feels slow, not to have caught these details right away.

“You have quite an eye for clothing.”

“I learned from my mother. She was employed by the High Lord, for the ladies of his court, before Amarantha. I grew up learning the possibilities of fabrics.” Another darting look at Elain. She’s sure that Melis is thinking of Feyre.

“I don’t want to give you more work, but I’m sure that most of my gowns could use some adjustments.”

Melis smiles, her teeth flashing white and pointed. “I would love that, Lady, though I doubt your dresses will need much improving.”

Elain shrugs and smiles while she reaches for a simple muslin gown, a dusty pink from which Nuala and Cerridwen have removed a hundred garden stains. As Melis helps her with the buttons, Elain jams a broad-brimmed hat on her head, her pointed ears squashing against the braided straw.

“If anyone asks, I’m in the garden,” she says as she heads toward the door, Lucien’s gloves in her pocket. The thought of seeing him today is warm in her stomach, and she can’t tell if the feeling is anticipation or anxiety. She’s my mate, he’d said, and though she’d barely been able to understand in those moments of terror and confusion, the first of her new life, the words have clung to her, defining too many aspects of her existence. She knows she would feel differently if she’d wanted him, if she’d felt the curl of affection and desire that Azriel roused from her as she awakened into her new life, the first beacon she’d been able to glimpse. Even what she felt for Greysen was stronger. Even knowing what she knows now, how he would reject her new self.

Whenever she sees Lucien, there’s a great whirling inside Elain: all of her wants to want him, and that swarm of hoped-for desire swirls around itself, centered on nothing. She’s encountered this feeling before, as a young debutante, but she always knew that at the next ball, another gentleman might catch her eye, that her father or else Nesta would save her from anyone particularly daunting. Now her father is dead and mates are a certainty and tonight, Elain will be face-to-face with Lucien again, practically alone with him in Tamlin’s estate.

She’s halfway across the grounds before she launches herself against a broad chest. Her hat lands in a lilac bush with a bristly sigh, and Elain knows she’s too slow to realize the sheathed knife that’s pressed against her nose, the dagger that would cut her cheek except for the leather around it.

When she finally meets them, Tamlin’s eyes are not as annoyed as she anticipated.

“Someone told me these gardens would be so beautiful that my guests would be compelled to linger,” he says, his fingers ghosting her shoulders as she rights herself. “I had assumed this meant they would be preoccupied by the flowers, not their own thoughts.”

He stands there for a moment, hands dangling at his sides, as if he’s waiting for her to laugh, but Elain’s not sure if he’s made a joke, and anyway nothing he said is particularly funny. Why she would use the Crown to compel him, Elain has no idea. Still, guided by both her mother’s training and Mor’s rudimentary instructions on spycraft, she schools her lips into a gentle smile, and averts her eyes. Let him think she’s shy, awed by the presence of the High Lord of Spring.

“Is everything to your liking?” he asks, finally. His thumb strokes the jeweled hilt of the dagger strapped to his chest. “I know the builders are still filling the place with noise, but, for example, your room...”

“My room is lovely,” she says before he can fumble for another phrase. Their previous conversation, their first time alone together, had been almost too easy, too revealing, and she wonders if he’s remembering it now, is determined not to revisit that swarm of truths. She herself feels too exposed already, even if she’s checked to determine that her mental shields are still in place. “It makes me feel as if I’m in the center of a flower.”

His smile is barely a quirk of his lips and Elain remembers all the stories she’s heard about him, particularly rumors that he’s spent the past two years as a beast, and she wonders if all that time in his other form has made certain expressions difficult. If conversation is difficult, and now that Rhys isn’t present, Tamlin has allowed a bit of that discomfort to show.

A generous bumblebee examines the crown of her hat, which is still perched in the branches of the lilacs.

“There was a story I heard when I was a little girl,” she says, almost without thought, only wanting to put them both at ease, “about a girl who was only the size of a human thumb. She lived inside the flowers and her friends were butterflies and birds and squirrels. The pages fell out of the book right where the story was written, from all the times my governess read me the tale.”

