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kyberphilosopher · 3 years

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Atonement

Requested: yes.

Word Count: 4193 Cal must deal with the consequences of his comrades deception and injuries, while they must deal with what this means for their relationship.

Atonement is the concept of a person taking action to correct previous wrongdoing on their part, either through direct action to undo the consequences of that act, equivalent action to do good for others, or some other expression of feelings of remorse.

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

Once upon a time, Anakin wasn’t all bad. But maybe that was why he died. After that, there wouldn’t have been competition for someone that was all bad, or at least somewhat worse than Anakin was alone.

Not that Anakin was a complete and utter angel. You knew, not better than anyone but still enough, that Anakin wasn’t all good either. And sure, most people aren’t, but your Master wasn’t most people. Far more talented and powerful was he than the other Jedi Knights, but far more unhinged was he who could not control himself. Anakin was the latter.

The other Jedi seemed to pity you. It wasn’t as if Anakin Skywalker was always inherently kind on you. You weren’t funny like Ahsoka, or respectable like Obi-Wan. In fact, Anakin had a suspicion that there was something inside of you that reminded him of his mother. Thus, he was cold. And he rarely bothered to teach in the way that people deserved to be taught.

He doesn’t like me, you remember thinking. He never will.

You had been the perfect padawan. You were certain you had done everything right. And yet, Anakin’s stare was icy, when he bothered to look your way at all. Where had your Master gone after the Purge anyway?

Your eyes open slowly.

Light peels across your vision, smeared from the art of being tired. Once your lids are widened, the back of your right hand lays across your forehead lazily. You had been dreaming, hadn’t you? But what had it been about? And why did it seem so hard to remember?

Maybe it was about your Master again, you realize as you exhale. No- ex Master now. But maybe it had been about him. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

You’re a Clone Killer.

Eyebrows crease with a twitch. You’ve laid in bed with too much comfort now. It’s time to get up. Stars, but the bed is warm and your legs are tangled in your comforter just right. When’s the next time you’ll get to feel this relaxed and sleepy?

Must’ve been the worst Padawan in history.

“Shit,” you whisper with closed eyes. Yes, now you’re more than certain that it’s time to get up. Comfort doesn’t matter today.

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

The restroom door hisses to a close behind you. Rubbing the back of your neck, you begin your sluggish march to the ships deck. You can already smell Greez’s cooking wafting from around the corner. What is that? Sausage and... is that eggs?

Your pants scuff against each other, sweatshirt twisting with the reach of your arm. As the floor transitions from metal to stiff rug, you pull your chair out.

“Ah, good morning sleepyhead,” you hear Greez’s voice call out to you. Your eyes remain sleepy, gazing down at the table. Doesn’t even look present, Cal observes as his eyes flick over your face.

“Well, aren’t you a ray of sun today,” Dritus continues from the stove. One of his four hands flick the pan over the stove up with an explosive sizzle. “Be careful you don’t make me feel bad, so I don’t feel inclined to give you more of my food.”

“I slept in too late,” you mutter, half to yourself.

At the other side of the table, Cal’s stocky form is hunched over. One of his hands is wrapped around a cup on the table, which is covered in cold perspiration. Soft ginger hair falls back as he looks over you. You could feel his pretty, kaleidoscope eyes from the other side of the universe. He doesn’t say anything, though, and you’re too tired to play the “What’s He Thinking About?” game right now.

“You’re damn right you did,” the Latero says. “Cal here was just about to go and check in on you.”

You swallow quickly, glancing up at the man parallel to you. Cal is looking over at Greez, given you a clear view of his jaw and the scar that stretches over his neck. He’s beautiful. He always has been. You can feel your ears start to burn, and you look away almost immediately.

“Thanks,” you say instead, finally pulling your hand away from your neck. Without even realizing it, your intelligent orbs look to Cal again. This time, however, your eyes meet. Electric pulses run through you, tickling from your neck to your pelvis. And, true to your nature, you brake gazes immediately. “I think I’ll skip out on breakfast today.”

“Seriously?” Greez whirls around, dumbfounded. “But... breakfast is the most important meal of the day!”

That’s true. Ever since you gained the privilege of having Greez Dritus the wanted Latero to cook for you, breakfast had been far more likeable. He always knows how to add the perfect amount of spice and flavor without coming off as overbearing. But there’s something in the back of your throat, crawling up to the tip of your tongue. A name of an old master, and the dream that you can’t remember.

“I’m just not hungry,” you push yourself out of your stool and slide it back under the table. Cal watches your form jog down the steps and disappear into the cockpit, his lips parted and near pulling into a frown.

“Wonder what her problem is,” Greez’s raspy voice calls into the air.

“Let her be,” a mature female voice breaks as it rounds the corner. Cere emerges from the hallway by the stares, her watchful eyes also glued on the cockpit archway. “She’ll come around.”

Will you? Cal wonders. You’ve always been a bit tight lipped in the grand scheme of things, but today the anguish is peeling off of you like steam. You seem pale in the way that conveys sickness. The dark circles under your eyes are wise, but tired. Maybe you’re just ill.

It’s not that far off. As you flip switches around on the console pointlessly, all you have to think about are these hands that disappointed your Master. Calloused, rough fingers. Raw palms from holding your saber. Clever, but never enough.

You exhale through your nose, your shoulders sinking.

Oh, that’s right. That’s what happened to your Master.

How could you have forgotten that?

“Rough night?”

You perk up at the sound of his voice, but don’t turn around. It’s not that you don’t want to look at Cal, it’s that you feel to ashamed of yourself to even try it. You don’t deserve to look upon him.

“Just feeling sick,” you mutter so hoarse he can barely hear.

“Is that the truth?”

Your eyes widen stiffly. One heel at a time, your feet turn around until you are facing your companion.

Time slows as you look at Cal. His soft orange hair billows in the air conditioning, kaleidoscope eyes twinkling with wonder. The freckles, the jaw, the chapped pink lips. He is beautiful. The way he looks at you now makes you feel guiltier than usual.

Why don’t you just tell him? Tell him you know the person who’s responsible for that scar on his stomach. Tell him you were trained by him. Tell him about your nightmare last night, how you woke up in cold sweats. But you can’t. You just can’t.

“Yeah,” you say hoarsely, eyes glued to his.

Cal steps forward suddenly, almost losing his balance. His soft, pink lips come dangerously close to yours. You can smell his scent, turning your jaw to meet him instinctively. But it was just an accident.

He steps away to regain his balance. The only sound in the room is that of the air vents.

He wasn’t going to kiss you.

Cal stays still, firm. “I hope you feel better,” he says in the same tone as before, though far more sincere.

And he turns away and walks out of the room, leaving you alone with only the air to comfort you.

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

The leaves crunch under boots as they do. Twigs snap, pebbles crumble. Dirt scuffs against each shoe.

Above you, the Kashyyyk trees whisper in the wind, allowing pools of sunlight to fall in between the loose spaces of green. The breeze tickles at the skin on your arms. It’s a nice day. But this is still not enough to improve the sick feeling in your stomach.

Maybe you really were just a failure of a padawan after all.

“Hey,” the boy beside you calls. “Look up there.”

You raise your head, squinting through the thin, rainbow rays of sun. Up ahead of you, over a steep drop that could be anything from a river to an abyss, is a great mechanical building. It’s sleek and gray, standing out against the natural beauty. This itself is enough proof of Imperial presence.

“I thought they would’ve left by now,” you mutter, slightly in awe. Birds fly over the fort as if it didn’t bother them for a second, and the waterfall nearby doesn’t cease its babbling. “Why haven’t they left by now?”

“Only one way to find out,” Cal tells you after some seconds of silence.

Something rushes through the air then- a gust of wind that only you seem to feel. It’s haunting and low, like it has it’s own voice or musical theme of doom. It’s almost impossible to tell whether it’s a warning, a promise, or some kind of mockery, but it feels dark. More importantly, it feels like a message. But Cal doesn’t move a muscle. Only his orange locks billow in time with his lashes, which close slowly.

“Wait,” you break the quiet. “Maybe we shouldn’t.”

The boys eyes are furrowed when his head turns to you. His pale green eyes flash briefly in the sunlight, but the twinkle of confusion and curiosity remain after the flash disappears. “Why not?”

The rush of wind slows until you can barely feel it anymore. The words are on the tip of your dried up tongue, but you’re not even sure what they are. What can you say to explain your... your fear? It’s more than just intuition or a gut feeling. It’s something you know for a fact, and you have the evidence, but you can’t even hold it.

“It’s dangerous,” you decide, your bottom lip shaking too quick to notice. You say it almost casually, almost as if it were obvious. And of course, it is. Thus the flaw in your attempt.

“Most things are,” Cal replies.

Just then, the pitter pattering of little metal feet tap against the dirt and mulch comes to life. It completely cuts away what little presence the ominous air had left, only allowing BD-1′s happy little whirs to clearly ring through.

Cal’s hands rest on his hips as he turns his head to look at his partner. He squats to the ground with his little calm smile. “Would it make you feel better if I sent BD to scout ahead?”

It wouldn’t at all. All you can think about instead is your little scrapped friend getting his sliced clean off with a long, red blade. Cal wouldn’t even be able to fix him.

“BD, go on ahead,” Cal tells the machine. He scratches along BD’s head for encouragement, and the creature doesn’t even seemed miffed before hopping off into the leaves and trees until he’s completely out of sight.

“I don’t- I don’t think-” your hands ball to fists at your sides. A lump forms in your throat like an invisible bubble, or a heavy ball clogging your airway.

“Y/N?” Cal’s brows furrow once more as he twists and stands again. “You look pale.”

Another wave of wind flows through. It’s the same as before- cold, threatening, filled with something angry and sad and warning you to never have to feel it for real. However, your partner feels it this time too.

His eyes leave yours and drop to the ground behind him as he twists in concern, looking around for whatever could be the cause. Subconsciously, his right hand lifts from his side to the right side of his ribs. Your eyes widen in understanding, but you wish so badly it was anything but that.

“Do you feel that?” Cal calls out to you, still trying to locate the presence that doesn’t even exist.

Yes, you think as you watch the boys other hand slip over his saber. I feel it.

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

Anakin wasn’t always evil. Whether or not he’s even evil now is up for debate. But for as long as you knew him, in your eyes at least, he was your hero. Not because he helped you, which he didn’t, or because he wanted the best for you, which he didn’t care about. But because he was strong, and someone to look up to. He’s the knight in shining armor that every little boy wants to be like when they grow up, and the warrior every feminist wants to be equal to. Anakin Skywalker was, by all means, a dream.

So then why is this the worst you’ve ever felt?

“Master?” your voice wheezes out. There’s a storm all around you, a personal tornado for the three of you that makes everything but roaring hard to hear. Rapid blinking helps to keep the dust from your eyes every few seconds, but not enough. It’s starting to sting.

“Stop,” you hear another voice say, but it’s muffled with chokes. “Stop...”

This isn’t Anakin. This is a man of metal- obsidian and iron and cooled magma. There’s not a single inch of flesh showing. The cape, whipping wildly in the wind, is the closest thing to organic. It’s tattered, and the wind gives the illusion of it bleeding away like inky smoke.

“Join me,” False Anakin calls. His fist clenched with determination, a red glow brightening up the area. “Serve your master.”

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

And from Cal’s position, you just look plain pretty. Kind of distraught, with faded eyes and slightly knitted brows paired with a frown. Your hair is sort of billowing in time with the storm around you, along side that weapon on your belt. Really, you look sad.

Cal’s fingers dig into the dirt and sand beneath his body. His whole form feels like it’s going to rip away into dust, like Vader doesn’t want him there. And of course, he doesn’t. He hasn’t even given Cal a glance. That being said, his whole stomach feels entirely enflamed. Especially that one special place where he’d felt Vader’s touch before. Now Cal knows that you must’ve been touched by him as well. It’s the worst feeling in the world.

“Don’t,” he chokes. Cal gets a mouthful of dirt in the process, but he doesn’t even register it. “Y/N-”

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

“-will come back from this.”

Your eyes open. They feel stiff and dry, like how you imagine a mummy’s would. The light over head is blinding and white, with flecks of rainbow bouncing off it at the sharper edges. You do not react in any way.

Internal bleeding of the stomach, one impalement scar on your right side. There is a long, long series of blisters and torn skin across your shoulder from being tossed and dragged across the ground. Then there’s the slit over your left eye which makes it impossible to open. You might as well have lost it.

Some people would’ve been happy to just be alive. Fighting Darth Vader? Fighting Anakin Skywalker? And surviving it? Well, not everyone gets that privilege. But for some reason the appreciation isn’t coming to you. Maybe you should’ve died back then as some kind of last apology.

“I know they will.”

You hear footsteps from beyond the doorway become more and more faint, until you can’t even hear them at all. The metal door hisses open. There’s a few footsteps against the floor, then a sharp pause.

Your head rolls to your right lazily. A young man stands before you. A cute redhead with a broad chest and wide, shocked pale green eyes. Underneath them are mauve rings- dark circles and bags- and chapped pink lips.

Cal opens his mouth to speak, and then spins around. With the flick of your wounded fingers, the entrance to the room closes and seals itself shut with a click. The cute redhead is still, his back away from you.

Maybe because of the loss of some other senses, your Jedi one’s have heightened. The intuition inside of you is reading his color- his entire aura- something you could’ve sworn you weren’t able to do before. There’s so much anxiety from him. Enough to make up from the lack of anxiety you have right about now.

“You’re awake,” he speaks. You can sense his voice about to crack. “I should tell the others.”

“Don’t be stupid, Cal,” your raspy voice croaks. “Don’t be fucking stupid.”

He turns around to look at you, one foot at a time. His eyes are downturned tiredly, but mostly from sadness. The corners of his lips are annoyed from your words. “You’ve been asleep for two weeks,” Cal says. “Didn’t know if you were coming back.”

You don’t say anything.

His use of the words ‘coming back’ sting. Just two simple words, which to you feel like they mean something far more deep and sinister. Almost as sinister as yourself.

“Are you okay?” he proceeds to question, though you both know it’s just out of politeness.

“I can’t see out of my eye.”

“Do you know why?”

You don’t move. You’re quiet yet again.

Cal’s voice raises frustratingly. “Do you know why? You let someone put a lightsaber to your face just so you could smash in their helmet!”

“I don’t remember that.”

“He stabbed you in your stomach!”

Cal’s never raised his voice at you before. You wish you were more upset about it. His tone alone is enough to make a sinking weight appear in the pit of your stomach. But you can’t cry. You can barely feel anything but both relief and emptiness. Not once in those two weeks did you dream about either Anakin, or Vader.

“I watched him pick you up and slam you on the ground! I watched you die about a million times out there!”

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” you mutter hoarsely. And you mean that, too.

“I thought that...”

Don’t. Don’t tell him.

“I thought that I was going to hurt you.”

Silence fills the room from corner to corner. Even whatever air that once came from the vents has come to a complete halt. Maybe every system in the galaxy has stopped its turn.

“What?” Cal asks, now much softer. He takes a gentle step towards you, his eyes desperately locked to your own.

You glance down before back to him. “I was his apprentice before the purge. Don’t ask Cere about it- he never talked about me. I doubt there was even paperwork to confirm it. I thought this was coming but... I wasn’t sure.”

Cal takes another step forward.

“He never liked me. And then on Kashyyyk... he...” You swallow down the shame for a moment. “He told me he wanted me to be his apprentice again. For real this time.”

“So you fought him,” Cal partially pieces together.

You swallow again and look down to your hands.

“Cal, I fought him because I wanted to go with him. I saw my- I saw the future he was talking about. It was good for me. I was happy... sort of.”

He’s finally close enough to sit on the end of the bench that you didn’t even process lying on. There’s concern in his eyes as he listens, and he doesn’t dare take them off your face. It makes you feel like even more of a coward.

“But I didn’t see you there, too. I didn’t see anyone there. I thought maybe I... I thought maybe I had killed you.”

Cal opens his parched lips slightly, and then closes them.

“And I really don’t want to kill you.”

Cal looks away. From here, sitting up slightly so you didn’t choke in your sleep, you can make out freckles on his neck. They stretch over his tendons, across his jawline. They’ll no doubt stretch over that scar from his jaw down on the other side. His long lashes move as he blinks. His hair looks softer than ever.

“After the battle I carried you away. After it was done you just... looked at me. And then you collapsed, and I had to carry you.”

Silence.

Cal gets up.