“You have always wanted to be smaller?”

Elain blushes at the question and she’s not sure why. Maybe because of the truth nestled inside the words.

“Maybe,” she says, not wanting the awkwardness between them to expand further. She wants pleasant conversation, light and meaningless. He will never trust her if her emotions are ragged, if she demands too much from him all at once. “But I have always loved the feeling inside a garden, the idea of beauty and nature all in perfect harmony. There are so many dark and dreadful corners of the world. A garden is never one of them.”

“I’m afraid I don’t agree with your assessment. That beauty could banish evil seems a tall order.”

“Now you will speak to me of sacrifice and war.” She’s slipping into the tone she found so easily at their last meeting, a veneer of confidence that makes her sound unbreakable, which perhaps glosses over her more unsavory truths. “But will you tell me, what happens when the war is over, when the time for sacrifices has ended?”

“I have rarely known such a time.” He looks so grave and certain and miserable that Elain knows she should make her way to the tulip fields, and at the same time, that she will needle him a little longer, until the expression is gone from his face. Her one little act of well-intentioned mischief.

“Then what keeps you fighting when all hope and certainty of your own goodness has left you?”

“In those moments I don’t allow myself to think. And you are thinking that I am some tragic hero, Elain Archeron, but you have never been in battle. Thinking is dangerous. It is easiest to empty the mind and unleash your body on its enemies.”

She is wide-eyed for a moment too long.

“I have offended you,” he says, “but I am only telling the truth.”

“I am only thinking, how sad it is, to be forced to sacrifice so endlessly.”

“One begins to think of any spark of joy as an earned reward.” His face is grave. He is thinking, she knows, of Feyre, the words the barest suggestion of an apology.

“Thank the Mother, then, for your gardens,” she says, and plucks her hat from the lilac. “I will see you at dinner?”

“Lucien and Vassa will arrive shortly after sundown. I imagine you would like to greet them, and then we will all dine.”

She nods and allows her skirts to swirl as she makes her way further into the garden, letting the blooms fill her vision until she’s only thinking of the proper arrangements, the groupings of plants that would make any being happy, and calm, and nearly overtaken by gratefulness that such simple beauty, such sweet fragrance, could exist.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Elain is sweetly tired when she makes her way into the great hall of the Spring Court. She’d spent the day amidst the tulips, supervising the arrangements of color that she wants to look disordered but still correct, no corner dominated by red or violet blooms but rather as if a meadow’s riot of color had been transfigured into a mass of tulips.

Tamlin waits at the foot of the staircase, and when she’s halfway down and he looks up at her, Elain is glad she wore the deep blue dress which makes her skin glow like a pearl and her bearing a little more regal than usual. She feels, just for a moment, like the rightful emissary of the Night Court, not the High Lady’s sister who lied her way into someplace she’d never been.

Right as she’s made it to the bottom of the staircase, the servants sweep open the large wooden doors, and Lucien and Vassa appear, both of them gleaming bronze despite the lack of sunlight. As the pair of them approach, Elain dips into a deep curtsey that befits Vassa’s rank, a gesture she’d learned as a girl and always assumed would be useless.

Out of the corner of her vision, she watches the queen’s cheeks go pink. For a moment, Elain thinks that this is strange, that the proper greeting would be so discomfiting, and then she wonders if all the time that Vassa has spent as a firebird has caused her to startle at human gestures. Then Vassa and Lucien walk nearer, and Elain knows the true reason.

She can smell Lucien on Vassa’s skin. And she can smell the scent of the queen, amber and lemon, and Lucien. She has been High Fae long enough to know how these scents are intermingled, how difficult it is to wash off the scent of another after a while, how Feyre and Nesta will always carry the scent of their mates.