“Cal?” you call, louder than you meant.

The boy turns back to look at you.

“I...”

Is he prettier than before?

“Do you hate me?”

Cal creases his brows.

“Do you... are you going to talk to me again?”

He opens his mouth, but you don’t let him speak.

“Don’t say it, if you don’t mean it. I was trained by the most dangerous person in the galaxy. By your biggest enemy. I... lied to you about it. I almost killed you, Cal. You can hate me.”

“Do you think I hate you?”

Your eye squints, and finally it glosses over as it wells with tears. “Yeah.”

Cal Kestis. Man of your dreams. Hero of everything. Angel of infinity. Please, don’t hate me. You have every right to, I know. But please- please don’t.

“I don’t think I could ever hate you,” he finally whispers, looking down at the floor. “Maybe you should’ve told me, but... I think deep down I already knew.”

A questioning look appears over your features, but Cal answers before you can ask. “You’d been acting off for weeks, Y/N. Those nightmares were about Vader, weren’t they.”

“Yeah. They were... Do you... think of me any differently?”

Please.

“...No. I don’t know if I could ever do that to you.”

“I couldn’t think of you differently either,” you say after a moment. You throat is getting scratchy, but it’s hard to care.

“I care about you, Y/N,” he tells you, sincere but calm. “You know that don’t you?”

“You wouldn’t have carried me if you didn’t care, Cal.”

“Y/N on the morning of this whole thing I wanted to kiss you,” he snaps, his hands limply swinging with urgency. “I should’ve kissed you.”

So many emotions in one conversation.

“You can still kiss me now that I’m clean with you.”

Cal looks at you for a long time, his tired, bright eyes searching for something in your stillness. Then he looks down.

“It’s okay, Cal. It’s part of my atonement.”

He looks at you for a long time again. The corner of his lips twitch upwards for just a second. It puts you at ease somewhat, with a warm feeling spreading in your stomach finally.

“You’ve got nothing to atone for,” Cal says. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Y/N.”

You have nothing to say. No words come to your dry tongue, although your lips hang open like something will come out. Nothing does. You just look at your redhead, who’s tired and distraught, but has more clarity and love than he ever has in his entire life. He won’t raise his voice to you again.

Your palm dances again as you look to away. The door finally opens again, and Cal forgot that you had initially even caged him in here.

“You can go now.”

It’s quiet. You can hear shuffling, slow footsteps like maybe he doesn’t want to leave. “Can I kiss you when I get back?”

Even while looking at the wall right next to you, your face goes hot and pink.

“Maybe,” your husky voice answers. And when you turn to look back at him, he’s already looking at you with a genuine smile like a little boy getting a big present that they can’t believe. That’s how he sees it, anyway.

“I don’t hate you, Y/N,” he suddenly says. “I could never hate you.”

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

Idk if I’m happy with this or not? I ran into a bunch of writers block with this I don’t know why. Sorry it took so long to put out anyway. I also might change it to better fit the request because that’s really the most important thing to me and with finishing it after literal months I might’ve lost sight of the whole point. Idk though. Cal is a cutie.

TAGLIST: @omg-we-really-doo @chokemeanakin @anakinswhore @haztory @fanficsforheartandsoul @kit-jpg @ahsokatano-thetogruta

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infinite-hearts-333 · 4 years

Text

Masked Love Chapter 1

Sander sides, Rociet, Human/Magical AU

WARNING: mentions of past dehumanising, reference to PTSD flashback??, um bullying reference.

Masterpost

~~18/5/2022 6:37am (Present time)~~

“Janus?”

Janus grumbled, pulling the weighted blanket over his head more as what sounded like his mama's voice filled his too-tired, half asleep brain. “Noooooooooo….”

“Janus! JANUS! I know you're awake up there!!”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO” Janus groaned back, pulling the blanket tighter over his head.

“JANNIE IF YOU DON'T LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER I’LL COME UP THERE WITH THE COLD BORE WATER AGAIN~!” Came the singsong voice of his mom, and Janus full on scrambled out of bed, covers sent flying and he had to double check his claws to ensure they didn’t ensnare on anything through his half sleepy, half panicked daze.

“COMING! COMING!! Yesh….” he called, before grumbling, yawning, completely use to the soft popping of his unhinged jaw, forked tongue tasting the air. Waffles…. Mmmmm….

He quickly got ready, body automatically from routine, getting changed into his clothes- a lime turtle neck, black jacket with pins and patches attached, sunflower yellow beanie, skinny black jeans and his boots. He hummed a loose tune as he moved, alike to clock work, moving to turn to his bed, tugging the poor flinged sheets back into the right position, snatching up his stuffed dragon that had fallen onto the floor and placing it on top of his pillow gently.

Janus’s room was, in fact, the attic. His mum and mama weren't… expecting him when he showed up, but they took him in and loved him all the same. The rickety old house they had didn't have enough rooms for Janus to move into when he got older, so his parents spent ages rebuilding the attic for him. You could tell in some places- the seams where the wall met the roof weren't all the same size, the floorboards ran crookedly rather than straight, there were chips in both the walls and the floor where the wood wasn’t smooth.

But janus loved his room. It was cosy- there different metals and CD disks strung up which glinted like precious gems under the sky window, he had a large rainbow flag hanging over his bed in the corner, fairy lights stuck on the wall all around the room. Boxes upon boxes peeked out of his bed, filled to the brim with the most random things, leaves, feathers, stones, shells, bones, name it, Janus probably had it.

Walking to where his room ended, a wall with a human sized hole in the floor, he paused by the mirror, only to wrinkle up his nose in disgust at what he saw staring back. Janus was actually pretty handsome, nice clear tanned skin, brilliant eyes that shined lime and forest green and firefly yellow all at the same time. Chestnut hazel hair that hung in ruffled curls framed his face. He was strong, a little buff and according to his mother and mamma, quite the personality. But there were two things.

Janus’s jaw. It faded into the most horrid shade of olive green, splotches of lime, deep forest green and the colour of dying cactuses for scales, littered across the bottom half of Janus’s face. Two gross dusty pink scars ran from the corners of his mouth, stretching out and curling, nearly to touch his ears, one on each side. Darting in and out of his abnormally large fanged mouth was a forked blue tongue, fading into pink at the back of his mouth, the slightest sign that janus was once human.

He softly sighed, turning away to wander to the wall, and so the holes well, jumping through it to land on the couch flawlessly. “Morning.” He mumbled to the two females cooking and giggling at each other. “Morning' darling~!” called Mamma, smiling brightly. “Did you sleep well, little snek-a-doodle?” Teased his mum, smiling warmly as she parted from her partner to ruffle her adopted son's hair.

Janus smiled back up at her, and couldn't ignore the pang of happiness when all he found in mum's eyes was love. “We made waffles for your big day!” Chimed Mamma, beaming as she worked at the stove.

Ah. Right. High school. Janus groaned, leaning back to painfully donk his head against the wall. “Do I have to go?” He whined. “Yup!” his mum said, popping the ‘p’. Janus rolled his head off the wall, allowing his eyes to drop to problem number two in his life. His hands. Or well…. Talons.

Janus’s hands, a lot like his jaw dyed into that horrid olive colour, splattered with scales. He had four ‘fingers’ instead of five, each ending with a large sharp claw that was almost an ivory green if held in the right light. Scars lined his hand where the scales started, signs that janus wasn’t born with these abnormal features.

His mum then slapped him over the head with a rolled up newspaper. “OW! Hey!!!!!” snapped Janus. His mum raised an eyebrow. “You were pulling the face you make when you're judging yourself. And I'm having none of that. You're beautiful, fullstop.” she narrowed her eyes at him, daring him to prove her wrong. Janus chuckled. “Guilty as charged.” he hummed, standing to walk over to their small island counter.

His mom huffed, nodding, walking alongside her son, combat boots making a soft thumping noise on the tiles. Janus hid a wince as the sound of clicking heels entered his mind.

Click, click, click.

He swallowed, sitting. “Here you go!!” chirped Mamma, smiling as she placed the plates down. “Thank you dear.” Mom said softly kissing Mamma’s cheek on her way past. “Thanks mamma.” Janus chipped in, trying not to show his teeth while he smiled. Mamma beamed, swirling around to plop down in her seat.

Janus reached out to grab the berries, randomly dropping them over the waffles. He was cautious, ensuring he didn’t open his mouth too wide, taking in small little bites. Mum started talking about what she would be doing while Janus was at school, working on the new barley crops. “Those darn aphids! They've been going off everywhere!!!” Janus slowly chewed on a piece of blue berry.

“I think you're gonna need to get some pest spray mum.” Janus pointed out. Mamma nodded. “Do you want me to pick some up honey? I’m going into town anyway for some more mango seeds.”

Janus smirked against his milk glass, washing down the waffles. “Again with the Mangos Mamma?”

Mamma shrugged, smiling. “I want to make some jams! And maybe I might try making mango sorbet again.” Janus grinned. “Yes please!” His gaze flickered to the clock on the wall, and he sighed. “Well, as much as I hate it, I should go.” he said with a huff, shovelling the last of the waffles into his mouth and drowning the milk.

“Okay darling, have a nice day!” Mamma said with a smile. “See you this afternoon ‘kay snek-a-doodle? You’ll help me with the cows again?” Janus smirked, collecting his plate and glass. “Absolutely.” he stated, placing his dishes in the sink. “See you this afternoon!” he called, snatching up his gloves and mask off their hanger and then scooping up his bag.

He swung his bag half on, fumbling to put on his yellow gloves. They were bulky and too big to allow room for his claws, a black band around the start of the four fingers and wrist to prevent slipping and looked ridiculous, but it was better than exposing his features to the world. He had to be careful, pausing to ensure none of his scales got caught on the fabric. He then put on his mask, a simple also yellow fabric that covered his mouth and nose. He then twisted to reach into his front pocket of his bag, pulling out his earphones and lime mp3 player, shoving the buds into his ears and turning it on, blasting the music at the highest volume.

[ 🎶 Looking for an exit in this world of fear

I can see the path that leads away

Mama never left, and daddy needs me here

I wish the wind would carry a change

Looking through the window to a world of dreams

I can see my future slip away

Honey you won't get there if you don't believe

I wish the wind would carry a change 🎶 ]

He wandered through the fields of crops and fields of animals, waving a hello to the farmer next door. Michel, his name was, he grows the best peaches. He guessed that there was a satisfying crunch as Janus jumped from a small ledge down onto the orange autumn leaf-covered road. Wandering along the side of the road, Janus quietly hummed along to his music all the way to the bus stop. He quickly checked the suns position, having done it many many times, relieved to find he was on time and the bus should be here any minute.

[ 🎶 I've had enough

I'm standing up

I need, I need a change

I've had enough

Of chasing luck

I need, I need a change 🎶 ]

Sure enough the death machine, painted yellow and screeching nearly as loud as its passengers came swerving around the corner, somehow audible through Janus’s music, metal rusted gears screaming as the beast came to a halt. That thing was definitely gonna kill people one day. Janus huffed, climbing the rickety steps and flashed his card at the bus driver, who looked like he had been going for six months without sleep and would snap someone's neck.

They traded nods, having known each other since Janus first ‘moved’ to the country. They never really spoke to each other, but traded nods, ‘hey’s’, and ‘mood’s’ so he was cool. Janus sat right behind the bus driver, dumping his bag next to him so no one would take the seat next to him. Not that it was necessary, everyone actively avoided him. He then maintained his death glare, slipping it on as easily as putting on his mask.

Some kids, janus found, take enjoyment in throwing things at the bus driver, so janus took it upon himself to protect the bus driver from the nuisances, and in return, once the bus driver found out, he would keep the passengers from taking the spot so Janus wasn't forced to sit next to anyone.

[ 🎶 I'm setting fire to the life that I know (I know)

Let's start a fire everywhere that we go (we go)

We starting fires,

We starting fires till our lives are burning gold 🎶 ]

Janus sat, guarding the busdriver and spacing out till he felt the bus sharply halt. Hip hip hooray for hell. He sighed, standing up and wandered off the bus, bidding farewell to the busdriver with a small nod of the head. He turned his attention to his new problem.

The school's shadow engulfed him standing tall over him, and a part of janus feared it may crumble and crush him. People were chatting, boys flirting and betting, bullies shoving random people and dropping curses. Janus’s personal hell. Well, here goes nothing!

[ 🎶 I've had enough

Of chasing luck

I need, I need a change 🎶 ]

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eternalstrigoii · 4 years

Text

Church Mouse

Borra (Maleficent: Mistress of Evil) x Female-Presenting Human Reader

There’s a monster in our wood,

It’ll get you if you’re not good.

Horns of iron and wings of bone,

You are never, ever coming home.

Your father was the parish priest in the village of Ulstead. He was not a royal minister, and, perhaps, it was because of that lack of diplomacy that you caught him many a time whispering with the townsfolk about the faeries on the other side of the gate. To his congregation, he said little more than how fortunate you were to be separated – how he urged parents to leave their children if they should have to travel on merchant trips, lest the fey folk lure the young ones from their wagons.

You heard your father’s stories before, when you were young. The Folk of the Moors will promise you endless sweets and playtime, and then chew off your legs when you fall asleep. You rolled your eyes at them now – no faerie had ever crossed the bridge into Ulstead. As far as you were concerned, no faerie wanted to cross the bridge into Ulstead, and you grew more and more adamant that they were right. It was a little town, and King John meant well but his wife practiced the same virtues as your father. All the piety, chastity, humility, and moderation was starting to get to you. (And if your only prospects were the same fools you had to remind year after year not to drag their crops from the earth by their stems, well, you were better off leaving for a nunnery.)

The children were gathered in the square not long before nightfall, as you brought your pail of freshly scrubbed laundry back to the parish to hang in the attic (where no one might fall to sin because they spied your bloomers on the line). They clapped hands and sang their nursery rhymes, which you had always presumed involved the terrible witch that cursed the princess whom your prince was destined to marry, and you sighed as you lifted your basket past them.

“There are no such things as monsters,” you stopped to snap at them before you flung the parish door open with your foot and let it fall shut heavily behind you.

Your father jumped at the sound. “Good heavens, child!”

“I’m sorry.” You lifted the basket that you had to hold with two hands. “None of the children would fetch the door.”

He was on his knees at the altar, tending the prayer candles that had been lit throughout the day. You knew he’d stay there for the bulk of the night, as he always did.

As he adjusted them, ensuring that the wax fell as uniformly as possible so that God might hear the poor men and women of Ulstead, he said to you, “Would it be so terrible to spare the young ones a kindness now and then? They are, after all, only children.”

It was not the young ones you worried about. You had half a mind to set your laundry aside and help your father, for he was getting old and frail, and while he was surely falling prey to his own stories, he was no harm to anyone. He was but a worried old man since your mother died, or so you told yourself.

You sighed, and you left him to his wax-tending. There were few flights of stairs from the parish to the attic, but with your full basket, it may as well have been a steady climb up a mountain. You were hot and panting by the time you reached the attic where your clotheslines were strung, and you wasted no time in shutting the hatch-door, dropping the basket to the floor, and hurrying to open the windows by their props on the bottom.

“Fool,” you muttered fondly. The windows hadn’t been washed in some time, and you were sure it was because your meticulous father believed someone would catch wind of his cassock and steal it while it dried.

You shook your head, gathered the pins down at the end, and worked your way through your basket. Every so often, the wind swept through the room and made all the clothes flap and flutter, the sweat that had been so stifling before turned to morning dew on your back. After the third strong ruffle, your second pin fell right out of your hand, and you cursed as you batted one of your dresses aside to reach it.

It had landed just between a pair of bare feet.

You gasped and startled backward.

The figure you had first thought was a man batted your line aside. He was tall and broad, quite unlike many of the men of your village, though what held your attention was not the chiseled quality of his face or the intensity of his blown-glass eyes.

It was the massive pair of wings on his back that ripped your line cleanly out of the wall.

You sat there like a fool, scrambling to move away only when he’d already caught you by the ties of your apron and pulled you up off the floor. You cried out in shock – you felt the points of his talons against your back before it collided with the wall, and the tremor that coursed through you left your hands shaking as they found his chest, smooth and warm like a stone left sitting in the summer sun.

“Please?” Your voice wavered.

He made a sound not unlike an animal’s growl, tilting his head at you.

You did not know what you were pleading for. You were hardly a child, no longer the supposed favored-prey of the Folk of the Moors.