She’s my mate, Lucien had said, and those three words had changed her life, circumscribed it. Her mind fills with images, not of him, but of Azriel, about to kiss her, of Rhys looming at the top of the stairs. Her love and longing now a matter of politics between courts.

Now her mate has fallen into bed with another woman.

Elain knows that silence is the proper way to bear this indignation. She can envision, already, the proper smile that should appear on her lips: sad and a little knowing, but mostly hopeful. She tries to find the expression, but when she looks at Lucien, she sees in the furrow between his eyebrow and the gleam in his eye, equal parts guilt and badly concealed happiness, that he knows exactly what she’s realized, and that perfect little smile of the good mate scorned dies on her lips. Inside her there is such a writhing confusion, a rage that she knows will explode from her the moment her lips part.

She turns away from the group and runs away as fast as her silk slippers will allow, not caring that she’s making a scene, that she looks like a scared little child. All she wants is the cool night air on her skin, the proximity of her flowers, the knowledge that nobody is looking at her. She pushes through door after door, stumbling over the tools the builders have left for tomorrow’s work and nearly tripping over loose tiles, but finally she is in the garden.

The moonlight silvers the leaves and the air is fragrant with lilacs. Instead of pushing her thoughts away, Elain feels the writhing inside her grow stronger, as if a monster has taken residence inside her body, turning all her thoughts into a whirl of angry colors, jagged reds and black shards shot through with bright exploding lights.

All those years she believed that beauty and sweetness and delicacy would save her, and maybe they would have if she’d stayed a human woman in the thick-walled manor which had so nearly been hers. Instead she has been discarded, over and over and over. She cannot stop imagining their eyes as they look at her, the pity and scorn and guilt and the joy of finding someone who is not Elain Archeron.

She cannot wield a sword or summon flame, so instead Elain’s hands are frantic, tugging first the petals of the lilac and then her own hair, hard enough to bring tears to her eyes, and then she’s sobbing so hard she’s nearly screaming, so that when there’s a hand on her back, she does scream, the sound shrill and rough in her throat, and when she turns toward the intruder, before she can determine who has touched her, she doesn’t mind the realization that she might die right here in the Spring Court gardens.

Instead she sees Lucien, and there is such regret on his face, etching lines around his eyes and mouth. Elain has been taught kindness until it’s second nature. Before he can say anything, apologize or explain, she reaches toward him.

Except that where her hands should be, there is only empty air.

#acotar #acotar fanfiction #elain archeron #elain is my queen #elain x tamlin #tamlin #tamlin redemption arc #tamlin x elain #lucien vanserra #queen vassa #vucien #vucien is goals #inner circle #nessian #feysand #post acosf #acosf spoilers #gwynriel

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flappypineapples · 4 years

Text

Escapism Ch. 2

The carriage ride was bumpy as all carriage rides seem to be in London. Cordelia pushed the curtain back to glance outside at the passing street. The sky was grey with clouds, much like Cordelia's own thoughts.

She shivered.

She knows she has no real right to be upset with James, their emgamemt is a sham and he doesn't truly love her, not in the way he loves Grace but it still hurts. She did truly believe him when he had promised to be faithful. A bitter chuckle catches in her throat. But she supposed that to was another thinly veiled sham.

She was startled out of her thoughts by the feeling of heavy wool settling on her shoulders. She turned to see Matthew fiddiling with the fabric on the upholstery. He looked straight ahead, his expression hidden by the shadows of the evening sun.

"You seemed cold, you don't have a wrap or anything and it's getting late".

Anna watched them thoughtfully from her seat. She leaned forward resting her elbows on her spread knees and bringing her hands up to below her chin.

"Oh I just can't wait to see how this delightful night enfolds".

---

Matthew would be boldface lying if he said he wasn't deeply worried. Cordelia was meant to be the grounded, level headed girl of his secret desires, close enough to admire but never venturing too far into his own world. It was easier to bear that way. But here she was, thoughtful and determined not on battle strategy or word play but leisure and temptation. She wanted to see the world he loved and resided in with no alternative motive of mockery or investigation.