“Please,” you repeated, feeling his talons prick your back. You watched his other hand lift to the shoulder of your apron, toy with the heavy material. How easily his claws pricked into it and it started to tear. You imagined your skin would not give the same kind of resistance.

Your heart was pounding. Fear, and something else, had gone to war inside of you. He may have been no man, but he was beautiful. His hair was long and golden, his wings broad and powerful, and you found yourself staring at them again. “They’re beautiful,” you whispered, and found yourself pinned by your throat for your trouble.

“What do you want with my wings?” he asked, sharply.

“Nothing!” you exclaimed, batting at his hand. “They’re lovely, you oaf!”

He let go of you just as abruptly, with that sound again.

You smacked at his solid arm in indignation, a hot rush of embarrassment flooding your already overheated skin. “You have no right! Speaking to me like that! Manhandling me! Coming into my house--!”

You didn’t realize the mistake you made until he had taken a handful of your apron again, backing you against the old wood once more.

“Is it your father, then?” he asked in a much lower voice, its roughness preserved in such close proximity. “Spreading likes about my people?”

You should have denied him, but the pang of fear you felt manifested as you thought all people must feel it – in the innate desire to protect your own.

“He’s a fool,” you replied in the same tone. “He tells stories to children, make-believe. He means you no harm.”

“Harm is what he causes me.” His body was flush with yours again, and your hands gripped his arms as though you were strong enough to keep him at bay when you could hardly manage three flights of stairs with a full laundry basket. “Harm is what he causes all of my people when he spreads those lies.”

“I’ll tell him to stop,” you whispered.

The smile that crossed his face should have scared you, for it was wild, and by the nature of the people you knew, rather unhinged. “No,” he touched your cheek, pressing the tip of his thumb claw into your skin. “I don’t think you will.”

From what you heard, you expected him to do something like rip your flesh from your bones and eat you alive. But he grasped the collar-hem of your gown and tore, and in one broad stroke of his muscular arm, you found yourself nearly bared before him.

And the only thing that frightened you then was how your breath caught as he palmed your exposed skin.

The fey looked at you the way you imagined all creatures must look at their prey. His eyes were intense, wild, wide as they locked on your face. Your knees buckled as his mouth affixed to your collarbone, and you gasped, grabbing hold of his horns.

You did not push him away. No, not even when his teeth caught your flesh, for his tongue was quick to follow, and the sound that left you had nothing to do with pain.

There were no stories about this. Not in anyone’s books anywhere, as far as you knew.

The fey left a trail of bruises on your skin, from the one that began at your collarbone up the side of your neck. They hurt more, there, and you squirmed against him, but he chuckled and pinned your hips to his. You felt him, through your bloomers and the soft fabric of his pants, and your hands settled at his waist only to move, slowly, upward. Over his side, his back, your arms curling around his shoulders.

His wings beat, snapping the other line from its mount on the wall. Your father’s clothes also tumbled to the floor, and were immediately forgotten.

You turned your head when you felt his breath brush your jaw. Your lips brushed his, and he wasted no time in claiming them. What manner of revenge could this be, you thought, only for the thought to fall by the wayside with the drag of his claw down your thigh. One leg of your bloomers split open, and the hand that did it slipped under you, under your clothes, to boost you against him and settle your hips at his waist.

It was not unpleasant, being trapped against him. Not unpleasant at all. You found yourself kissing back when he tried to pull away, giving him your tongue in as close of an approximation to the way he’d given you his as you could manage without the experience.

You felt him grin, and several claws swept over your opposing thigh. Your bloomers fell away in ribbons, the skin beneath singing with shallow cuts.

You arched toward him with a more enthusiastic sound, your knees hitched against his waist.

“Are you enjoying yourself, church mouse?”

You quite liked that tone he used, his voice like a purr against your lips.

“Yes,” you whispered, though you could hardly understand how his anger would become desire quite like this. Maybe you truly were ye of little faith, considering you couldn’t recall a word spoken by your father that would lead you to believe your fey was dangerous.

He chuckled, and the fabric between you fell away. Your eyes widened, and you gripped his shoulders tightly. You were momentarily afraid, though not for the reasons he must’ve anticipated.

“I’ve never….” You started, and your fey brushed his lips over yours once again.

“I’m counting on that.”

He took you the way you had always been told you were supposed to be taken. Your knees clutched his hips, but the sensation, though strange, was not unpleasant. You gasped, and his movement made you claw lightly at his shoulders, seeking purchase so you might somehow press closer.

“Shh,” he soothed, nuzzling your jaw. “Wouldn’t want your father to hear.”

You clung to the back of his neck, your breath ragged. No, certainly you didn’t, but you were three flights up and the rhythm of his hips never faltered. You dropped your head back against the wall, and your fey claimed your mouth once again.

No, you knew why people stole away to be with them now. No promise of sweets could be this enchanting.

You held his jaw while you kissed.

He held you, but one of his hands roamed your body, the trail of his talons causing chills along your spine. You kissed him as though you might pour yourself into him, and he claimed you against the wall like a man new-married.

You felt a tightening in your lower belly, an urgency too strong to be denied. You worked your hips against his, your, and his, ragged breaths overtaking your senses. You couldn’t pull him close enough. Your thighs clung to him. You had started to beg in whimpers that became full cries, yes, yes, please, please! Oh god, oh god!

You reached your peak together. Your fae spilled inside of you with a sharp, wild groan, and you clung to him, breathing hard, your face pressed into his shoulder.

You told him your name in a breathless whisper, no longer believing – or at least, no longer believing it would be a bad thing – he would use it to steal you away.

He was silent for a moment longer, holding the backs of your thighs against his hips. “Borra,” he replied.

“I’ll tell not a soul,” you promised, just in case anyone could truly harm him just by knowing his name.

“I’m counting on that, church mouse.”

When the moment stretched on, you realized that, perhaps, that was not the plan he’d arrived with. Perhaps the both of you, in your youth, had done more for faerie-human relations than you cared to admit, and the thought pleased you to smiling into his shoulder.

He put you down rather gently, as though he was unused to touching you.

You allowed it, reaching for the wet gown you’d started hanging up. Better that then the tattered one. “Will I see you again?”

He had straightened out the fabric of his trousers, and tilted his head as though he was considering it.

“I would quite like to,” you said.

He nodded. Whether that was an acknowledgement or an agreement, you did not ask. You returned to gathering laundry, and by the time you had picked up several more pieces of your clothes, you heard the flap of wings beyond the windows.

Your father never heard you.

You fixed the lines in silence, and re-hung the wash. You took your bath, and you returned to your life almost as though it had never happened.

But you knew you were in no position to protect them. To protect him from them, though you longed to.

By the time you realized you had not bled, you knew it was only a matter of time before your father, your neighbors, possibly even the virtuous queen, found out what had become of you.

The note you left them was simple: No one stole me away.

#Borra #Borra Maleficent #Borra x Reader #Maleficent: Mistress of Evil #cw for initial dubcon (comma) pregnancy mention #'tis a willing pornography #monster boyfriend #faerie boyfriend #Maleficent Borra #There Is No Plot Only Zuul (lemons)

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pass-the-bechdel · 6 years

Text

Homicide: Life on the Street season three full review

How many episodes pass the Bechdel test?

65% (thirteen of twenty).

What is the average percentage per episode of female characters with names and lines?

32.96%

How many episodes have a cast that is at least 40% female?

Three (episode three ‘Extreme Unction’ (40%), episode sixteen ‘Law and Disorder’ (52%), and episode eighteen ‘In Search of Crimes Past’ (43.47%)).

How many episodes have a cast that is less than 20% female?

Two (episode eleven ‘Cradle to Grave’ (18.75%), and episode seventeen ‘The Old and the Dead’ (19.04%)).

How many female characters (with names and lines) are there?

Fifty-nine. Seventeen who appeared in more than one episode, three who appeared in at least half the episodes, and ZERO who appeared in every episode.

How many male characters (with names and lines) are there?

Ninety-four. Twenty-four who appeared in more than one episode, seven who appeared in at least half the episodes, and five who appeared in every episode.

Positive Content Status:

Strong. The show maintains a powerful awareness of the society it is situated within and the varied experiences of those within it; the analysis of racial issues - systemic and individual - is particularly impressive, and though it is not the subject this blog was created to explore, it seems wrong to talk about this show at all without acknowledging the good work it is doing on that front (average rating of 3.1).

General Season Quality:

While not quite as strangely, darkly real as the beginning of the series, it’s still good, compelling, and meaningful television, and it does make the most of itself in terms of telling new stories which enrich and expand the world of the show; it does not rest on its laurels and repeat the same narrative patterns as earlier episodes, and it is the better for it.

MORE INFO (and potential spoilers) under the cut:

For the record, I regret the decision not to write individual episode posts for this show. Not quite enough to go back and write them after all, but enough to complain about how I’m not doing it. This is a note to my future self, in case I try to convince myself that summary-only is a good idea after all: it isn’t. It’s just a way to guarantee that you’ll end up leaving things out and being less thorough than you want to be. It’s a dumb idea. Don’t do it.

To business: the season literally opens with Bolander watching a love scene on the tv in the break room and complaining about all the gratuitous sex on tv shows these days, prompting a conversation with Lewis and Munch about how ‘the networks make them put that stuff in’. It’s essentially a written-in apology to the audience for the fact that there are romantic subplots in this season; they might as well have broken down the fourth wall completely and had the characters look straight into the camera, that’s how transparent they are about it. The network demanded sex appeal as a condition of renewing the show for a third season, and the writers were NOT happy about it; I appreciate both their convictions, and the fact that they made this slim compromise which gave us more of this wonderful show to enjoy, even if there is a bare minimum of unnecessary sex in there. It’s a worthy trade. (the sex-on-tv discussion segues into a prediction from Munch about how the future will include a trillion different channels to watch, everyone communicating online, and never having to get out of your chair for anything. Bolander then says that he wishes they’d bring back Hawaii 5-0, which of course has since happened. It’s eerie).

Anyway; the sex mostly involves Felton, whose slightly-unhinged (and, in mercifully one scene only, gratuitously undressed) wife Beth has kicked him out of the house at the beginning of the season, to which Felton has responded by promptly jumping in bed with a new woman: that is, with the new woman, Megan Russert, whose presence in the main cast brings us to a grand old two women in the regular rotation. The show gleefully ditches the Felton/Russert romance three episodes in (but not until after we’ve been subjected to Daniel Baldwin in his little nineties underwear:

cheers network, I hope that’s what you were aiming for when you demanded more sex appeal), and the whole business manages to play out with relative grace, being blatant network-service but avoiding the common pitfall of useless hetero romance wherein the female character ends up seeming like she only exists to be sexy.

Russert’s introduction isn’t entirely smooth - and the romance angle doesn’t help there - but despite being a much more traditionally-feminine and traditionally-attractive character than Howard is, and despite having the confrontation of sexism in the workplace laid on a little thick in those introductory episodes, Russert is still successfully established as a person in her own right, and not defined by her womanhood any more than Howard is. Like Howard, Russert can’t escape the way that the department and the men within it treat her gender as a conspicuous and dominant trait, and like Howard, Russert is not interested in letting the preoccupations of other people impact the way she goes about her work; unlike Howard, Russert refuses to engage with the idea of being a good example for other women because she feels that doing so means participating in making gender an issue when it shouldn’t matter in the first place. Howard - delighted to be working with an accomplished woman who meets her personal standard of conduct, and willing to openly defend Russert’s service record against her sexist detractors - is affronted by Russert’s refusal to fight the good fight on behalf of her gender, but the show wisely does not take a side. Both women’s approaches to their womanhood have merit, and neither is perfect; rather than pitting them against one another over their differences, the show acknowledges that Howard and Russert are, each in their own way, doing the best their with a situation that has been stacked against them and in which there are no absolute ways to ‘win’, only ways to play.

This season is much stronger on women than those preceding it, as evident in the statistics: over 12% better in the female:male ratio, and 57% better on the Bechdel (they were doing shockingly well with that one until they went and failed in the last four episodes all in a row, but still. This is far, far better than I had expected). It takes a broader, more detailed look at the way women exist (and are forced to exist) within the structure of society, and there is evidence of clear comprehension of the imbalances, the contradictions, and the illogical expectations and judgments that come with that. The serial killer Annabella Wilgis from the opening trilogy of the season asserts that she murdered eight women because she blames women in the workplace for ‘ruining everything’ by upsetting the strictly-gendered status quo of Wilgis’ childhood; Howard catches a killer back in her home town because the guy was so much of a sexist chump he wouldn’t wash his own shirt to get away with murder (as he is arrested the guy screams at his wife for not ‘doing her job’ and washing his shirt for him, and the lack of self-reflection is as bizarre as it is believable); the fantastic ‘Every Mother’s Son’ sees two women - both unaware that they are at the police station for the same case, one’s son having been murdered by the other’s - commiserating about the state of the men in their neighbourhoods and the lack of good father figures and role models for their boys (both women are black, and as they discuss also the number of funerals they have attended for their early-teen son’s friends, the conversation serves as a double-whammy observation of both gender, and systemic racial inequality. It’s powerful and sobering); Russert intervenes in the private life of her former detective partner when she discovers that he’s been beating his wife, and takes no excuses from either party about ‘the stress of the job’ or any other such tragically familiar lines; Beth Felton’s behaviour, while erratic and hurtful, finds some sympathy from Howard and Russert as they consider the dire lack of options open to Beth as a potentially-single mother of three small children. With the exception of Wilgis the serial killer, there is altogether an underpinning thread of women understanding and supporting each other, a factor which helps to give the women’s narratives a sense of their own gravity through recognition from outside; something particularly important when set against the ignorance and even complicity which can arise even from seemingly forward-thinking men.

Network-mandated sex brings us Emma Zoole, and with her, reflections upon the attitudes of some of our male characters, some of it good, some of it bad. Lewis makes a pushy fool of himself trying to chat her up, but he’s harmless enough and once he plays out his chance and is rejected, he respects Emma’s choice and declares unequivocally that he will not pursue her further (a declaration prompted by Felton suggesting that he just needs a new strategy). That said, there is a possessive streak at work when Lewis learns that Bayliss has hooked up with Emma instead; if Lewis didn’t feel some sense of ownership for having called first dibs on Emma, he wouldn’t have anything to feel ‘betrayed’ about. For the most part, laughs are had as Bayliss literally falls over himself and clutzes around Emma’s apartment in the least-sexy way possible - it’s funny, it’s realistic, and it’s a solid fuck-you to the network - and the fallout as the entire workplace learns of his exploits (”what is a cuffoon?”) is a great time. But, on the other side of it all, things are less bright. Lewis is smothering his sorrows by eating cous cous, and Felton delivers a diatribe about how the idea of health food and men thinking they need to watch their weight is all about ‘women trying to dominate men’ (a double-standard view if ever there was one; at least Lewis ain’t buying it). Meanwhile, it turns out Emma has a boyfriend named Andy who takes it poorly when he hears about Bayliss; Andy knocks Emma down - Bayliss is aghast when Emma tells him, and his anger does feel like it is at least mostly coming from the right place, but under the circumstances one also wonders if there’s an extent to which he goes out to give Andy what-for as a possessive pissing contest and not in genuine concern. Emma breaks up with Bayliss for interfering with her relationship with Andy, and Bayliss...goes off the deep end and robs a convenience store at gunpoint after he comes up eleven cents short trying to pay for beer and cookies. Pembleton bails Bayliss out so that he winds up not suffering any significant ramifications for his actions, and the comedic tone of the whole piece feels decisively off, as if the writers have hit a major blind spot wherein they think men lashing out dangerously when a relationship falls apart is normal and understandable on its own, and therefore not worthy of harsh scrutiny. I mean, if the guy hurts or kills his former lover, that behaviour is condemned, but if he just threatens to shoot a store clerk for voiding a sale, that’s funny, right?

The idea of that unscrutinised blind spot is reinforced throughout the rest of the series so far; while none of the other central male characters have reacted quite as wildly as Bayliss, they do form a cohesive track record for refusing to do their own emotional labour in working their way through romantic disappointments. Felton is a slightly different case since his relationship woes are also tied up with custody of his children, and as such his spiralling alcoholism is not necessarily a consequence of the end of his marriage itself so much as it is about the messy way that plays out (it is very, very messy, though, and he does lean on the other women in his life throughout rather than taking control of his situation himself). Bolander was a total bear throughout the first season after separating from his wife, and Munch I already flagged in my previous review for his attitude toward his now-ex Felicia throughout the final ups and downs of that relationship. Lewis may just drag himself off to eat some cous cous all alone, but he still wallows over a relationship that never even began; Gee does the same thing after being rejected by Russert’s friend Amanda (though there is an additional factor there in which Gee - this guy:

- feels that Amanda - this lady:

- has rejected him because he’s blacker than she is, sparking what remains the only discussion on colourism within the black community that I have ever seen on tv. It’s an illuminating subject that deserves discussion, though we never find out if it really is the reason for Amanda’s rejection or if she was just not interested in Gee for any number of other, completely legitimate reasons). As Bayliss forgoes all self control, as Felton spins his ridiculous opinions on health food, and as Bolander commiserates with Gee about how ‘the way a woman feels about a man, that’s the way he’s going to feel about himself’, there’s a consistent theme of this notion that women have a responsibility to prop men up and protect their fragile egos, and it’s a theme that the show - for all that it is mostly very self-aware - doesn’t seem to challenge at all.

While I’m griping, there are more imperfections this season than there were last time around: Munch makes a lot of jokes about women, not necessarily in disparaging ways but definitely in an othering fashion which lends itself to a perception of women as objects of desire rather than, um, people. His nihilistic attitude about pretty much everything combined with his regular gendered commentary can make him pretty hard to enjoy as comic relief, especially when you’re viewing the show with a deliberately critical eye (he also makes a joke about prison rape at one point, and rape jokes of any kind are a surefire way to vault straight into my bad books). Pembleton gets embroiled in a political quagmire involving one Congressman Wade: a closeted homosexual, Wade has filed a false police report to try and cover up his affair with his male assistant, fearing that said assistant might expose him by filing assault charges after Wade beat him up. While everyone involved rightfully agrees that being gay should not end Wade’s political career, they all kinda ignore the fact that committing assault probably should, and I’m not ok with the way that detail gets shrugged off. And the episode ‘The Last of the Watermen’ not only uses the cliche of having a character just-happen to catch a case while on vacation, it also repeats the cliche of having a former flame of Howard’s as a suspect, something we already did in season two (less than ten episodes ago, to make it even more egregious that we’re doing it again); the show is better than that kind of contrivance.

To wrap this on a good note though, there were also some real gems in the piece: the episode ‘Colors’ delivers a great guest star in David Morse and tells a confronting story about the insidiousness of subconscious racism; it’s very easy for shows to do stories about racism that acknowledge it in a very obvious surface-level way (i.e. this person treats that person badly because of the colour of their skin, and that’s wrong), but it’s more difficult and more important to explore the subtleties of the ways racism can manifest both individually and systemically, and that’s what this show does so well. On the topic of great guest stars, Steve Buscemi is used to magnificent effect in ‘End Game’ as a character who is so very, very wrong in such very, very obvious ways, and yet so superciliously convinced of his correctness that he’s impossible to argue with (we all know at least one person exactly like that). Buscemi’s turn comes at the culmination of the three-episode arc surrounding the shooting of three of our detectives, which is masterfully handled both in the immediate shock and the ensuing tension, as well as in the complicated miasma of emotional fallout for the rest of the squad as they struggle and rally. The fallout from that arc continues to permeate the rest of the season, in much the same way as the suicide of our beloved Steve Crosetti does at the beginning of the season: the episode ‘Crosetti’ is the highlight of the season despite fierce competition, and watching Lewis bawl his eyes out while Bolander holds him still gets me every time, but it’s nothing compared to watching Pembleton provide a one-man Honour Guard for his fallen comrade at episode’s end. The heaviness of the episode has some serious emotional staying power, and while the ditching of Crosetti was another network-mandated dick move designed to up the show’s sex appeal, the writers well and truly made lemonade by crafting the loss into a powerful narrative which emphasises and reinforces the core of the series itself: the horror and the battle to overcome the darkness of a truly thankless job, and find the good glimmer of life that lies beyond it.

#Homicide: Life on the Street #Homicide: Life on the Street season three #HLOTS #Bechdel Test #full season review #female representation

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featherymalignancy · 6 years

Photo

Tender Jar: An Elriel Experiment

“Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness, and the infinite tenderness shattered you like a jar” -Pablo Neruda

Synopsis: Six months after the war, Elain is still mourning all that the cauldron took from her, and it’s only Azriel she trusts not to judge her for her brokenness. However, when she has a vision concerning both Lucien and Graysen, she steels her courage and braves first the Spring Court and then the Mortal World, Azriel at her side. When lines are drawn and Elain is pushed to her emotional limit, she must decide whether she will let her past shatter her or give in to the desires of her tender heart.Warnings: Elriel with brief Elucien. NSFW. Contains some graphic depictions of sex and foul language, and minor violence.

See The Masterlist here

Previously on Tender Jar…

“Az,” she said, daring a step forward to brush her fingers to his broad back. As always, he stiffened when she made contact. He’d been careful to keep their physical contact to a minimum since that night in his room, and she tried not to feel stung at how much her touch clearly repelled him. “What is it?” she pressed. "Has something happened?”

He didn’t respond, though his wings flared slightly in agitation, the way Illyrians' often did when they were experiencing some extreme emotion.

“Is it something I—“ she began, but she was cut off as he abruptly turned, wings snapping to his back as he backed her against the wall and kissed her.

Part VI: Azriel

Azriel winnowed deep into the hedge maze at the Southern end of Tamlin’s lurid estate, wrapping himself in darkness and snarling his pained frustration. When he was done, he let his body go limp, resting his forehead on the cool lip of a nearby fountain as he tried to gentle the roaring hiss of secrets the shadows whispered into his ear. He’d trained for nearly half a millennia to master them, and normally with his unassailable control, they were easy to filter. However, what happened with Elain had fractured his composure, and with the floodgates broken, Azriel was struggling not to drown in them.

Your absence has been noted. Three sentries disbatched to follow. The wraiths are with the girl. The Autumn lordling is looking for her as well. He suspects—

Azriel let out another pained snarl, struggling to overpower a foreign sensation clawing up his chest that was making it difficult to breathe. He hadn’t felt anything like it since the day the Illyrians had dragged him out of his father’s house screaming nearly six centuries ago. He took a shuddering breath, fighting to lower his pulse. It was only after he mastered the feeling and took a full, deep breath that he recognized it for what it was: the urge to cry.

Azriel had once heard Rhys describe him as a creature of icy rage, and his brother was right; Azriel had always kept himself cocooned in ice, because to him, heat was nothing more than pain. Heat was the scorch of the oil on his hands as they caught alight. It was the ruination of his flesh, the smell of his skin as it burned off his bones. Heat was the look in Morrigan’s eyes as they fell on Cassian that day in the camp, and the searing pain when he’d learned that she had chosen his best friend over him.

So Azriel plunged his heart, ravaged by all he’d seen and endured, into a darkness so frigid that it too had burned, and he’d held it under the cold until it had hardened to bitter ice, and nothing could touch it. Not his desire for Mor nor his hatred of his brothers, and not the searing knowledge that in both instances, he’d been unwanted, unworthy. The numbness, though imperfect, had worked, and for hundreds of years his heart had remained that way: savagely frozen, impervious to heat.

But Lucien had been right; Elain was like Spring. She was the warmth of new beginning, and like all wintery things, Azriel’s frigidity had thawed under her careful touch. She’d done it with her smiles, and her fragile courage, and her enduring belief that no matter how bitter the winter, the flowers would bloom again at the turn of the seasons.

He’d known it had been happening for awhile, known it since the day he’d risked everything to go to Hybern and rescue her, and had tried to guard himself against it, but the last few weeks had completely undone him. Seeing her smile at him, hearing her laugh and cry—both of which were so achingly honest—it had all worn away what little resistance he’d still had.

And tonight, when he’d seen her with Lucien, watched them dance and heard the shadows whispering to him the offers the spoiled little lordling had made her, Azriel had felt a heat, unfamiliar and dangerous, blooming in his chest.

It was anger, first and foremost, anger towards the cauldron for granting an unworthy vulpine like Lucien Vanserra Elain as a mate. It was also jealousy, the same he’d felt towards Cassian when he’d bedded the female he loved. It was the white-hot pain at the realization that just as it had been with Mor, it could’ve been him that Elain had chosen, but wasn't.

More than anything, though, it was desire. He wanted Elain, had wanted her for a long time, and as he'd listened to his newly-revived heart pounding hot blood into his ears, he’d been nearly overcome with the need to have her, mind, body, and soul.

And when she’d come to him, when she’d left Vanserra to seek him out, he'd snapped. He’d spent centuries honing his control, teaching himself patience and restraint, and she’d shattered it all in a single evening.

He could still feel the soft material of her gown under his fingertips, and the press of her gorgeous breasts against his chest. And when she’d touched his wings, Cauldron damn him, he’d been ready to push up her skirts and fuck her in the hall, he’d been so blinded by want.

But had only taken two syllables from her to bring it all down, and in point of fact, it had been perhaps the only word capable of breaking the fugue her touch and taste had thrown him into.

Lucien.

And the way she said it, the desperation and need in it, it had broken Azriel. He felt all of it—everything he’d spent centuries holding at bay—crash into him all at once.

Whatever slow, slouching agony Azriel had endured over Mor, whatever lessons he thought it might have taught him about managing disappointment, hearing Elain say another male’s name while she was in his arms had been so much worse. At least with Mor, he’d never allowed himself to touch her, or to fully acknowledge just how badly he wanted her to return his affections, however pathetic and unrequited. That last little distance—that barest stretch of dignity he’d retained by not seeking her out—had been his salvation through centuries of wanting.

But with Elain…

He’d ceded the majority of hope he’d ever had of not wanting her for the rest of eternity when he’d let her touch his wings that night in his bedroom, and he’d yielded the rest when he’d kissed her tonight and let himself fully imagine what it would be like to be loved by her, to have her always at his side.

He let out yet another pained snarl, banging his fist on the fountain’s lip so hard that the water within shuddered in fear.

The shadows continued to roar in his ears, but even through the chaotic, cacophonous disappointment eddying his thoughts, he felt something foreign lurking at the edge of the poisonous fog that made up his mental shield, seeking permission to enter. He rolled his neck and let go of his strangling grip on the shadows, allowing the presence into the antechamber of his mind.

What the hell is going on? Rhys’s voice echoed. Mother’s tits, I can feel you seething from here.

Azriel clenched his jaw but didn’t reply. He couldn’t bare to voice what had happened, even knowing Rhys of all people would understand.

Talk Rhys commanded. What’s going on? Is Elain alright?

"She’s—beautiful, brave, in love with another male—she’s fine."

And you?

“You know me.”

Yes, I do. That’s why I’m asking.

Azriel felt the prescense in his mind rallying its strength, seeking to gain further entry.

“Get out my head,” he snarled, snapping at a tendril of Rhys’s power with a barbed one of his own.

Then tell me what’s going on with you! I can feel your distress from Velaris!

“I’m not distressed.”

Unhinged, then. Seriously, I—

"Can you never mind your own damn business?”

Azriel felt Rhys’s energy change, felt it sharpen and grow dark.

I’m still your High Lord. Tell me what’s going on or I swear to The Mother Az, I will unleash Nesta Archeron on you. Or maybe I’ll have Cassian kick your ass, I haven’t decided.

"Go ahead,” Azriel snarled quietly.

He could take Cassian and they both knew it. Besides, a few broken ribs would be a welcome distraction from the evening so far. Anything to numb the memory of Elain's hands sliding through his hair, down his chest...

Is it Vanserra? Has he—done something? Said something to you or Elain?

"He’s a child; I can handle him."

Yes, but does he need handling?

"It’s nothing,” Azriel replied, clenching and unclenching his left fist. He needed to hit something. Or better yet, someone.

Fine, Rhys snapped. But I want you back in Velaris in three days, or I will send Feyre and Nesta to sort whatever this is out.

“We leave for the mortal lands tomorrow. Depending on what happens with the boy, we could be back in Velaris by sundown.”

I will hold you to that, then.

“Fine,” Azriel said. “We’ll speak when I return.”

There was silence on the other end of the sinuous connection, but Azriel could feel Rhys’s presence linger.

Az, are you sure you’re alright?

“I said I was fine.”

Is this about you and Elain?

Azriel’s throat ached with the effort of keeping his voice even.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You don’t have to lie to me, brother. I see the way y—

Azriel snapped down his shields without so much as a goodbye, feeling with grim satisfaction as Rhys’s voice was smothered by the dark fog.

He stood alone in the darkness for several more minutes, fighting to force his pain back into the icy chest he’d kept it in all these years.

Some sick, tortured part of him yearned to go to Elain even now, to hear what she’d been about to say when he’d disappeared. She’d kissed him back, after all, and the way she’d touched his wings with such careful intent and writhed against him…

No, he wouldn’t. She’d made it clear enough where her heart lay. He wouldn’t burden her with the odious task of formally rejecting him, and he couldn’t trust his fractured composure not to betray him. No, he would stay here until he could master himself, even if it took all night. He had no choice but to face her when they left the following morning, but he promised himself that by then, he would be in control again. He didn’t have a choice: their mission was far from complete, and the journey would only get more difficult from here.

He forced all the tension, all the frustration and pain, from his shoulders and back, down his arms and stomach until the power of it was concentrated in his scarred hands, his favourite reminder of just how unworthy he’d always been, always would be. He snarled, and he felt the lip of the fountain strain beneath his grip, a thin tracery of cracks spidering through the marble.

The violence of it made him feel—if not better—at least less manic, and he let out a shuddering breath, head hanging low enough that he felt his shoulder blades touching, his wings forming a dark mandorla behind him that shielded him from prying eyes. Tamlin's sentries where still trying to sniff him out, the shadows warned him. Azriel let himself fade deeper into darkness. If someone were to pick a fight with him now, he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold back from tearing them apart, and he didn’t relish in the prospect of igniting a war with Spring over something so petty and selfish.

He tensed when he felt a shadowy presence appear behind him, but he forced himself to relax as Nuala approached. She stopped a measured distance away, waiting calmly for him to speak.

“Report,” he said, forcing his voice flat.

“Three sentinels were dispatched to find you, but they have been misdirected. The Lady Elain is in her room, and Cerridwen is with her.”

She paused, and he knew what she was hesitant to say.

“And the Autumn lordling?” he asked for her.

“Still at the festivity. Though he’s begun to make inquiries after her. Would you like me to…keep him distracted?”

Azriel clenched and unclenched his fist, tempted—so bloody tempted—to say yes. Because he’d seen the way Lucien had been looking at Elain, heard the subtle offer he’d made her. Not that Azriel could blame the spoiled prick for wanting Elain. She was his mate, after all, and she was so unbearably beautiful—the most beautiful female Azriel had ever seen. Even now, he could feel his own desire for her roiling like poison in his gut.

“No,” he bit out after a beat. “Just…keep an eye on him, and tell me where he goes.”

Nuala paused again. She’d been in his service enough to know his moods, and she must sense how black it was at present, how snarled and jagged the usually polished edges of his demeanor had grown.

“And if he should come to My Lady’s room?” she asked finally.

Azriel felt a surge of fetid emotion swell at the thought of Lucien’s hands on Elain, his lips on her bare skin…

“If she wishes to invite him in, that is her choice. I am her companion, not her keeper.”

He felt Nuala’s consideration as she debated commenting. He prayed she wouldn’t. He knew he’d trained her too well and that she’d seen too much of what had passed between him and Elain not to know the score by now, but he couldn’t bear the humiliation of all of it being dragged into the open.

“And you?” she said at length.

He felt more than heard as she chanced a small step forward. Not close enough to touch him, but enough that he could feel her shadows, cool and nimble, twining with his.

His own surged at the quiet caress, rising to whisper her silent invitation in her ear.

Ask her to your bed. She will not refuse. She will be attentive, she will—

Azriel turned, forcing himself to meet Nuala’s obsidian eyes. It would not be the first time he’d bedded her, but this was different. He could sense her offer, though sincere, was perfunctory, not born of any real desire for him. He wouldn’t be so selfish as to use her sense of duty against her. She was a loyal lieutenant, and she deserved better than to be a stand-in or a warm body. Besides, even if he hadn’t respected her as much as he did, he doubted bedding another female could lessen the pain of wanting Elain.

“I’ve heard the scouts report of trouble along the Northeastern border,” he said in answer. “I want to find out more before we leave. If Beron Vanserra is up to something, I would know what it is before we leave here.”