He expected this behavior from James or Lucie, Herondales were always known to throw themselves headlong into riské situations. From Christopher who perhaps had absentmindedly wandered into a world of magic like Alice in Wonderland. Even sooner from Thomas who had a silent appreciation for the mundane art of the world. But yet again Matthew had underestimated Cordelia and her range of emotion and action. Her heart seemed to flutter like a moth near an oil lamp, refusing to be pinned down by the wings.

But most of all Matthew wanted to help her. He could never help himself and it occured to him that he may be in the unique position to help someone else. Not only help them but guide them into a world he so loved. The thought excited him, walking Cordelia into the Hell Ruelle and introducing her to all his favorite corners and mates. Perhaps maybe she would want more of the world after tonight. He could show her all his favorite haunts of London, a satue garden or even take her to a Mundane theatre to see a production of The Importance of Being Earnest. Matthew cut his thoughts off there. It was not his place to be courting his parabatai's soon to be wife no matter the circumstance of their emgamemt. He was simply here to protect Cordelia from any harm that may come to her tonight as any good upstanding Parabatai would do for their blood brothers partner. This was soley a mission of protection and honor. But even as Matthew absentmindedly reached for his flask and took a glance at Cordelia's face from the corner of his eyes he knew that was a lie. He let his eyes trail breifly over her sharp nose and beautiful dark eyes.

An interesting night indeed.

---

The carriage rolled to a stop as the sun was fully dipped into the pool of the night sky. The moon was just starting to emerge from the horizon as they stepped out of the carriage. Matthew went second after Anna and stiffly helped Cordelia down to the stones. The night air was still damp with the whisper of recently shed rain but now a sharp breeze had cut through that musky air freezing it. Cordelia pulled Matthew's jacket around herself tighter.

They walked inside together. The inside air was thick with sweet and smoke and Cordelia smelled the air greatfully. It was a relaxing break from the stiff smell London air. Anna passed some quick words with the door guard and they sauntered inside gracefully.

Cordelia was yet again struck with the beauty of such a place. A young fairie man with gold eyelashes and dark skin winked at her and Matthew as he passed by. A young werewolf girl sat perched on the arm of a lush green couch with a flute resting below her red staining lips. As she played the warm air of her breath created disappearing clouds that seeped through the keys. Lily the vampire server saw them come in and swayed over hastily.

"Reginald has been learning how to juggle all week and we've all made bets on how many different items he can keep in the air." She blew a lock of loose hair out of her face. "I lost a bet to a ifrit with one arm and the largest mustache I've ever seen, I bet you half his gambling salary goes towards beard wax, drinks?"

She breathlessly holds forward her serving tray of champagne and Cordelia hastily plucks a flute. Matthew expertly fingers two in one hand, handing the second to Anna and going back for a second for himself.

Anna surveys the room and lands her gaze on a circle of guests standing alterly around a man. Over there heads every couple of seconds seems to fly another blue and white china saucer. The crowd claps and cheers with every plate joining the air.

"If you'll excuse me Cordelia I must go see what this commotion is all about. Matthew I do trust you'll take complete care of Cordelia while I am away with miss Chen?"

"I can take perfectly good care of myself", Cordelia cut in quickly, plucking Matthew's jacket from her shoulders. Lily smiled admiringly.

Anna smiled as well, "Yes of course but Matthew isn't the one who came to my flat drenched in rain demanding debauchery".

Matthew's eyes glittered over the rim of his champagne flute, "for once".

With that Anna had turned; sweeping Lily up in her sway and leaving Matthew and Cordelia alone in a room full of motion.

Matthew deposited his now empty glasses on the nearest side table and took his coat from Cordelia, shrugging it on. Cordelia turned to deposit her empty flute next to Matthew's. When she turned back around Matthew brandished a small tin of white hard candies to her. She hesitantly took one looking at him quizzically.