She nodded, stepping back dutifully.

“Of course,” she said, giving a small bow. “I will stay here.”

He nodded too, wishing he could find a way to express his gratitude to her without losing his grip on the reigns of the weak bit he’d managed to wrestle between his pain’s sharp, stubborn teeth.

“Thank you, Nuala,” he managed, and she inclined her head again.

“Anything, my lord.”

He bristled at the title, an ill-fitting moniker only the wraiths ever forced on him, despite centuries of protestation. Unable to find the strength to fight her on it tonight, he unfurled his wings in tacit farewell, offering her only the barest nod before exploding into the night with a leathery boom.

Azriel stayed awake until dawn, flying unseen over the territory, all the way to the outskirts of the Autumnal border. There he listened to the scout’s reports of what they’d seen, of the few Autumn spies they’d caught lurking to close to the demarcation line between their two terrorities. None of them seemed to know what they wanted, even Tamlin, who showed up to receive reports of his own just before daybreak. Lucien, Azriel noted, was not with him, and Azriel tried to assure himself it was because he was no longer Tamlin’s emissary, and that despite their professed friendship, he was no longer privy to Tamlin’s secrets. It was a desperate hope, but Azriel clung to it, not able to bear the alternative. He’d heard nothing from Nuala after he’d left her, but she seemed to understand the situation well enough that she likely would have withheld any information she knew would hurt him, unless it compromised Elain’s safety.

Azriel arrived back to his room in the early hours of morning, feeling weary to his very bones. He’d expected to have a better grip on his emotions by now, but he still felt hollowed out and raw. A few more days, he reassured himself. It was only a few more days, and when he got back to Velaris, he’d beg Rhys for something—anything—to take him out of the city and away from Elain and Lucien for a time. He hoped the distance might lend him perspective, and peace, and that when he returned, he and Elain could go back to the friendship they’d shared before all this, just as he and Mor had done so many centuries ago.

It was the prospect of losing that, he realized, that scared him more than having to watch her mate another male. He wanted Elain, yes, he likely always would, but it was her spirit—her soul—he loved best about her, and it would be worth any other pain to be allowed to keep spending time with her as they’d done in the months after Hybern’s defeat. He only prayed now that she would accept it, and that as her mate, Lucien would find the restraint to bear it.

Once in his room, he practically tore the fine velvet jacket he still wore in his haste to get the garment off. It still smelled faintly of Elain, he realized, and the scent had been quietly driving him to madness all evening, even as he struggled to get her out of his thoughts. He tried not to breathe in as he wrestled the monstrosity over his head, but he couldn’t escape the whisper of rose and magnolia that brushed against his senses. Even now, even after everything that had happened, he could feel his body react to the smell, to the memory of her soft body undulating against—

He growled, ripping off his boots and hurling one at the wall hard enough to crack some of the gilded moulding. Satisfied, he prowled into the bathing room, filling the tub with scalding hot water and generous amounts of eucalyptus to cool his sizzling nerves. He still didn’t feel entirely in control of himself, and he feared what would happen if he faced Elain with anything other than full restraint.

He felt his shadows rise in a flare, whispering to him as he settled into the bath.

The lordling did not visit her during the night, but he is with her now. They are sharing a private meal. She is calmed by his presence.

Azriel considered this before pushing the shadows outward, letting them slip from beneath the door and slither across the hall, until they could hear what was being said in the room beyond.

“You retired early last night,” Lucien commented. His tone was light, carefully observational, but the shadows could sense the underlying desperation in the question.

He suspects, they whispered to Azriel. He fears that Elain sought you out. He wishes to reassure himself.

“I’m sorry,” Elain said in response to Lucien’s unspoken question. “It’s been a trying few weeks, and I just wanted to be well-rested for our journey.”

Lucien remained silent as he considered. The shadows noted his elevated pulse, the way he seemed to fight to keep him muscles relaxed.

“I hope it isn’t because of what I said,” he finally managed. “I would never want you to feel as if I expect…“

He trailed off, and the shadows drank in the younger male’s quiet desperation.

“I don’t,” Elain assured him, and there was a soft affection in her tone. Azriel knew she could sense Lucien’s distress as well, and it wasn’t in her nature to allow someone to flounder in their own pain, particularly not someone with whom she shared such a holy bond. “I am flattered you find me so...“

She trailed off, and the shadow noted as Lucien’s heart rate continued to climb.

“I do,” Lucien said in a soft, intent voice. “More than any other female I’ve ever met. Elain—“

Azriel let out a pained snarl, withdrawing his shadows to avoid hearing any more. He watched as they bled into the water of the bath instead, leeching the it’s warmth and mirror-bright reflection until the water was obsidian and bitterly cold. Azriel forced himself to remain for several minutes, letting the chill center him. Only when he felt his muscles begin to go numb from cold did he let himself get out, dressing with brutal Illyrian efficiency. Even still, he felt his fingers trembling slightly as he attached Truth-teller to his leg. He flexed his hands several times in an effort to dispel their shaking.

He could do this. He’d faced far worse than this in his life, and he wasn’t seventeen anymore. Rolling his shoulders and letting his wings flex in agitation, he finally tucked them to his back, feeling better as he slid his sword home into the sheath along his spine. He was free from the insidious restraints of court, he reminded himself, and it made him feel a fraction less manic. An hour, tops, and he would be free of this place and the mess he’d made for himself here. If he was lucky, it would be a hundred years before he was forced to return here, if not longer.

Touching Truth-teller’s hilt to steel his nerve, he crossed the hall and knocked on Elain’s door.

“Who is it?” Lucien called, and Azriel grit his teeth in irritation.

He debated a sharp retort, the same kind Vanserra himself would have given were their positions reversed. Instead he merely admitted himself, closing the door behind him with a soft snick.

He forced his eyes to pass over Elain in an assessing arc, as if merely insuring she was safe and suitably outfitted for travel. In reality, seeing her, having her scent wash over him, was the most exquisite agony, a twisting of the knife the previous evening have jammed into his gut.

Elain was dressed in a simple gown in midnight blue, which set off her creamy ivory skin and made her brown eyes seem almost gold. Someone—likely Cerridwen—had plaited her hair down her back, and even now, Azriel had to fight down the urge to run the silken rope of its length through his fingers. He settled for flexing them instead, letting his expression grow harder as he turned to Lucien.

“Alright, let’s hear this plan of yours.”

Lucien had—to Azriel’s furious chagrin—kept their travel route to himself for the past several weeks, insisting that its secret needed to be guarded until it was absolutely necessary to divulge it. Azriel had bristled at the enduring insult of the gesture, of the suggestion he either couldn’t or wouldn’t keep the stupid, spoiled lordling’s secrets if asked.

Lucien crossed his arms.

“We winnow to the coast, and take a ship to the continent from there.”

“A ship?” Azriel repeated incredulously.

“A clever invention to safely transport one across a body of water,” Lucien replied in a glib tone, giving Elain a small wink that had Azriel seeing red. “Have you truly never heard of one?”

Azriel loosed a soft growl, fighting to keep his wings from unfurling to express the full measure of his agitation. It was Illyrian instinct to show one’s wings when challenged, and the urge was especially strong when a contested female was present. He’d already slipped up and done it once in front of Vanserra. He couldn’t afford a second time. Besides, he reminded himself, there would be no more contesting for Elain’s favor from his end.

“We don’t have time for your childish games, Vanserra,” he warned in a quiet, deadly voice. “It’s more than a week to the kingdom by sea, and we’ll be vulnerable to attack.”

“Attack from whom, Shadowsinger? No one knows where we’re going.”

“Tamlin knows,” Azriel shot back coolly. “That’s more than enough threat for me.”

Lucien bristled at the insult to his friend, and Azriel felt his fury growing. How Vanserra could stand there, after everything Tamlin had put Azriel’s family through—put Lucien’s own mate through—and still defend the prick, Azriel would never understand.

“The kingdom’s borders are warded,” Lucien said prudently instead. "Vassa’s guards have orders to shoot anyone who tampers with them on sight.”

“Leave that to me,” Azriel said. “I can get through a few wards.”

“And if you do?” Lucien said. “How will you explain our presence at court if we simply appear out of thin air?”

“Perhaps if I’d known this was your plan three weeks ago, I would have an answer to that question.”

“Spare me. You couldn’t even—“ Lucien began, but Elain cut him off.

“Please, let’s not fight,” she said, worrying a pair of soft riding gloves in her hands. “Azriel, if Lucien says this is the best way, I think we ought to trust him.”

Azriel felt the knife sinking in just that much deeper, and he had to keep himself from flinching at her words, and the realization that lay behind them. It was Lucien she trusted, Lucien she’d chosen to follow.

“Az,” she said, and he stiffened at the gentleness of her tone, and the intimacy in evoking a diminutive he’d only allowed a handful of people to ever use. “Please.”

He couldn’t help it; he glanced up at her, and the look she was giving him was enough to make him regret it. Her expression was a bare echo of the pained one she’d given him the previous evening, after things had gone so terribly wrong between them. Still, he couldn’t find it in himself to undermine her decision by refusing to honor it, and anyways, he wasn’t sure he could resist attacking Vanserra if they kept arguing.

“Fine,” he said, needing to get out of this room, out of this damn territory. “But if something should go awry, Vanserra, know that it’ll be on your head.”

Lucien rolled his eyes like the petulant child he still seemed to Azriel, and he had to fight not to spring at the other male. He flexed his left hand to keep it from straying to Truth-teller’s hilt.

“Make your preparations, then,” Azriel said. “We’ll leave at nine bells.”

Lucien bristled at the command in Azriel’s tone, but he ignored the younger male, letting his eyes pass over Elain and hoping she couldn’t see all the things he was still longing to say.

With a bare nod to her, he left the room, crossing into his own and making for a small table in the back arranged with a number of ornate liquor bottles. Not bothering with one of the crystal glasses, Azriel unstoppered one and took a long, bitter swig. It burned going down, but he ignored the cloying taste, taking another sizable draught, then another.

“Is that wise, My Lord?” a soft voice echoed. “You have a long journey ahead of you.”

Azriel didn’t turn, but he did set down the bottle he was holding, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before, and his empty stomach rioted in protest at the liquor now heaving in his belly.

“Not now, Nuala. Please.”

“I would not see you make yourself sick, My Lord.”

Azriel grit his teeth, even as his stomach continued to roil.

“If I wanted a lecture,” he said. “I would have brought Morrigan.”

She didn’t reply to this, and Azriel knew her training was telling her she’d said what she needed to.

“I need you to go back to Velaris,” he said. “The plan has changed, and Rhys needs to be informed.”

“My Lord—“ she began, but he turned, holding up a hand.

“It’s not a dismissal, Nuala,” he assured her. “But I don’t have a way to reach The High Lord, and I gave him my word that I’d be back in Velaris by last light.”

It wasn’t strictly true, he could drop his mental shields and call out, but he was still having some difficulty keeping his shadows on a leash, and he didn’t want Rhys to know, though he likely already suspected.

“You could send Cerridwen,” she pointed out.

“I could,” he agreed. “But I am sending you. Can I trust you to follow my orders?”

She nodded, and he felt a whisper of her darkness brush against his in a gesture of silent comfort.

“Thank you,” he said, and she nodded again, already blurring into shadow.

Azriel let out a long breath when she was gone, resisting the urge to take another swallow from the bottle. Nuala was right, it was a long journey, and he wasn’t Cassian; he knew better try and drown his problems in liquor. In the end, they never died, only resurfaced gorged on drink.

Retreating into the bathing room, he washed out his mouth instead, splashing cold water on his face and neck.

The High Lord waits in the Receiving Hall. Your presence is expected. The guard has been doubled, and they grow restless.

Steeling himself, Azriel strode from the room, trying to ignore the faint lingering scent from the night Elain had healed his wings. Without even fully realizing it, he’d been preserving it, not allowing it to fade. It had been a foolish decision, especially as it tortured him one final time, but he couldn’t help clinging to it, nor could he deny that with the exception of the night before, her familiar aroma had helped him sleep better than he had in decades. Centuries, even.

Letting the door slam shut behind him, he swiftly made his way down to the Receiving Hall, where Elain, Lucien, Tamlin, and—indeed—a small army of guards awaited.

“I’m not accustomed to being made to wait, Shadowsinger,” Tamlin said in greeting, and Azriel only clenched his jaw in response. He was so close to freedom, there didn’t seem much point in souring it by punching the smarmy bastard in the face.

There was a beat of charged silence before Lucien stepped from Elain’s side, extending a hand to his friend. Tamlin accepted the gesture, and the two males gripped one another at the elbow before embracing.

“See you soon, Tam,” Lucien assured him, pulling away. Tamlin didn’t reply, but his expression was warmer than usual, and when his eyes fell on Elain, he held out a hand for hers.

Elain hesitated so briefly Azriel was sure that only he and the shadows noticed before slipping her gloved hand into his. Tamlin pressed a courtly kiss onto the supple suede sheathing her knuckles.

“It's been an honor, Elain Archeron,” he said in a flat, cordial tone. “And I was right in my predictions. Despite your…” he glanced up at Lucien. “...situation, I have been inundated with requests for your hand in marriage, Princess of Thorns or no.”

Lucien let out a low snarl Azriel himself only barely managed to keep back.

“Tell me the hands,” Lucien said, tone acerbic. “So I can cut them off.”

Tamlin gave a light laugh, and Elain used the opportunity to retract her hand and retreat back to Lucien’s side.

“Don’t worry, Lucien,” he chided, the bitterness edging back into his tone as he watched his friend press a reassuring hand to Elain’s back. “It seems you have little to fear where your mate is concerned.”

Elain flushed scarlet, and Azriel felt his own temper straining at the leash. He knew that Elain already felt enough pressure to fulfill expectations and mate Lucien. It made Azriel’s blood boil to see her goaded about it. Or perhaps that was simply his jealousy rearing its ugly head at the prospect of Elain becoming another male’s bride. No, not another male, he reminded herself. Her match, Cauldron-divined and Mother-blessed.

It was here, while Azriel was still fighting to keep his expression blank, that Tamlin’s eyes slid to him and went cold.

"Tell your High Lord that I expect an invitation to his fabled city of stars. I think after this visit I’m owed the same plunder of secrets that my territory just endured from you.”

Azriel felt his ire bend to near breaking. The shadows told him he was on dangerous ground, furiously noted the rising heartbeats of the soldiers around him. He crossed his arms to keep from going for Truth-teller, and his back was screaming with the effort of keeping his wings tucked in behind him.

"The next time he leaves my High Lady’s bed for more than an hour,” he spat quietly. "I will be sure to let him know."

Tamlin unsheathed his claws and snarled, and Azriel felt his siphons flaring, all the pain and frustration of the previous evening sizzling under his skin, trying to fight free.

“How dare you,” Tamlin seethed, and Azriel only bared his teeth, wings tearing open in obvious challenge.

He would apologize to Rhys later, he thought as he felt the sentries moving in on him. As long as he didn’t kill anyone, he doubted Tamlin would have the balls to go to war over this.

“If I may,” Elain interjected breathlessly, sliding from Lucien’s side until she was in Tamlin’s line of sight, blocking his view of Azriel. Azriel’s agitation grew at seeing the female he loved so close to those lethal claws. “The Shadowsinger doesn’t speak for Rhysand or my sister. If it’s an invitation you’ve been waiting for, then perhaps you’d accept one from me on their behalf. Come for the Winter Solstice and dine as a guest of honour at the High Lord and Lady’s table. I think you’ve find they are both eager to mend the hurt between your two households.”

Tamlin considered Elain, chest still heaving, but something in her expression must have assuaged him, because after a second his claws retracted. Or perhaps it was simply her loveliness that had turned him. It was no exaggeration that she had a face designed to bring males to their knees, a face so exquisite in its rendering that the Cauldron itself had fallen in love with her, besotted enough to give her a gift It granted few others.

“You’ve taught her well, Lucien,” Tamlin said after a breath, still drinking Elain in. Azriel could sense her revulsion, but it didn’t show on her face as she continued to hold the High Lord’s gaze. "I accept your invitation, Lady. And you,” He turned back to Azriel, who let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding since Elain jumped in Tamlin’s path. "If you ever step foot in my territory again, your life will be forfeit. That’s a promise.”

Azriel, feeling at the end of his rope, simply wrapped himself in shadow and vanished, trying to calm himself down, cool the burning in his chest that had ignited the minute he’d heard Elain leave the party to come after him. He winnowed to the first checkpoint he and Lucien had agreed on, flexing and unflexing his fighting hand as he paced.

At the sound of a small pop he turned, sneering at Lucien as he advanced.

"What the hell is wrong with you?” Lucien said, shoving Azriel and nearly unraveling his tenuous control.

“Don’t touch me,” Azriel seethed, itching to teach this stupid, arrogant, unworthy welp the same lesson he’d been itching to teach the High Lord.

"Whatever it is you’re sulking about Illyrian, I suggest you get over it."

Azriel bared his teeth, wishing Cassian was there to knock the prick on his ass.

"I don’t sulk,” he snarled quietly.

Lucien gave a bitter laugh, ignoring Elain’s fretful glance darting between the two males.

"What’s wrong?” he jeered, making Azriel see red. "One of your wraiths refuse to suck your—"

Azriel flexed his power the same way one might a muscle, and his siphons flared, a Quarterstaff of blue admanant appearing in his left hand. He twirled it deftly as he used his right had to block a burst of autumnal fire before swinging it with blinding speed, knocking the spoiled lordling to the ground. Quick as an asp, he’d halved the staff into two wicked batons, turning to square off with Vanserra where he now stood, blade drawn.

“Stop!” Elain cried, breaking the blinding rage Azriel had slipped into. He could see the batons’ azure glow reflected in her eyes, and he let the power slip until they disappeared. “Lucien’s right,” she continued, gaze harder than usual. “That’s enough.”

Lucien was still snarling as he pulled her away from Azriel, as if to protect her. And she—Azriel felt the vice in his chest tighten. She let him, let him sweep her behind him.

Because he was her mate. Because they’d been made—designed—to protect one another from outside threats, just as they were doing now. And Azriel—he was that threat. He’d often felt uncomfortable in his own skin, especially with his scars, but he’d never felt so monstrous as he did watching Elain avoid his gaze from behind Lucien’s shoulder.

“Let’s go,” Lucien said, turning his back to Azriel and igniting Azriel’s savage Illyrian instinct to drive Truth-Teller between the bastard's eleventh and twelfth vertabrae, piercing his heart and severing his spine in one deft move.

Azriel felt another wave of acrid jealousy course through him as Lucien smoothed the tail of Elain’s braid between his thumb and forefinger, and in an instant he had his wings unfurled, flexing them wide before leaping into the air.

“Wait!” Elain cried, her hair whipping in the gust he’d created. “Where are you going?”

Away from you. Away from your scent, your smile, that pleading look in your—

“To scout ahead,” he said flatly. “I will meet you at the harbor no later than midday."

“Stay out of sight,” Lucien warned. “We’re close enough to the coast that Tamlin could claim plausible deniability if he had one of his sentries shoot you out of the sky."

Azriel bared his pearly teeth in a snarl.

“Let him try,” he said before shooting through the cloud bank and out of sight.

It was colder the higher he climbed, but he found the farther he got from Lucien and Elain, the easier it was to breathe. He let the chill soak into his skin, his hair, willing it to cool his blood. He could do this, he’d done it before, for almost five hundred years. That was different, though. So, so, different.

With Mor, he’d been little older than a child, unsure of himself and unable to control his desperate emotions. Besides, he’d been given a small reprieve from his pining for her when, sometime during Rhys’s exile Under the Mountain, Mor had come home one evening smelling of wine, sweat, and female desire and dropped, drunk, into Azriel’s bed.

At first he’d thought it was her own, and the realization that she’d come from another male’s bed had nearly undone him. However, as he’d lain there, trying not to breathe her in, he realized that while there was a foreign scent of desire clinging to her, it too was female. It was in that moment that the shadows whispered to him the secret he’d somehow never been able to see.

She’s taken a female lover, not her first. She is perhaps falling in love, and comes to you because she trusts you, thinks you a safe harbor.

It didn’t lessen the sense of unworthiness he’d always felt where Mor was concerned, the feeling too deeply ingrained to be erased in a single evening, but it was at least a small reprieve. It had still been painful to learn she’d bedded the Lord of Day during the war, but he also knew Mor well enough by then to understand why she’d done it. He was still waiting to hear it all from her, but knowing that it wasn’t Cassian she’d chosen, but freedom from her future, had been a balm.

But what he’d done last night…

With Mor, it had been misguided infatuation, and one that she’d always been careful not to encourage. With Elain, he could no longer deny that he was catastrophically in love with her, and it was a feeling he knew not even eternity would ever diminish.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to focus on the boom of his wings and the howl of the wind to calm himself. He’d been foolish to think he could ever go back to being her friend, and the realization rocked him so thoroughly he nearly lost his balance and tumbled from the sky like a felled bird. He’d ruined the best and most perfect thing that had ever been his when he’d crossed that line between them last night and taken advantage in a way she perhaps hadn’t even understood. He didn’t deserve her or her friendship, and he could no longer be around her, would have to do everything in his power to keep her away.

He was spent by the time he reached the coast and spotted the small schooner docked and waiting for them. It was crewed by mortals, he realized, all of whom bore Vassa’s crest. They all shrank back as Azriel landed on the deck, but he ignored them, grateful at least that to hear that Elain was taking a nap below. It meant that she was safe, and that he would be spared the agony of having to face her for at least a few more hours.

Giving the deck a final assessing sweep, he made to take back to the skies. If he stayed away long enough, she would be asleep again when he returned.

So he flew aimlessly back and forth up the coast, half-heartedly checking for threats and making sure to give the wards at the mortal shores a wide berth. Lucien had been right when he said they were well-protected, though Azriel would never admit as much aloud. It needled at Azriel, another reminder of his failure to infiltrate the other queen’s courts during the war, a failure which had cost them 78 lives in the attack on Velaris. As he ruminated on his own shortcomings, and the fact Lucien had not only managed what he couldn't, but that his alliance with Vassa and Elain’s father had likely helped turn the tide during the final battle, he felt himself fraying at the seams. It was no wonder Elain preferred him, mate or no. He’d done what Azriel could not; he’d saved them.

It was dark by the time he arrived back on the ship’s deck, back aching from so many hours in flight. He ought to rest, he could feel the lack of sleep tugging at him. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to go below decks. On top of everything, he realized he was eager to get back to the Night Court lands, and being under the stars, dim though they were in this part of the country, helped ease some of his distress.

As he stood, eyes closed as the night breeze rustled his hair, he felt his shadows rise, hearing their whispered warning a moment too late.

“We thought perhaps you weren’t coming back.”

Azriel fought not to tense as Elain’s sweet earthen scent washed over him. It was the most exquisite agony to be this close to her again, especially in a darkness so like the one they’d held each other in last night. Unsure of what to say, he didn’t reply, nor did he look at her as Elain swept forward to stand beside him. Her hair was unbound, and he felt it’s phantom brush on his arm, even through his leathers.

“So is this your plan?” she said softly. “To simply never speak to me again?”

He clenched his jaw, fighting the tightening in his throat again.

“What would you have me say?” he finally managed, his voice a hoarse croak. “Tell me, and I will."

She gripped the rail so tight he could see her knuckles through her ivory skin. Gone were the tears from last night. He could tell from her hammering pulse she was angry, perhaps angrier than he’d ever seen her.

"Tell me the truth,” she said, grabbing his arm so he was forced to look at her. “Tell me what you feel for me."

Azriel’s jaw ached from the effort of keeping the truth from tumbling out.

I love you. I will love you to the end of darkness itself.

"You have my loyalty and my respect,” he said finally. "You know that."

She gave a whine of frustration, eyes growing glassy.

"That’s not what I want from you!"

“What do you want, then?” he breathed in muted pain, wishing he had the strength to brush the tear that escaped down her cheek without pulling her into his arms and never letting go.

"Your honesty!” she snarled. "You say that we are friends, but this—“ she gestured to the space between then. “This is not friendship. And neither was what happened last night. So tell me the truth, Azriel: what is it you feel for me?"

"I respect—

"You’ve already said that! That’s not what I’m asking, and you know it!”

He was choking, drowning in the ocean of snarling, foaming, broken nothing that lay between them. The distance, which had been merely an unbridgeable canal between them before last night, was now on treacherous sea not even the stupidest soul would dare cross.

“Elain, I—I’m sorry."

She stamped her foot, more tears falling.

“Damn your sorry!"

"What is it you want from me, then, if not an apology?” he begged, panicking at the realization that she would not stop until she’d wrenched the truth from him, and his last bit of dignity with it.

"The truth!” she repeated, voice a touch pleading now. “Why did you kiss me the way you did? Why did you kiss me at all? Please, Azriel, help me to understand!"

“I—“ he began, nearly gagging on the three words he was dying to say to her. He made the mistake of glancing down at her devastating beauty, at the heart-rending warmth in her eyes. If he told her, she would try and forgive him for it, tell him it didn’t matter, and he couldn’t bear it.

Better she think him a cad than a heartsick pup. Better she hate him than pity him.

The hideous lie burned on his tongue, but he forced it out.

"You are a very desirable female, and I…I am not blind.”

She recoiled, and the horror on her face, the humiliation and pain, drove the knife home, cleaving his very being in two.

“You don’t mean that,” she breathed, bringing a hand to her chest as fresh tears welled.

“Elain,” he began, and he could see the barest glimmer of hope in her eyes that the male she’d admired, her friend, was still there. Azriel wanted to be that male for her, but he just…couldn’t. Couldn’t find the strength to spare her this pain by offering her the ugliest and most broken of all his truths: the female he loved did not—could not—love him back. “I’m sor—“

His neck snapped to the side as she hit him with all her fae strength, and his cheek burned from the pain of it. Still, he made no move to stop her as she drew her hand back and slapped him again.

“Elain—“ he pleaded, sense flooding in to drown his own selfish pain and urge him to set things right. To tell her the truth, no matter what it cost him.

It was too late. She hit him a third time, the force of it hard enough to break the skin. When he forced himself to look back at her, her face was a mess of tears, but as he instinctually reached for her, she backed away, the horror and sadness replaced with a scalding emnity that burnt him to cinders.

“You have no honor,” she snarled through strangled sobs. “And you are not the male I thought you were.”

“Elain—“

“I hate you,” she seethed, wiping at her eyes as she retreated into the darkness. “Never speak to me again.”

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stcllify · 6 years

Text

Looking for RP Contacts:

basics ––––

NAME: C’etih Tehre Etoile Delarmes AGE: Late teens - early twenties RACE: Moonkeeper Miqo’te GENDER: Female SEXUALITY: Demisexual; panromanitic, male preference MARITAL STATUS: Single SERVER: Balmung! But I am more than happy and willing to hop to other servers for a visit~

physical appearance ––––

HAIR: Short. At the length it currently is, it looks a bit straight, but her hair actually curls gently at the tips. If grown out, or if it dries without her brushing through it properly, her hair has natural waves to it. As for the colour, there’s debate on whether it looks more brown or blond... it’s a bit of a mix between the two and sits at a very creamy, sepia sort of shade. She’s had her hair cut since Heavensward, though as of Stormblood, she may be debating on growing it again. EYES: Heterochromatic, one blue (her right), one topaz (her left). HEIGHT: 4’10′’ or so? BUILD: She has a rather petite frame, thin and lean, but not scrawny. She has lightly toned muscles, and a figure that is somewhere between pear and hourglass. She has a thin waist and wider set of hips... but her chest is a little on the flatter side. Don’t point it out unless you want her to possibly hurl a lemon at you. She has a little bit of a complex about it... DISTINGUISHING MARKS: Heterochromia, very faint facial tattoo markings on her cheeks and forehead. COMMON ACCESSORIES: Earrings- she changes them up a good lot. She’s fond of hats and flowers in her hair, as well as a necklace fashioned out of some sort of scrap metal. It looks to be of Ishgardian steel, and seems to be crafted into the shape of what may be a shield. There’s a horned beast’s motif painted onto it in red...

personal –––-

PROFESSION: Warrior of Light / Darkness, Astrologian Adventurer HOBBIES: She’s incredibly fond of stargazing and reading, though you may also find her exploring heavily forested areas. She enjoys spending time with friends and animals. Raises a bunch of small creatures (some of which will grow into not-so-small creatures). LANGUAGES: Common, some Ishgardian, Thravnairan. RESIDENCE: A small apartment in the Lavender Beds, Fortemps Manor (WOL verse) FEARS: Her loved ones dying, abandonment, being unwanted, being rejected, falling in love.

relationships –––-

SPOUSE: None. CHILDREN: None. PARENTS: C’aena Khaer (Mother, disowned), Tehre’to Mhanalie (Never met, whereabouts and status unknown). SIBLINGS: C’aedryn Tia (Half-brother) OTHER RELATIVES: ??? Has multiple half-siblings on father’s side that she’s not met. Father is a Moonkeeper.

traits –––-

extroverted / introverted / in between (more extroverted)

disorganized / organized / in between

close minded / open-minded / in between

calm / anxious / in between

disagreeable / agreeable / in between

cautious / reckless / in between

patient / impatient / in between

outspoken / reserved / in between

leader / follower / in between (Can be either, depends on what the situation calls for)

empathetic / unemphatic / in between

optimistic / pessimistic / in between (more optimistic towards others, pessimistic towards herself).

traditional / modern / in between

hard-working / lazy / in between

cultured / un-cultured / in between

loyal / disloyal / in between

faithful / unfaithful / in between

additional information –––-

SMOKING HABIT:

never / sometimes / frequently / to excess.

DRUGS:

never /sometimes / frequently / to excess.

ALCOHOL:

never / sometimes / frequently / to excess

possible hooks –––-

Forest Dwellers? Are you a native of Gridania? Then there may have been a chance for Etoile to happen upon you during her forest exploration rounds! She often spends time in heavily forested areas, curious looking around for plants or animals. Perhaps it’s a strange hobby, but she also seems to enjoy climbing trees... Though there has been an instance where she’s gotten stuck before.

A fellow scion? Then there’s definitely a chance that there’s been a meeting at the Rising Stones, or perhaps they’ve adventured around together.

Ishgardian? Etoile has been in the care of one very eccentric Cyneric de Dzemael. Do you know of her slightly unhinged “teacher”?

A traveler? Etoile wanders around quite often and it isn’t unlikely for her to initiate conversations with her fellow wanderers. She goes around everywhere she can.

If there’s anything else, we can certainly discuss it! These are just a few that came off the top of my head, but my girl’s rather social and enjoys making friends and talking to others.

what I’m looking for ––––

PRETTY MUCH ANYTHING, REALLY?? And FRIENDS!!! IC and OOC! I’d love to make more tumblr and in-game connections! Also, I’d love to establish relationships of any kind for Etoile?? Friendly/Platonic/Familial… Or even Enemies/Rivals/Frienemies! I’m up for anything honestly- the sort of relationship where two personalities clash and can’t stand each other, but are inexplicably fond of and concerned for the other’s well-being, a sort of relationship between fellow scions where they're constantly trying to one up and other and improve themselves- anything! Will your muse become concerned about this youthful beam of light who has a tendency to take care of others but neglect herself? Do they need a warm smile and an extended hand? We've got you covered!

I'm always happy to do RP of pretty much any sort! Plotted, spontaneous, things that start from me sending a meme, or you sending a meme; I'm up for whatever! I'll write casual, light, cheerful themes, silly things, cute things, but I'm also willing to engage in darker themes and angst (god I love angst; if you want angst I'm immediately on board)! Send me a message~ I'm happy to write with OCs, other WoLs, and NPCs alike! Doesn't matter to me if you're single muse, dual-muse, multi-muse, whatever- hit me up~!

oocly, I am ––––

A complete dork. LMAO ;; I’m also pretty shy and I kind of suck at initiating a conversation, but I do love talking to people. ; w ;/ I’m more on the introverted side, but come at me screaming about anything you like tbh and I will happily scream with you. I’m 100% interested in making friends.

Slow to respond at times tbh! ;; This goes for messages and RP unfortunately; I have a really hectic schedule because I’m in a full time program at college right now, and I have a part time job on the side (only as a substitute preschool teacher though OTL my income ain’t steady this semester) but this often leaves me incredibly tired and drained... because of this, I don't tend to respond right away even if I want to, or I respond a bit sporadically. ;; But please don't take this as disinterest, or me ignoring you! I promise that isn’t the case. I’m just hella busy, and sometimes my life leaves me overly fatigued, and I often collapse into bed when I get home OTL

A multi-paragraph writer! It's been ingrained in me from the very beginning of my writing days LMAO ;; Please don't feel that you must match me; I’d rather you write at a rate and length that makes you comfortable! Multi-para is just how I’m comfortable with things, and sometimes posts come out longer than I initially planned or expected even if I try to keep it short LMAO.