"They're french", he answered to her unasked question. "Anise of Flavigny, these are rose flavored. Don't bite down on them though, they'll break your teeth". Matthew brandished his signature smile as if to show off his perfectly unbroken teeth as an example.

Cordelia couldn't help but smile warmly back as she popped the small candy in her mouth. The taste of roses brought her back to being a child and having her cook mix sweet rose syrup and water to make her and her brother rose water to drink in the summer. She thought it strange to find such warm childhood memories in a place she would consider so far from the inocents of childhood.

"Matthew?"

"Hmm?", Matthew looked back down at her, he had seemed distracted and distant but it seemed her words snapped him back to reality.

"What do er do we do?", The thought occured to Cordelia that she didn't know much of what really went on in a salon and she wasn't to keen on flailing about trying to figure it out and making a fool of herself.

Matthew threw his head back lazily and giggled, it wasn't a mocking laugh but instead it seemed to be a laugh of pure delight.

"Oh Cordelia this is the question isn't it?", He extended his arm to her to take and she took it hesitantly. He was warm and humming with energy. "Come along now, there's loads to see and do".

Matthew led them over to a large seated vampire who seemed to be talking to a small group of people who were nodding and commented with eachother. On the way he has snagged two dark glasses of wine and handed one to Cordelia. She took a long drink of it, grimacing slightly at the bitter taste but welcoming the warm feeling it spread throughout her. Matthew skillfully wedged their bodies into the fray of the conversation and began listening contently.

"If the mundanes keep palling around the Middle East and digging up all those tombs they're going to end up releasing some angry old spirit of curse on all those poor locals."

A silver haired nymph cut in quickly "did you know they're eating bits of mumified person now? They think it'll give them good health, I would never eat such an old human, it seems rotten and distasteful."

"Some even think they'll be able to find the fountain of youth off the White Nile, I think they're fools the lot of them." The werewolf man added.

Cordelia was constantly ammused by the da gerous and expensive lengths mundane women would go to look young and thought back to her comment on how It'd be so much easier to just become a vampire.

The group of guests began to laugh mirthfully and look at her.

"Amusing observation, especially amusing coming from one so young and pretty" said the Nymph woman examining Cordelia head to toe. Cordelia flushed in embarrassment, she hadn't meant to say her comment out loud for everyone to hear. She looked up to Matthew in alarm and found him smiling warmly down at her; apparently just as ammused as the rest of the crowd. The group of guests had moved onto another discussion and Matthew guided her away clearly finding their new topic too boring for their adventurous night. He led her into a side hallway slightly quieter than the fray of the main room but with a wide view still of it's goings.

He took her arm and brought her to sit beside him on a plush loveseat against the wall. The couch was a dark nightly ocean blue with nude carved women making up the wood accents of the back. Cordelia finished off her glass and reached for another drink from a passing servers tray. She hiccuped as she took a drink from her new glass.

She watched the juggling man now hold or rather toss 4 live lobsters around while a warlock woman standing by him collected bet money. She scanned the room for Anna but she was no where to be found. She let her eyes settle on a large looming painting on her left side. It depicted a young man made of gold surrounded by a golden castle scene. His frozen arms were held up like a ballerina as if to hug the air. At his feet fell and older man dressed in fine clothes apparently sobbing in anguish over the scene of metal. She took another sip of her drink and looked over at Matthew and found him with a far off look in his eyes. He too was looking at the painting but it seemed to touch him in a way it did not touch her.

---

Matthew had always been intrigued the story of king Midas. A man who was surrounded by beauty but was punished anytime he tried to touch the lives of the people around him. Matthew himself often felt he ruined anything he touched but instead of gold he just offered fire. He burned away good things if he got to close to them. So few people could get close to him without catching fire but no one could truly touch him. Not even James. If James knew his truths he ran the risk of losing him. His sweet Jamie was the best thing he had in his life and he would never risk losing him.

Matthew breathed deeply. In. And out.

And opened his eyes again. When his vision focused he found a fairie man looking at them from across the room.

No, not them. Her

His golden eyes were fixed on her pointadly. He had dark waist length black hair to match his dark freckles covered skin. He was wearing a black suit with golden trim to match his bright golden eyes. Matthew looked over at Cordelia but she seem singlemindably fixated on staring at the oil painting to their left. Matthew felt a warm possessiveness rise up in his heart. He knew it was nonsensical but watching this man give Cordelia such a hungry look made him bubble up with a strange sort of anger he wasn't used to.

Matthew leaned over and wrapped an arm around Cordelia's shoulders to get the message across that she was not available. Whether the action was in Jamse's name or his one he dared not ask. It seemed to have worked cause the man slipped out of Matthew's sight and into the crowd.

---

Cordelia was startled out of her dazed state by Matthew curling his arm around her shoulders and pulling her toward him. She looked up at him in alarm.

"Matthew is everything alright?". He was looking forward narrow eyed but Cordelia saw nothing there when she looked.

As soon as the look had appeared on his face it passed, like clouds in the sky the sun was out again and he was babbling light heartedly.

"Yeah everything is dandy I was just wondering if you'd want to hear a poem I was working on." He gracefully lifted his arm from her shoulder and started waving his hands around wildly as if he had intended this from the start.

"Yes but didn't you tell me you're rubish at writing?" Cordelia deposited her empty glass on the floor beside her and sat back.

"Yes but that never stops me from trying; maybe this time will be the one!" He jumped up and on to the foot stole infront of her looking down devilishly.

"My sweet maiden left me dry

She torn my savings which made me cry

She took the child and left a log

But worst of all she took the dog" Matthew smiled confidently as if his verses were likely to win him a writing award.

Cordelia burst out laughing, "good god! You are awful". In her fit of giggles she tipped over sideways landing on the cushion beside her. She kicked her booted feet up and onto the arm of the ornate couch. She knew if her mother could see her now she'd probably drop dead on the sight.

Matthew leaned over and laughed down at her. Cordelia couldn't stop laughing back in his face, he looked so funny upside down, like his eyebrows made a tiny mustache for his tiny face. Cordelia reached up and covered his mouth with her hand to complete the illusion and fell into another fit of giggles. She drew her hand back and sat up dazedly.

Matthew knelt down beside her one hand on her lower back steadying her as she sat up. He cheerful but slightly concered looked concerned.

"Cordelia how are you feel-" but Matthew was cut off by a loud round of applause coming from the stage in the middle of the room. The flutist from earlier took to the stage along with kellington and a woman with a cello. Upon further inspection the cello seemed to be made of an ivory material with a bone neck. It was beautiful in a sickly sweet way, much like the player. Her hair was a waterfall of pale cobwebs adorned with small red spiders. The sight made Matthew's stomach churn.

As Kellington raised his violin to his chin he let his eyes grazed over the crowd.

"Tonight we have a special musical act. The talented miss Nightwae and Miliana are joining me in playing some dancing music." People began to desert their drinks behind and search for dancing partners at the catalyst of his words.

"They raised their bows as the dark lipped woman brought the flute to her lips. The music swelled up in a haunting melody. Not one native to a ballroom but perhaps a far away land or fairytale.

Cordelia stood up quickly wishing to get a closer look and found her vision quickly being eaten over by black ink. She reached out as Matthew caught her around the waist steadinging her. She wasn't surprised by her slight faintness she hadn't eaten anything since breakfast and had had a hard day of training.

She had been planning on teaching James to make stuffed grape leaves for dinner. He had expressed great interest in learning how to help her prepare meals and-

"Let's dance", Cordelia caught at Matthew's shoulders and pulled him towards the main room. Taken be surprise Matthew stumbled at first but regained his footing and soon found himself swept up in a sea of fine fabrics and finer guests all swaying dangerously to a far away melody.