HAPPY to plot things with you, make AUs with you... Any rp things? Throw them at my face.

On Balmung! BUT I haven't engaged in in-game rp because I get nervous and I’m slow LMAO ;; So please forgive me for that! ;; If you contact me on here asking for in-game rp, please keep this in mind. > <! I will try, but... rip.

you can contact me via ––

Tumblr Messages or Discord~! You can try in-game also, but I have a tendency to multi-task or AFK. Sometimes I log on and leave it there while I work on homework, and occasionally pop back into FFXIV for like 2 seconds to eye the market board or something, so Discord or Tumblr is your best bet. ;; But if I’m doing homework, I might not respond right away, since I tend to hyper-focus on finishing stuff up. > <!

#FFXIV #FFXIV RP #Balmung #Balmung RP

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dillydedalus · 3 years

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november reading

so with lockdown #2, my master’s thesis done & handed in etc, i just had absolutely nothing going on so this month so... lots of books. featuring Houses full of statues and birds, an AU of weimar berlin, and... the plague?

someone who will love you in all your damaged glory, raphael bob-waksberg (audio) actually listened to this last month! anyway even tho i forgot about it, i actually really liked it! it’s a collection of short stories, all about love in some way, most with a strange twist - a couple wants a small wedding but the MIL insists they have to at least sacrifice 5 goats to the stone god and have a shrieking chorus, or it’s hardly a real wedding, right? that kind of thing. i really liked these stories; they were fun, hopeful without being cheesy (mostly), and the audio production, with lots of actors reading the different stories was fun. 4/5

the driver’s seat, muriel spark man this novella is nasty, but in a good way - sharp, vicious, mean but so well executed. it’s also pretty hard to discuss without spoiling it & i do think one should go into this unspoiled. but it’s certainly a classic of the unhinged women genre, showing lise seemingly making herself as noticeable, irritating and off-putting as she can on a trip to an unnamed (probably italian) city. 3.5/5

the empress of salt and fortune, nghi vo (singing hills cycle #1) a lovely novella set in an asian-inspired fantasy empire, which shows young cleric chih and their speaking hoopoe almost brilliant learn the story of a previous empress, a northerner who rose from exile as an cast-aside wife to power and of her servant, a peasant girl called rabbit. enjoyed the setting and the way this story unfolded through objects and rabbit’s retelling, and will definitely read the sequel novella which comes out in december. 3.5/5

pine, francine toon (audio) this is a crime/thriller type book with some horror elements about a young girl whose mother has disappeared mysteriously when she was very small. she lives with her dad in the scottish highlands close to a giant forest. the beginning is pretty cool & creepy, but then like 80% of it is just the girl being sad & wanting to know what happened to her mother & the dad being an alcoholic mess. and then most of the plot happens in the last 10% & isn’t great. disappointing. 2/5

where the wild ladies are, aoko matsuda (tr. from japanese by polly barton) a collection of short stories retelling japanese folklore stories about female ghosts/monsters with a feminist twist. on the whole, i liked these stories, but also found them a lot more light in tone than i expected; i guess i thought this would be more on the wild & raw side, so i ended up finding them a bit underwhelming. might also be a problem with lacking cultural context. will say tho that tilted axis press is great & i will seek out more of their books. 2.5/5

piranesi, susanna clarke (audio) god this was so good! so delightful! the House with its many rooms full of tides and clouds and birds and statues is a wonderful, magical yet melancholy setting, the narrator is kind & gentle & earnest, full of wonder and curiosity at the House and its mysteries (the contrast between the narrator’s and the Other’s attitude to the House... yes), the slow building up to the numerous reveals are just. very well done. the writing is lovely (did i almost cry about the albatross? yes) and chiwetel ejiofor is a great audio narrator. just all around lovely & the ending hits just right. 4.5/5

doomsday book, connie willis reading this book during lockdown #2.... a galaxy brain move i wouldn’t necessarily recommend. anyway this is set in a near future where time travel is used for historical research; oxford university is sending the young historian kivrin on the first mission to the middle ages (1320, which is perfectly safe, as far as medieval years go), but things go wrong and soon modern day oxford is under quarantine (ha. how wild. can you imagine.) and kivrin notices that some things are a bit off about where she is (spoiler it’s actually 1348 and y’all know what that means right... PLAGUE TIME). lots of people on goodreads found this slow and boring and while it is pretty damn slow (and for a world with time travel way too many plot points hinge on being unable to contact people by telephone), i found it riveting and uh dread-inducing throughout, but also really warm and immersive. adored this, was devastated at the end. even almost a month later i’m still in my feelings about it. 4.5/5

too loud a solitude, bohumil hrabal (tr. from czech by michael henry heim) a novella i intellectually appreciated but didn’t really love - the narrator works as a paper compactor in a nightmarish basement full of mice (that also get crushed by the hundreds) from where he imagines rat wars in the sewers but from where he also saves hundreds of books. it’s fascinating & well-written but as soon as it gets away from the nightmare paper-crushing basement, it just loses its appeal, especially when the narrator reminisces about his relationships to women (how to simultaneously put women on a pedestal and smear shit on them!!!). 3/5

i’m thinking of ending things, iain reid literary horror/thriller type book with a really intriguing first half, as a young woman is visiting her boyfriend’s parents for the first time while thinking of ending the relationship and things increasingly feel off (the parents are weird, there’s a picture on the wall that the boyfriend claims is him as a child, but is actually her, she gets weird voicemails from her own number). great sense of vague unease, very scary. then the second half kind of blows up the whole story in a way that i should theoretically find interesting but just found kind of underwhelming and not scary, especially since the ending then feels the need to spell it all out for you. 2/5

passing, nella larsen (reread) ugh this is brilliant and i almost don’t have anything to say about it so i’ll just summarise it i guess. it’s a novella about two black women in 1920s america, who knew each other as teenagers and who run into each other in a rooftop bar, where both of them are passing as white. irene finds out that clare is passing full-time, married to a white man who does not know that she is black, and although she strongly disapproves, she can’t help but be seduced (the queer subtext is strong here) into renewing their friendship, which begins to threaten her sense of stability and control. this book is pretty much pitch-perfect, has a lot of things to say about race, loyalty, what happens when categories we live by are threatened or destabilised, and is also just tight and elegantly written and. ugh. brilliant. 5/5

ring shout, p. djèlí clark an alternative history/fantasy book where the ku klux klan gets possessed by demons from another dimension and a group of black (and other marginalised) women (some men too) who are able to see these demons have to fight them from gaining more power through a showing of birth of a nation. note: the klan is still already evil without the demons, but their evil makes it easier for the demons to possess them. very cool concept, very cool setting, but i found the main character and some of the plot progression a little boring. 3/5

amberlough, lara elena donnelly (amberlough dossier #1) this is really just the nazi takeover of weimar berlin in an alternate world (literally... the denizens of the city of amberlough are amberlinians... the two epigraphs are from le carre and cabaret...), told thru an amberlinian spy (cyril) forced to work for the nazi-equivalent (the ospies), his secret cabaret mc/smuggling kingpin boyfriend (aristide), and rough-and-tumble sally bowles (cordelia). as such, it’s extremely my shit, although i will say that donnelly makes it a bit easy on herself by making the nazi parallel so very overt; the ospies’ ideology is not particularly detailed beyond ‘real fashy’ and wanting to unite four loosely federated states. it’s just.... a bit weaksauce, and while she does include an ethnic minority for the ospies to hate, this also doesn’t feel as fundamental to their ideology as it should. also cyril sucks. but these issues may be solved in the sequels & it was a lot of fun. also.... amazing cover. 3/5

the vanishing half, brit bennett very much in conversation with larsen’s passing, this is a 2020 historical novel about passing, colorism, and identity, in which desiree and stella, very light-skinned african american twins who grow up in a black town that values lightness very much, become separated when stella chooses to pass for white and marry a white man. the book is very immersive and engaging, and stella and desiree are interesting characters, but (i felt unfortunately) much of the book is focused on their daughters, whose chance meeting might expose stella/reunite the sisters/etc etc, but who weren’t as interesting. the plot also relies on coincidences a lot which is a bit annoying. still an interesting and entertaining read. 3/5

die stadt der anderen, anthology printed version of an art project where three pairs of authors were sent on trips through berlin, which each person writing about what the other person showed them and how they experienced the city through the other. there was nothing earth-shaking in this, but reading it during lockdown was lovely. in conclusion i love berlin... would love to experience it again some time. 3/5

the fire this time, edited by jesmyn ward collection of essays on anti-black racism in america, many in response to the beginning of the black lives matter movement. i don’t have much to say about it, but it is very good and i would recommend. as is often the case with essay anthologies about serious topics i don’t really think i can rate it.

intimations, zadie smith a very short collection of essays written during early lockdown. smith is always smart and fun but i wish these had been a little more focused on politics and less on personal experience, but like, you can’t really criticise a book for not being what you wanted it to be. ‘contempt as a virus’ was very good.

superior: the return of race science, angela saini really solid, engaging and accessible discussion of race science and why... it’s bad & dangerous, both looking at race science in the past and the invention of race, and how it is returning and regaining influence (not to say that race science ever completely disappeared, but as saini explains, it moved into a more marginal space in the sciences after ww2). 3.5/5

the hive, camilo josé cela (tr. from spanish by j.m. cohen & arturo barea) spanish modern classic set in madrid during the last few years of ww2. told thru short fragmentary snippets with a huge rotating cast of characters, mostly lower and middle class, going about their days, with the theme tying them together being “the city, that tomb, that greased pole, that hive”, which is a very sexy line, but unfortunately it didn’t work for me. the tone is v dispassionate and in combination with the huge cast it just made me profoundly unengaged. it also has the weird habit of changing scene in the middle of a paragraph, which i found rather confusing. 2.5/5 slave old man, patrick chamoiseau (tr. from french by linda coverdale) absolutely amazing short novel from the creolité movement aabout an old slave, seemingly resigned to his position, suddenly escaping and being pursued by the slavemaster’s terrifying monstrous mastiff through the forests of martinique, but really also about selfhood, relearning humanity, trauma and nature. the language is at turns sparse and lush and always gorgeous and the translation from french/creole uses endnotes (we love an endnote) and a strategy of doubling to retain some of the original language, which was really cool to read. so yeah this is brilliant. 4/5

mexican gothic, silvia moreno-garcia gothic horror novel about young mexican socialite noemí visiting her recently-married cousin in her new (english) family’s isolated, creepy and dilapidated mansion after said cousin sent a disturbing and strange letter calling for help. gothic horror shenanigans involving vivid dreams, family secrets and eugenics ensue. after a slow start, i absolutely devoured the second half in one afternoon bc once it gets going it REALLY gets going. not super-scary, but a nice creepy atmosphere & reveal. also loved how it combines the clear yellow wallpaper inspo (the cousin’s letter involves people in the wallpaper) and the focus on the english family’s eugenic ideology (not a fun fact but charlotte perkins gilman was a eugenicist), and the vain & flighty but also smart & stubborn protagonist. had a lot of fun with this. 3.5/5

i’m also still reading a tale of love and darkness by amos oz which is really good but which is taking me forfuckingever.

#the books i read #long post #capital-H House is way nicer than blue text house

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lubdubsworld · 7 years

Text

The Perfect Husband ( Jung Kook/Oc)

Chapter 2

"It looks like I'm going to have to cut it just a little shorter, to make it even. " The lady at the small salon near the college dorms gave me an apologetic smile and I swallowed in misery. Shorter? It barely brushed my shoulder blades as it was. But she didn't hack it off and was very careful not to reduce the length more than necessary. In the end she also talked me into getting some lowlights.

"You look very pretty ." She said very cheerfully. I stared at my face. I didn't look pretty . I looked like every other woman Jung Kook took to his bed. Slutty. Whorish. Begging for attention.

I wanted to sob . I wanted to kill him.

I wanted to die, really.

Instead, I finished paying and made my way to the bus stand only to be greeted by the sight of Jeon Jung Kook leaning against the wall outside the salon, kissing his girlfriend. Or , to be more accurate, dry humping her. The moment he saw me, he pulled off and smiled, lips still slick with spit and swollen red. His teeth sunk into his lush lower lip and he stuck his tongue out lewdly, looking me up and down.

"There she is. My better half." he drawled and I ignored him, walking right by. Of course he wouldn't let me go that easy. Fingers curled around my arm and yanked me so hard, i was pretty sure my shoulder came unhinged. But I wasn't giving in that easy. I yanked right back and he loosened his hold, enough for me to hit him with my backpack, right in the side of his head.

He swore and stumbled a bit.

"You little bitch..."

I didn't wait for him to come after me, quickly jumping on the bus that pulled over, not even bothering to see where it was headed. Sitting on the hard seats, I finally let the tears fall. It seemed my life was truly over, I thought blankly, staring out the window. I couldn't imagine what he would do once he actually started having twenty four hours unrestricted access to me.

Why did he hate me though?

it made no sense.

I didn't want to trouble him. If he allowed me to, I'd never even appear in front of his face again.

There was something very mysteriously wrong with Jeon Jung Kook and no matter how much I hated him, I would have to find out what it was, if for no other reason than to keep myself safe.