Matthew took Cordelia's hand in his own and lightly placed his hand on her hip careful not to cross any boundaries he couldn't later take back. They twirled with the crowd. Matthew was an excellent dancer and led her expertly. He bent his head in to talk to her in a low ammused voice.

"You know for such a beautiful solo dancer you sure are poor at couples dances."

Cordelia looked up at him challengingly, "you know for such a charming boy you sure do insult ladies alot." Her words were harsh but the curl of her lips and the glint in her eyes conveyed the true joking matter of her phrase.

The song paused and changed quickly to a more dissonant and deep melody. Matthew twirled Cordelia and the room swam around her she lost her footing and ended up righting herself using his arms to keep her up. She looked up to thank him and was shocked still to find James smiling back down at her. He slid his hands down to her waist and began to away them further towards the center stage.

"James? What are you doing here?"

James leaned in closer, his lips brushing the edge of her ear as he spoke. "Is that what you see? Fascinating".

He spun her sideways a couple feet and joined her moving deftly across the dance floor, further and further from her original spot. As they floated deeper into the fray she felt the hot air settle around her, making her hair frizz on the nape of her neck with sweat.

"What are you talking about? James, what is happening?" Cordelia felt some sort of sense trying to leak into her brain but found herself unable to grasp at it, like fog blocking out the sun.

"You are an incredibly alluring girl. From the moment you walked in I've had my eye on you. I was right". He moved with her again, further.

"Right about what?" She asked breathless and confused.

His golden eyes danced like the embers of a bonfire.

"You're trapped. You love and cannot love. You live a lie fabricated around this face."

He stopped dancing and reached down gripping her face. His fingers dug into her cheek and he pressed down so hard she could taste sparks of metal.

"Tragic. Such a beautiful face wasted away on unrequited love." He let his hand fall again and his arms came possesivly snaking around her waist. "No wonder the lucky guy is so beautiful, pretty faces were never known to show much mercy huh?"

With that Cordelia fell. Fell into the warm darkness surrounding her. It was like falling backwards into the ocean on a warm day. The coldness took her over and the last thing she saw was the glint of golden eyes.

---

Matthew was now frantically pushed and weaving his way through the dance floor after Cordelia and the golden eyed man. It was him, the dark haired man from earlier.

He had finally caught up to them just in time to see Cordelia fall backwards into the man's tight grip. Her head lulled backwards her eyes shut and lips slightly parted. Matthew cried out, forgetting himself and the setting he was in.

As he rushed towards them the man opened his arms in a grand sweeping gesture and let her fall. Matthew reached out and caught her, sinking to the floor to cushion her fall.

"What did you you?!" Matthew was furious but holding a knife to this man's throat would hardly accomplish anything but getting Matthew kicked out.

The air stilled around them and the room seemed to slow like bodies running through water.

"I didn't do anything she didn't secretly want. She saw what she desired". The man gazed down at them with his chin raised.

"Who do you see fair one?" With those words the man's skin seems to ripple and shudder away revealing a tall pale blonde boy staring down at Matthew.

It was him. When he was 13. Wide eyed and childlike, carrying a small bottle of poison in his pocket.

Matthew was at a loss for words. His mind was going a thousand miles a minute even though it seemed whatever enchantment was at work was pausing the sway of bodies around them.

"Interesting, you and her both long for such heart aching things. What a pair", and with that the man stepped back into the crowd as it swelled back to normal time and swalled him whole. He loooked around frantically but he was no where to be seen

Notes: I was going to make this chapter longer but my notes app I'm writing in has a word count limit 😂. This is very fun to write I hope you guys are having fun reading it. Sorry I was a little late to getting this out. Have a wonderful whenever you're reading this :-).

#cassie clare #tlh spoilers #cassandra clare #chog #chog spoilers #chain of gold fanfic #chain of gold spoilers #chain of gold #cordelia carstairs #matthew and cordelia #james and cordelia #james herondale #matthew fairchild #anna lightwood #the last hours #tlh

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