I remembered his girlfriend, Kim ji Ah, wasn’t that her name? How did she feel about this whole thing? She seemed perfectly content to suck his face despite the fact that he was engaged. That spoke volumes really.

~~~~~~~

"We'll announce the betrothal next week. And then you can move in with us for the twelve weeks before your marriage." My mother in law smiled and I felt my oxygen get cut off.

"What? I.. i don't want to move in.." My mother kicked me under the table and i stopped.

"she means that she'll start packing at once. We'll send her over in a couple of days. I understand that it's important for the kids to learn to be comfortable with each other."

"I'm plenty comfortable with him strangling me and dragging me around by my hair all the time. It makes me giddy with comfort. " I said under my breath.

"What's that?! Speak up, Ah reum !! "

I managed a weak smile.

"nothing Mrs. Jeon. I'm looking forward to be a part of your family." I said bleakly.

"Good, there are certain things you must learn before marriage. Proper etiquette. How to address all your elders. How to behave at official parties. Dining etiquette. You will be accompanying my son on major deals and dinners. You cannot embarrass us in any way. Meanwhile I have a schedule for all the things that need to be done before the wedding. You'll have to take Jung kook along for it all and I would appreciate if you keep him happy all the time. He's not yet warmed up to you and I expect you to change that. " She said loftily.

I considered the words, sinking deeper into depression. The only way to warm up Jeon jung Kook would be to toss him in a furnace. I volunteer, honestly.

I then spent an inordinate time on fansites dedicated to Jeon Jung Kook, trying to gather some information about the guy. There were disturbingly large number of these filled mostly with selcas and photos that were vaguely stalkerish in nature. I also noticed that any female who managed to get too close to him was summarily threatened, and cowed into staying away by some very royal ' fans' who were all on a mission to protect ' oppa'. I swallowed with renewed terror. I did not want to be the next on their list.

When i told Soyou she laughed outright .

“They’re just girls on the internet, Ah Reum. You’re going to be his wife. i think you have the upper hand here. “

And that was that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Less than a week later , I ended up at the Jeon mansion, all my things packed and sent and I waited in the foyer of the obscenely huge house, every breath erratic.

Jung Kook appreared like a frog disguised as a prince, hair styled, wearing a white silk shirt and perfectly tailored slacks. Even the knowledge that his personality was worse than pond slime did not stop me from grudgingly realizing that he was incredibly attractive.

"You actually came here. Wow, I was sure you'd run away from the country."

I gritted my teeth , absently reaching out to touch my hair and his eyes followed the movement , a pleased smile curving his features as he stepped up to me.

"You look better now. Kim Ah Reum." He drawled my name out. " They named you 'beautiful' ? Seems rather ironic, doesn't it?" He said with a confused tilt of his head.

I stared right at him.

"Is this your kink? Torturing innocent people? " I said finally.

His smile faltered.

"You're not innocent. You're just like the rest of them, trying to take advantage of my position in society. Well, guess what ? I'm no one's plaything. I'll be damned if i let you do that to me. " He said scornfully.

I felt my heart skip a couple of beats at that. It seemed a bit excessive, considering I really hadn't done anything of the sort.

"So, what do you want from me?" I said finally when he didn't say anything else.

He made a show of giving it some serious thought.

"I want you to stop pretending like you don't want to marry me. I want you to admit that you, like everyone else want me for my money, my status, the power of being Jeon Jung Kook's wife. "

"Fine. I want to be your wife because your rich, smart and powerful. It's hardly something to be ashamed of." I said with a shrug." In return, why don't you admit that you're just a fucking bully, who takes advantage of my lack of strength, just because you're too much of a coward to treat me like an equal!!"

I hadn't meant to spit it all out at him like that.

But my nerves were frayed beyond bearing and I'd spent a good forty eight hours, just wondering how far he was going to go, trying to hurt me.

If i was going to marry him, I deserved to know what made him want to hurt me, when he didn't do it with anyone else.

"Look at you, acting all tough. Missing the feel of my hand across your cheek?" He said softly, eyes narrowed in warning and I stood firm, refusing to be cowed.

"You're the man I'm going to spend the rest of my life with. Whether you like it or not, I'm the woman you're stuck with. Tell me what's wrong...Tell me what went wrong to turn you this way and i swear to God, I'll help you out. Anyway you want. if you want me a friend, I'll be that for you. if you want me to stay away from me , I'll do that. I swear, i don't want to hurt you or take advantage of you. I don't know what kind of people you've been with but that is not who I am, okay? Jung kook we can be friends..... " My tone came out very gentle and he actually swallowed.

"Get the fuck out of my face." He said very quietly.

"Jung Kook..."

"I SAID GET OUT!!!!"

Sighing I picked up my backpack and moved to the side hallway where one of the house maids stood waiting to lead me to my room. No one could say I hadn't tried.

When I glanced back to see him , he was already gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

I didn't see him again for the rest of the evening. When I moved to change out of my clothes, opening the elaborately carved, white closets, I got my first shock.

All my pyjalmas were gone. Instead , all i could find were lacy negligees and satin shorts that would likely cover the bare minimum. All my jeans and shirts had been replaced by silk blouses and flowy skirts in floral prints. Wool dresses , silky summer dresses and gowns in all possible colors were arranged in neat stacks. The more expensive ones hung in rows from an iron rod.

I stared at the hideous clothes and tried not to scream. I'd known this would happen , hadn't I? Being a Jeon daughter in law would mean this. To completely peel of every single layer of my personality, everything that made me , me and replace it with society's idea of the perfect trophy wife, starting with the hair and now the clothes. Tomorrow i would likely be forced to wear five inch heels and walk like a lady.

Fighting nausea , I sat on the bed, stunned.

I was hungry. i hadn't had lunch and now it was a little past eight. The maid had told me that since it was my first day, I could have dinner in bed. I rang the small bell in the corner of the wall and about ten minutes later the girl arrived with a tray that contained nothing but a small bowl of soup. I stared at it in disbelief.

"What on earth... I wanted dinner." I said softly.

"This is dinner, mistress. Lady Jeon said that you were trying to lose weight for the wedding so you'd be on a special soup-only diet." She smiled cheerfully.

I laughed in disbelief and watched the girl as she placed the bowl down and left. But i was hungry and I quickly gulped it down. It felt like I'd just drunk a glass of salted water. I stood in front of the mirror staring at myself. No one in their right mind would call me fat. I wasn't fashionably thin sure, but I'd never felt fat. Until now.

Hurt, lonely and insulted I curled myself into a ball on the bed, trying to ignore the pangs of hunger wracking my body. I thought of the week ahead. No doubt when the betrothal was announced, every female within a twelve km radius would be out for my blood.

Someone knocked on the door, probably the maid to get the dinner tray and I moved to open it.

"Hi there...." Jeon Jung Kook drawled , lightly pushing my shoulder till i stumbled back. I barely got my bearings before he was locking the door and stepping in and I shrieked, scrabbling backwards to get away from him.

"Get out..." I shouted but he calmly shrugged out ofthe suit jacket he was wearing, tossing it on the nearest chair before turning to me and flexing his shoulders.

"Is that any way to talk to your friend? Whatever happened to the girl who wanted to start a nice , cozy marriage with me , just a few hours back?? "

I hesitated, trying to gage his words. He had a challenging glint in his eye that made me pause before answering.

"I wasn't lying. i meant what I said. I want this marriage to work. If you tell me what you want...." I said calmly and he laughed.

"I want to fuck you into that mattress right now. Is that part of the package you're offering, Ah Reum ssi.. ?? " He started unbuttoning his shirt and I felt annoyance well up inside me. I was seeing a pattern here. Anytime i tried to talk to him about us, he resorted to abusive language and violence.

"Jung Kook...This isn't funny..." I began .

"You told me you wanted to make this marriage work.. If you really want our marriage to work, you have to prove it to me. Sleep with me, I'll believe that you're serious about wanting to be my friend. "

He shrugged out of the shirt and I fell back on my butt because... Wow.

Okay, he was gorgeous.

I felt my mouth go dry and my heart started beating double-time, trying not to stare at all that satin smooth skin, the washboard abs and the damn near perfect physique. My face flooded with blood and I knew I was probably the exact same shade of a tomato.

"Like what you see?" He sounded amused.

I could feel an insane urge to smile rising up inside me and Good god, was I that shallow? Did the sight of his naked chest really turn me into a simpering idiot??

The answer was a humiliating yes.

I clamped a hand on my mouth to stop him from seeing the grin that had materialized there. But the look on his face told me he already knew and he snickered.

"Alright. Now return the favor." He said casually.

i stared at him stupidly.

“what?”

“Return the favor. An eye for an eye. A shirt for a shirt.”

It took me a second to realize that he wanted me to take off my shirt.

"What?! No!" I screamed, stunned. He rolled his eyes and stepped right up to me grabbed the hem of my shirt and yanked it up, so hard that three buttons popped and the fabric tore, leaving me semi naked .

I kicked out furiously and he laughed catching both my ankles and pinning me down before climbing on top of me. He sat down on my thighs and I choked out in disbelief before going cross eyed because...abs... in my face...

I reached out to push him away but the moment my palms touched his chest I pulled back, embarrassed and flustered. His skin felt scorching hot underneath my fingers. Maybe it was the effect of all the selcas I'd been seeing in the fancafe, but he looked way too handsome up close , his sharp jawline and silky hair hitting me like a punch to the gut.

Jeon Jung Kook was a class A bastard .

But he was also a breathtakingly beautiful bastard.

"Take your hands off." He said sternly and I yelped when he grabbed both my wrists in one hand and yanked my arms up over my head, pinning them against the headboard. He used his free hand to lightly thread through my hair. But his hands stayed there, not venturing even an inch lower.

"Like this... with your hair mussed and your shirt off, you do a bit of justice to your name." He said thoughtfully. I thrashed my hips trying to dislodge him but he only pressed down harder, his hip bones digging into my waist, as he pushed down into me.

"I'm not your plaything either, you hypocrite. You can't accuse me of taking advantage of you when you're doing the exact same thing right now.” I snarled.

He glared and then moved off me , long legs struggling to disentangle from mine.

"I can't even fuck you because your smart mouth is literally the world's biggest turn off. " He snapped letting go of my wrists and plopping back on the bed. I just lay there, stunned.

"Get out of my room, you freak." I muttered and he rolled his eyes.

"This happens to be my room as well. My parents want us to cohabit." He rolled his eyes and shimmied out of his skin tight jeans while I hastily looked away.

"why are you so shameless? at least have the decency to change elsewhere." I shrieked. He laughed at that.

"I'm not ashamed of my body, sweetheart. unlike you, I don't have a stick for a body frame" He shrugged.

I stared at him, momentarily thrown. It was actually the second time he'd called me thin. I really wasn't , and there was no sarcasm in his voice either. It struck me that he actually really considered me thin.

"Stop gawking like an idiot and turn off the lights. I want to sleep." He burrowed under the comforter and I stared in disbelief.

Surreal.

There really was no other word to describe Jeon Jung Kook.

He was surreal.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You look bad. Are you okay?" Soyou looked worried as I stumbled a bit trying to focus on the stairs I was climbing. I was wearing a ridiculously feminine dress, with floral prints and lace edges and a pair of pumps that cut off my blood circulation.

It had been about a week since I'd moved in with Jung Kook and today would be the official announcement of the betrothal. I had been half tempted to stay home and hide under my bed but apparently , I would have to go up on stage with Jung Kook and explain that this wasn't just a business deal. That we were in fact in ' love' with each other. Mr. and Mrs. Jeon had been getting a lot of flak for forcing their young son into a marriage he didn't like and they were very determined to keep their reputation intact. Hence this little publicity stunt.

I could only hope that I didn't vomit on the podium, trying to pretend to be in love with Jeon Jung Kook.

"i'm tired..." i said honestly.

And starving.

My mother in law had taken her role very seriously. I wasn't given anything except broth and soup and the occasional chicken breast, unseasoned. I had no energy left in my body. But I'd lost a good five pounds, so she counted it a success.

"You should lay low for a week after the announcement." She said worriedly and I nodded.

While most of the students were already gathered in the assembly hall, Jung Kook was nowhere to be found.

"Ah Reum.. Come on up here. Your in laws are here..." One of my professors looked flustered as she ushered me over to the side room. i bowed politely to Mr and Mrs Jeon finally spotting Jung Kook next to his father, looking surly and handsome in a perfect black tux.

"We decided to do this here because it would be good for all the kids to understand that your relationship is serious. " Mrs. Jeon said firmly and I nodded, feeling out of place . I hadn't been raised like Jung kook. My parents were strict but very friendly nonetheless. Jung Kook's mother looked like she'd never hugged her son in his entire life.

Jung Kook gave me a surly stare , looking me up and down with distaste. I didn't blame him. On the good looks scale he was a perfect ten while I hung somewhere between a five and a six on my best days. It struck me that this was probably the reason people thought he was being forced into the marriage. Because no way would a guy like Jeon Jung Kook willingly want to marry a girl like me.

Tears stung without warning and i blinked, surprised. It wasn't like me to cry over stuff like this.

When the announcement came there was a collective moan of disappointment and rushed voices. Mr. Jeon spoke about how marriage would be the first step to Jung Kook becoming an adult and how he would go on to take over Jeon inc., and make it bigger than ever . When Jung Kook took the mike he looked blank and completely emotionless.

In a few crisp words, he reiterated that he loved his fiancee, Kim ah Reum very much. She was an attractive, intelligent young woman who would no doubt support him in all his endeavors and stand by him while he works hard to do his best for Jeon inc., If everyone would support him it would be great.

Polite applause greeted his words. And then we posed for some pictures and answered a few generic questions about how we'd met. I'd had strict orders not to say a word and Jung Kook said some cliched stuff about meeting me at the library, asking me out to coffee and enjoying my ' very charming smile and casual way of talking ' .

I couldn't keep still and said that I loved that he 'treated me like a gentleman and always took very gentle care of me'.

It was beyond ridiculous.

After it was all over and done , I moved to go to the restroom just to get my head together. I would have walked right past the door if my name hadn't come floating through. Curious, I pressed my ears to the classroom door.

"Never heard of her,."

"Must be something special if Jeon Jung Kook actually agreed to marry her. "

"I've seen her a bunch of times. Not much of a face but the body is definitely A plus. Nice and curvy. Luscious breasts man. " Some gruff voice said and I grimaced.

Perverts.

I decided to move away when the next sentence caught my attention.

"How about we pay her a visit tonight? "

I stopped short.

What the hell??

"She's staying with Jeon right now. And you know how he is. Like a fucking territorial dog. He’s going to keep a firm leash on his bitch so, I’m not sure we can get to her..."

"No, but she leaves the college at six right? I've seen her take the bus. I think we can get her if we hang about there for a while. "

I stumbled back, too shocked to be scared. What on earth was wrong with these people?? Was nothing sacred anymore. Throat dry, I slowly backed away.

I had to find another way to get home, I thought .

It wasn't as easy as I thought. My parents told me they had a bunch of interviews to give themselves and all the cars were already occupied. Catch a cab they told me , but cabs weren't allowed inside the campus. I would still have to walk out, past the bus stop.

In the end I ended up in front of Jeon Jung Kook.

"Give me a ride home." I said softly and he raised an eyebrow,

"No. " He said at once.

God.

"Please... just for today..." I begged.

He rolled his eyes.

"I said no. Go annoy someone else. "

“Jung Kook , please...”

“Look , begging doesn’t appeal to me outside the bedroom, so get out before I do something we both regret.” He growled.

What else could I say?

In the end I begged Soyou to come with me, through the back gate and she agreed to meet me there at five.

I'd just finished clearing out my locker when a palm came around my mouth, cutting off my breath and making me scream.

"Hey baby..." I recognized the voice from the classroom and panicked. Oh shit...

" Let's not waste time guys..." I recognized two of them. Bang Yong Guk and Kim Him Chan who were both rich , spoiled brats . I jumped when he really lost no time, reaching out and unbuttoning the back of my dress in quick deft movements that suddenly made the entire situation frighteneingly real and scary. He gripped my hair, hard enough for it to burn and I felt my eyes water from the pain of it.

I thrashed about so wildly that I lost my breath but I was still exhausted from not having eaten anything in a while. they held me down so easily , I felt like a doll.

"Did you fuck, Jung kook? Was he any good? He must be... seeing as every female wants to get in his pants... but then...if he actually agreed to marry you, you must be really good at what you do, babe.. Why not show me..."

He pushed me down to my knees and quickly indid his pants. I screamed soundlessly into the palm over my mouth . He wouldn't...!!!

Would he??

I wanted to vomit...

Sudeenly the palm over my mouth went away, reaching down to grip my jaw brusingly, keeping my mouth open and making it impossible for me to clamp my jaw shut. Yong Guk pulled his erection out of his briefs and pushed it into my mouth, just as the door behind us slammed open.

I gagged on the thick length inside my mouth and a second later he was being pulled off of me while I vomitted all over the floor. it was mostly bile, I hadn't had solid food in such a long time. I crawled away piteously, while my rescuers beat the pulp out the three of them. I reached the corner of the class room and finally focussed on the scene in front.

Jeon Jung Kook had a knife to Yong Guk's neck.

"I'm going to slit your throat..." He snarled and My heart jumped to my throat .

"Jung Kook...No!!" I screamed, terrified.

He ignored me.

"Get on your knees. On your knees. and Apologize to her.. Right now before I fuck you up!!" He shouted.

Yong Guk wasn't going to argue with a guy who had a knife to his pulse point. He kneeled in front of me but smirked venomously.

"Sorry we got interrupted..." He said , earning himself a nice kick to his back. I flinched, my heart pounding so hard I was sure i was going to faint.

"You're pushing it Yongguk. Do you want to die..." Jung kook growled and Yong Guk smirked again.

"sorry, princess. " Hesaid and Jung Kook dragged him up and tossed him out of the class, while Min Yoongi pushed the other two out.

"Are you okay?" Jung Kook looked honestly worried as he dropped to his knees in front of me. I swallowed nervously, still in shock.

"I'm okay.... he didn't.. do anything..." I said vaguely and Jung Kook sighed in defeat.

"I shouldn't have let you go alone. Fuck, I didn't think he'd actually have the nerve to come after you. I'm going to kill him for sure..."

"Jung Kook you should probably get her home. She looks like she's going to pass out." Yoongi muttered and I flinched.

My body had apparently shut down and now my legs wouldn't function. I tried again to pull myself up but apparently my bones had given up on me.

"It's OK. I got you, come on."

And then, without any warning, he slipped a hand underneath my knees and lifted me up till I was cradled against his chest.

I was too tired to process this and just gave up trying to make sense of his hot and cold behaviour.

To my surprise he didn't let go of me even in the car. Once we reached the house I felt firm enough to walk by myself and stared at him as he handed over my books.

" Thanks for coming back for me." I said sincerely.

”Don't go around alone hereafter.” he snapped.

For some reason , I remembered thinking that he'd looked like he'd never been hugged.

So that's what I did.

I hugged him.

He went stiff as a board and said, " What the fuck ?"

But he didn't push me away.

When I finally pulled back his face was unreadable.

" Thanks." I said again.

He didn't come to my room again for the rest of the week.

#bts imagines #bts college au #bts jungkook #jeon jung kook #bts scenarios #bts fanfics

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